Hollywood Girls Club (26 page)

Jessica crossed her arms in front her chest. In less than four hours she’d lost two clients and an assistant, alienated her boss, and gained one backstabbing, career-climbing Tolliver Jones. She gave Jeremy her very best Hollywood smile (maybe she should act; she’d become very adept at faking emotion).

“Jeremy, I apologize. It’s been a very emotional morning for me.” She played upon her womanhood and gave in to the one thing that Brits truly believed was an American weakness, the display of unpleasant emotions.

“Of course, Jessica. I do understand. And I am so glad that you, too, understand.” Jeremy smiled, pleased to have the distasteful interlude behind them.

Jessica smiled, her eyes sad, her mouth tight, and her mind furious.

“Oh, I do understand, Jeremy. I really do.”

Chapter 26

Mary Anne: When the Shoe Drops

Mary Anne had spent two hours at the studio listening to executives (who had never written a script) give her notes on her next project. Then she fought her way through six P.M. Los Angeles traffic back from the Valley. She was exhausted. Drained by the entire experience. And now she juggled three bags of groceries, her purse, her mail, and her keys as she pushed the front door open while her home phone rang. She slammed the door closed with her foot (losing a shoe), dropped everything on the couch, and leapt for the phone.

“Hello,” she gasped.

“Mary Anne?”

“Dad?” Mary Anne was surprised to hear her father’s voice.

Marvin Meyers never called, except on birthdays and holidays. It was always Mitsy who phoned every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. A wave of guilt crested over Mary Anne. She hadn’t spoken with her mother since Mitsy left L.A.; she’d ignored her calls and letters. Mary Anne glanced at the clock; it was almost ten P.M. in Minnesota. Late for anyone, especially Marvin, to call.

“Mary Anne, yes. Uhm… How are you?”

Her stiff Midwestern father sounded even stiffer and more Midwestern than Mary Anne remembered. It’d been almost two years since Mary Anne visited Minnesota for her grandfather’s funeral, and about a year since Marvin came to Santa Barbara for an insurance conference. Mary Anne had dutifully driven the seventy miles to have dinner with her father at a very nondescript Santa Barbara restaurant, one that felt as Midwestern as you could find on the coast, with lots of brass, pastels, and booths. They’d eaten early. Mary Anne remembered being surprised that Marvin bypassed his usual uptight Methodist single scotch on the rocks and downed two vodka and tonics.

It was the first time that Mary Anne could ever remember eating a meal alone with her father. Marvin was often away on business, or at work. As a child, Mitsy ate many family meals with her children sans Marvin. But Marvin, well, he rarely spent any time alone with his offspring.

The evening ended with an awkward hug and an abrupt kiss. She recalled her guilt at the relief she felt, finally being finished with the uncomfortable encounter.

“Dad, is everything okay?”

“I know it’s late, but well, I was wondering, have you heard from your mother?”

Guilt again.
Was he calling to try to patch things up between her and Mitsy?
“Dad, I know I haven’t called her back, but you really didn’t need to call. I’ll call her. I promise. I was just a little angry, that’s all.”

“Uhh … No. Mary Anne, really, I don’t know about that. But today, or yesterday? Have you heard from your mother?”

He wasn’t calling about their argument?

“Heard from Mom? Dad, you
live
with Mom.”

“Well, yes. I mean no.”

“Isn’t she at the house?”

Marvin paused.

“Aren’t you at the house? Did you look for her?” Mary Anne wondered if Marvin was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. He insisted on drinking soda from a can, and she remembered reading that soda in a can had some connection with Alzheimer’s.

“Well, she’s not here.”

“Dad, Mom has a ton of meetings. Maybe the Methodist Mothers or her book group got together tonight. Did you check the schedule in the kitchen?”

“No, I mean … she’s not in Minnesota.”

“What?”

Marvin sighed. “This wasn’t how I wanted to tell you. We were going to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Mary Anne panicked.
Mitsy not in Minnesota? Her father had no idea where Mitsy was?
Her mother was missing and her father was, quite possibly losing his mind. “Have you called the police?”

“No.”

“But Dad—”

“Mary Anne, she left a note. I mean a letter. Well, actually, a list. Of all the things I need to do while she’s gone.”

“But where? Dad, this isn’t like Mom. She’d never go anywhere without telling someone.”

“Oh, Mary Anne,” her father moaned.

Was he crying?
Mary Anne heard Marvin gasp.

“Your mother and I, well, we’ve—” His voice cracked.

“What is it, Dad?”

“We’ve decided to separate.”

Mary Anne felt a pit open in her stomach. A deep chasm that was splitting her, making its way toward her heart. She sank into a chair next to the phone. “Separate? You mean as in separate, like, divorced separate?”

“No. I don’t know. We’ve just decided that I should live somewhere else for a while. I’ve been staying at the St. Paul Inn.”

“When? Why? How come no one told me? Do Michael and Michelle know?”

“We had a family meeting last night. Your mother and I decided we’d call you together this evening. I came over after work, and well, she’s gone. So are some of her clothes and her navy Tourister overnight bag, so I know she packed. And she left the list.”

“It doesn’t say where? The list.”

“No. Or when she’ll be back.”

Mary Anne felt tears well up in her eyes. Her mom and dad were divorcing, and Mitsy was somewhere out there in the world alone.

“We’ve tried all the relatives, your aunt, your grandmother. No one’s heard from her.”

“Okay; I’m sure she just needed a little space.”

“I thought maybe you’d hear from her. You’ve always been her favorite.”

“Yeah, right,” Mary Anne scoffed through the tears running down her face. “That spot is saved for the twins.”

“You are. Her daughter the writer; the brave one that moved away from Minnesota. Lived out all the dreams your mother had.”

Mary Anne wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

“What are you talking about, Dad?”

“Rambling, I guess. It was a long time ago. Forever ago. You know she used to write.”

“What?”

“When I met her. Poetry, short stories. She was talented, won a couple of contests at the university. Was even published. She had a gift. But then I came along, then you and Michelle and Michael. There just wasn’t time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Remember the Sunshine Stories?”

“The hand-drawn children’s series. I loved those books.”

“They were hers.”

“No!”

“Illustrations and story. She wrote them and then had them printed and bound. She wanted those books to be the first thing you read when you learned to read.”

“They were hers?”

“Yes. She never sent them to a publisher.”

“But all my friends had them. They loved them.”

“Gifts from your mother. Handmade for her friends’ children. She was thoughtful like that. Doing things for everyone else, never thinking of herself.” Marvin’s voice cracked. Mary Anne heard her father’s chest-racking sobs. It was disconcerting to hear him speak about Mitsy in the past tense, as though they were preparing for her funeral.

“Dad, I’m sure she’s fine.”

“I’ve been such a bad husband.”

“Dad, she loves you. I’m sure you just needed time as far as the separation—”

“Oh, Mary Anne, no. You don’t understand. I didn’t leave your mother, your mother left me.”

*

Mary Anne placed the phone in its cradle. It was the longest conversation she’d ever had with her father and definitely the most emotional. Where would Mitsy go? Frugal to a fault (some people said cheap), Mitsy wouldn’t actually spend the money to stay at a hotel. She had to be with a friend. But Mary Anne knew Marvin and Michelle had spent the evening scouring Mitsy’s address book, which contained more than five hundred names (the Meyers’ annual Christmas letter went to each and every one), and Michelle had managed to get through most of the family and Mitsy’s closest friends.
Perhaps an old college roommate? Someone she’d recently met?
Mitsy didn’t have a cell phone; she didn’t own anything that remotely resembled an electronic gadget. Her bifocals were as “high tech” as Mitsy got.

Mary Anne had promised to call Marvin if she heard anything from Mitsy. He seemed convinced that Mary Anne would be the first family member to hear from her, but Mary Anne wasn’t so sure. They’d left on very unfriendly terms when Mitsy returned to Minnesota after her last visit, and they hadn’t spoken since. Another wave of guilt crested over Mary Anne. If only she’d returned her mother’s phone calls, maybe none of this would have happened. She could have talked Mitsy down, or at least convinced her to stay with Marvin. In her head Mary Anne replayed the most recent message that Mitsy had left on Mary Anne’s cell phone voice mail. It was two days old (Mitsy’s Tuesday call). Mary Anne couldn’t remember a trace of sadness or anger in her mother’s voice. No mention of marital strife or disappearing acts.

But today was Thursday. Maybe her dad was right; maybe she would hear first. Mitsy was a complete creature of habit, almost compulsively so. She never missed a Thursday call. Not when she was sick, not when she was busy, not even when she and Marvin went away on vacation. Mary Anne clutched her cell phone to her chest.
Oh please, Mother, be predictable,
Mary Anne thought. But it was already after ten in Minnesota, and Mary Anne usually called at nine-thirty.
Maybe she’s out to dinner?

Mary Anne walked down the hall toward the kitchen, still clutching her phone to her chest. She wasn’t hungry, but she desperately wanted a glass of wine. She turned the corner to the kitchen and reflexively looked at the sink. And there, chopping carrots, was Mitsy.

“Hope you’re hungry, dear. I’m fixing grilled salmon and rosemary potatoes for dinner.”

“Mom?” Mary Anne cautiously walked toward the kitchen island where Mitsy stood slicing and dicing. Was it an apparition or really her mother?

“Yes, dear? Were you hoping I’d call?” Mitsy cocked an eyebrow and pointed the serrated knife toward the cell phone pressed against Mary Anne’s breasts.

“Dad just—”

“How is your father?” Mitsy asked, resuming her cutting.

“He’s—”

“Worried? Upset? A little lost?”

“And emotional.”

“
Reeeally
. Welcome to my world. Serves him right.” Mitsy thrust the knife through a carrot.

“Maybe you should call him.” Mary Anne cautiously held her cell phone out to her mother.

“No.”

Mary Anne looked at Mitsy.
Who was this woman? A woman who made a list, packed her bags, hopped a flight to L.A., and left town without so much as a good-bye?

Mitsy looked over her bifocals. “I’m letting him stew one more night.” She slipped the already diced potatoes into the steamer on the stove.

Mary Anne sat on the stool at the kitchen island as Mitsy continued to julienne carrots.

“I thought we’d have gingered carrots, too. You like gingered carrots, if I remember correctly?”

“Uh, yes,” Mary Anne said, setting down her cell phone. Mitsy seemed calm. Preparing a meal was always her favorite way to relieve stress. Chopping seemed to be especially therapeutic if Mitsy was angry.

“So you know?” Mitsy asked. “Your father told you.” She cracked the knife through a large carrot.

Mary Anne nodded.

“I wanted to tell you in person. It didn’t seem fair to me that Michael and Michelle got the benefit of a family meeting while all you got was a phone call.”

“When did you get to L.A.?”

“Around three. I had the driver stop at the store on the way from the airport. That Gelson’s has everything. A little pricey, though. There’s a bottle of cabernet next to the sink. Why don’t you open it?”

Cabernet? Since when did Mitsy like cabernet?
Zinfandel was the only wine Mary Anne ever saw Mitsy drink.

As if reading Mary Anne’s mind, Mitsy said. “Yes, dear, I do drink red wine. Zinfandel is for wimps.”

Mary Anne frowned as she picked up the bottle and inserted the corkscrew. Her whole world was upside down.

“You know, dear, you can’t blame yourself for your father’s and my marital problems.”

Mary Anne twisted the wine key deeper into the cabernet’s cork. “Why would I blame myself?” Mary Anne asked.

“Because it’s in your nature. You, my darling daughter, blame every bad thing on yourself. You’ve done it your entire life. Calling me back would not have changed this scenario. Nor would it have postponed it. I’m just sorry it took this long.”

Mary Anne pulled hard on the cork. It gave way with a large pop. She opened the cabinet and reached for wineglasses.

“No, dear, those are for white wine. You didn’t have any red-wine glasses—I noticed the last time I was here—so I picked some up for you. They’re behind you, on the counter next to the coffeemaker.”

Mary Anne turned, picked up a glass, and poured the cabernet.

“That’s enough. Can’t have the cook caught up in the sauce.” Mitsy giggled. “At least not until I’ve finished cooking the meal.” Mitsy swirled the wine in the glass and tilted it to her lips.

Mary Anne poured a second glass, more full than the first. She needed a large amount of alcohol to make it through the evening.
Can you lace cabernet with vodka?
She wondered.

“Is that stiff enough for you? I’m sure this evening is quite a shock,” Mitsy said. “Time to start the salmon.” She picked up a platter that held two fillets and headed to the back door. “Are you coming? Surely you aren’t going to drink alone?” she asked as she opened the screen door.

Mary Anne lifted her glass and wandered toward her mother. Then she quickly turned back and grabbed the bottle of cabernet.