Easy on the Eyes (11 page)

I was worried when they didn’t ask me to host the show this year. I kept waiting for them to ask, but they didn’t. In the
end I phoned Max and had him find out what was going on, and it turned out HBC decided to drop their parade coverage. I was
relieved. I know it’s spiteful, but better they drop the coverage than ask Shelby to host.

Dressing for today’s Thanksgiving dinner at Christie’s should be easy. It’s a simple family dinner, but I struggle with what
to wear, eventually settling on a brown Michael Kors blouse and pants and a turquoise, coral, and silver necklace; but then
I struggle to get motivated to do my hair and makeup. I’m getting sad despite myself. I’m thinking of Keith even though I
vowed not to.

I’m feeling brittle as I drive down the canyon toward the freeway entrance. There’s no traffic and the sun is hazy and my
eyes burn. Seven years without Keith. Several days without a call from Trevor. Why am I seeing him? Clinging to this long-distance
relationship? It doesn’t work, it’ll never work, but God, it’s so much better than being alone.

I hate being alone.

I hate dating even more.

There’s no traffic as I merge onto the freeway. Everyone’s already somewhere preparing to eat turkey. This is the first year
in five years I’ve had a proper Thanksgiving as I usually host specials or attend parades around the country.

To keep from thinking, I drive with the stereo blasting, the songs from the CD player on shuffle, and it’s a hodgepodge of
Aretha, Coldplay, Snow Patrol, and the original cast album from
Rent
. It takes only one song, the song “Without You” from
Rent,
to bring me to my knees.

“Without You.”

I reach out to push skip but can’t make myself. My song. How many times did I play this after Keith died? How many times did
I cry trying to understand how life can just go on without him?

I lower my window and let the wind rush through the car. And then the song comes to an end and I hit repeat.

I drive crying. I drive letting the music unbury the grief, letting the music dust off my love.

This album is my Keith album. This is the one that reaches into my chest and rips my heart out. I shouldn’t be playing it
today, not now, not on my way for turkey and cranberries. But in a way I’m glad to be here, in this place, in this deep, aching
grief where it’s real and honest and true. Where I am real and honest and true. So much in my life isn’t real, or true.

But love and loss are.

And Keith was.

Although Keith would be disgusted that I call
Rent
my Keith album.

I crack a small, watery smile.

We saw the show together in New York in September, a month before his final trip to Afghanistan. He hated it. I loved it.
Loved it.

I was on my feet during the curtain call, applauding like mad, and Keith, my Mr. Nonemotional, looked at me as though I were
an alien, which made me laugh, and I have never been so full of emotions as I was that night. I was laughing and crying, singing,
clapping, dancing, and I remember thinking, This is what life is. Messy and huge and brutal and beautiful.

Keith died seven weeks later.

I stop at a McDonald’s ten minutes from Christie’s and go inside to repair my makeup. My eyes are still pink despite the new
mascara and eyeliner. And looking into my reflection in the McDonald’s ladies’ room, I still see Keith in my eyes.

The bathroom door opens and a little girl runs in. I turn from the mirror and smile. I will only ever show the world my happy
face.

I arrive at Christie and Simon’s just after two. One of the garage bays is open and Simon’s red convertible is missing, so
I park on the far side of the drive to give him access when he returns.

Their two-story concrete block of a house looks severe from the outside, but the interior frames the spectacular view perfectly.
The house sits high above the ocean and every window on the west side overlooks the water, revealing cocoa cliffs, sapphire
waves, and the sandy cove below.

Christie opens the door and greets me with a hug, mindful of my bags and platters. “Happy Thanksgiving!” She’s wearing a brown-and-white
animal-print tunic with a chunky bead necklace, and her necklace crunches against my collarbone in her quick hug. “How was
the drive?”

“Easy. Fast.”

She looks at me closely. “You okay?”

“Yes. Wonderful.”

She’s not entirely convinced, but she doesn’t press. “Let me take some of that,” she offers, reaching for the three ceramic
platters and flowers.

I’m happy to share some of my burden, and I follow her into the house, closing the door behind me with my foot. “Where’s Simon?”

“He got called in to the hospital. But we’re hoping he’ll be back by dinner.”

The girls come rushing down the staircase, screaming and feet pounding. “Tiana! Tiana’s here!”

I set down the bags and hug each of them in turn. Christie’s girls, just like Marta’s Eva, always make me feel like a rock
star.

“Hey, girls.” Hands on my hips, I grin and take them all in. They’ve grown again, and at eleven, nine, and seven they’re as
opposite as opposite can be. Melanie’s a little Simon, brown hair and brown eyes. Melissa’s the spitting image of her mom,
blonde hair and blue eyes. And Kari with her red curls, well, she must be the milkman’s daughter. No one knows where her dark
red curls came from.

“We’re setting up Disney Princess Monopoly,” Melissa tells me. “Come play!”

“You have to play, Tiana,” Kari adds.

Disney Princess Monopoly. If that doesn’t get the heart pumping, I don’t know what would. “Maybe later?” I say, catching Christie’s
smirk. She finds it very funny that I can’t say no to her girls. “But first I need to help your mom in the kitchen. She’s
got a lot to do today.”

“But we already counted out your money,” replies Melanie, the youngest.

“And it’ll be boring without you,” Kari, the eleven-year-old, adds. She’s in a phase where everything is now boring and babyish
for her.

“I will play,” I promise them, “but first let me put together the appetizers I brought and lend your mom some help in the
kitchen.” When the girls protest again, I hold up a hand. “Unless you all want to help your mom in the kitchen instead?”

They scream and run back up the stairs, feet pounding once again, and Christie makes a face and reaches for one of my grocery
bags. “Something tells me I’m not raising them right,” she says.

We head to the kitchen with the flowers and groceries. I slip the bottle of white wine into the fridge to chill and start
unpacking the bags, placing platters on the counter along with the ingredients for my fruit-and-cheese tray.

“That’s all right,” I console her, unpacking the Tupperware containers with my ingredients for the baked mushroom caps and
stuffed Brie. “You’ve got me.”

“Great. The girl that doesn’t know how to cook.”

“I know how to cook.” I see her expression. “Appetizers.”

She laughs and returns to the preparation of her stuffing. “So what’s the latest at
America Tonight
? Are they serious about making Shelby a co-anchor?”

I open the package of thawed puff pastry for my baked Brie. “All the big network bosses were there Monday, for one hour.”
I exhale and begin unwrapping the wheel of Brie. “The
one
hour I wasn’t there on Monday.”

“Was Shelby there?”

I look at her, nod grimly. “I’m trying to keep my cool, but it’s hard when it feels like I suddenly have no control.”

“So why all the Shelby fanfare now?”

“I’m skewing older and the bosses are worried that I’ve forever lost the younger audience.”

Christie grimaces. “Which is key.”

I nod again.

“So it really is about age,” she concludes.

“The one thing we can’t fight,” I answer, reaching for a baking sheet.

“I can’t imagine they really want to replace you. You’re so good, Tiana. You’re skilled, talented, professional. Experience
does count.” She gives me a hard look. “Would you consider plastic surgery?”

No.
But I shrug philosophically, far more philosophically than I feel. “I think I have to.”

But Christie doesn’t buy it for a moment. “You wouldn’t. You don’t even like Botox. You freaked the time they asked you to
try collagen in your lips— ”

“It hurt.”

“Face-lifts hurt.”

“I’ve heard, and to be honest, the idea of being cut
freaks
me. Having my skin cut, stretched, lifted, and restitched? That’s a Freddy Krueger movie.”

“Thank God not everyone’s so squeamish, huh?”

I laugh weakly. But she’s right. I wouldn’t go under the knife, not unless I had no other choice, and I’m not out of options,
not by a long shot.

“I’m not against cosmetic surgery, though,” I add, and tell her about the feature I’m researching and all the books with the
before-and-after photos. “The after photos look great, but there is still something sad about the body being treated like
a lump of clay. I’m not judging those who do it, I’m just saying I don’t understand it.”

“You don’t understand because you can’t.” Christie leans against the counter, pot mitt on one hand. “You’re extraordinarily
beautiful. You were born beautiful, and thanks to fate and great genetics, you live a life the rest of us mortals only dream
about.”

“Knock it off.”

“Tiana, your looks do more than secure a fat paycheck. They get you reservations, great tables, great service. You’re photographed,
admired, envied. You wouldn’t have a clue what it’s like to be average, or ugly.”

“Neither do you!”

Christie scoffs, “No? Then why don’t I work the red carpet? Why don’t I get asked to host televised events?”

“Because you’re a writer and a director.”

“I used to be a writer like you. But no network would put me in front of a camera. I realized I wasn’t ever going to work
if I didn’t find work for me to do. So I got damn good at being behind a camera.”

“This has nothing to do with looks,” I answer, setting aside the baking sheet and beginning to prepare the baked cheddar mushroom
caps appetizer.

“Cut the bullshit, Tia. It has everything to do with looks. I’m not ugly— I work hard to make sure I don’t fall into that
category— but I’ll never be beautiful. Not even pretty. I score okay on a good day— ”

“No.”

“And attractive on my very best day.” She stares at me pointedly. “Beauty is power, Tiana, and most women don’t have enough
of either.”

“So if you were me, you’d have a face-lift?”

Christie turns to look at me hard. She studies me for a long moment and her expression changes; her mouth softens and emotion
darkens her eyes. “No.”

“No?”

“You’re still beautiful. And you have more goodness and love in you than anyone knows. You’re more than your face, and if
the show execs can’t see it, then screw them. They don’t deserve you.”

I try to smile but can’t. Instead I go to her and hug her. Hard. “Thank you,” I whisper. “God knows I needed that.”

She hugs me back. “I mean every word of it. You’re wonderful. And don’t you forget it— no matter what they tell you, or try
to sell you.”

“Don’t make me cry,” I warn, giving her a last quick hug and a smile before stepping away. “I’m already an emotional wreck.
If I start crying again today, I don’t think I could stop.”

She shoots me a side glance. “Keith?”

I nod. “And then I had to torture myself by playing sad songs the whole drive down.”

“But if it made you feel better?”

“I don’t know that it did. Keith wouldn’t want me this sad. He wasn’t an emotional guy.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be an emotional girl.” She flashes me a smile. “But you’re here and we’re thrilled you’re here,
so let’s get cooking!”

We spend the next twenty minutes chopping, sautéing, and mixing, and I’ve just begun spooning the cheddar filling into mushroom
caps when the doorbell rings. Christie is elbow deep in hot, soapy water, washing pots and pans, and I offer to answer the
door. “I can get that.”

“Would you? I bet it’s Michael.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “You know Michael O’Sullivan— ”

I freeze. “
Dr.
Michael O’Sullivan?”

Christie looks at me strangely. “He’s a close friend of Simon’s. Why? Is there a problem?”

The last twenty minutes of warmth and comfort desert me, and my spirits plummet. “You know we don’t get along.”

“No, I don’t. I knew you squared off on Larry King, but I figured that was just for television.” She frowns at me, rinses
her hands, and reaches for a dish towel. “Are you serious? How can you not get along with Michael? He’s one of the best people
I know.”

F
rom the kitchen, I hear Christie open the front door and welcome Michael. Michael’s deep voice answers in reply. She drops
her voice, says something to him I can’t hear. He laughs, a low, husky sound, and she laughs in return. Aren’t they cozy?

Irritated, I march to the double ovens in the wall and shove the tray of cheddar-stuffed mushroom caps into the top oven,
the one without the roasting turkey. Christie could have said something to me about her other guests earlier. A little warning
would have been nice.