Reunion (16 page)

“I can open my own doors, thanks. I’m not going to call her just because we both happen to be here in town at the same time.”

“You, my darling, favorite son, are a hopeless businessman. You have to take the opportunities providence tosses in your path.”

Mitch let her comment go unanswered. Providence had not been all that good to him, or not, at any rate, in the ways that mattered most.

“What a life she must lead,” his mother went on, taking crystal water goblets from the hutch that flanked the table. “She’s successful, she’s beautiful, but think of the effort it must take to stay looking like she does, especially as she gets further into her forties. Little wonder young women are so troubled these days. They’re under such pressure to measure up to Blue and women like her—to appear to do everything perfectly, to look perfect, to overachieve … I’m relieved that neither you nor I ever had to raise daughters.”

Mitch had to laugh. “Mom, you epitomize the do-it-all beautiful, successful, perfect woman.”

She went around to Mitch’s side of the table and kissed his cheek. “I’m flattered you think so, but listen, there’s a difference: I always dressed and acted the ways I did because I wanted to, because it was ‘me.’ And I chose my career because I loved the work, and I was good at it—and because your father is so wonderfully domestic that I trusted him with the household stuff. I never felt like I
had to
do anything except be myself.”

“And you’ve done an admirable job of it. So,” he said, “is there anything else I can help with?”

She surveyed the table. “No, I think we’re good. Enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

He went into the den, intending to do as she said. This den had none of the woodsy, masculine character of the one in his childhood home, but it was every bit as welcoming. A round floral rug covered the whitewashed wood floor and anchored the rattan furniture. The walls held shelves filled with souvenirs of the sea: starfish, sea biscuits, conches so large you could lose a small dog inside them … and there were photos, some of which shamed him, though he never let on. They were in many cases photographs
of
Julian—with Mitch’s father, piloting the thirty-foot cabin cruiser he and Julian restored during the four years Julian lived with them, for instance—or
by
Julian, some of which had appeared in national magazines like
Newsweek
and
Audubon
and
National Geographic.
The professional work, these wonderful, remarkable photos of orphans, of landscapes and birds, would not exist if he had succeeded in
raising Julian the way he’d wanted to. He’d had in mind a bookish fellow who would share his passions—as smart as Julian was, maybe even a Literary Lion-to-be. He’d been unwilling to believe Julian genuinely wanted something different, and for this he owed his son an apology, long overdue.

Soon, Brenda and the neighbors came in, and the house was buzzing with the voices of women, their conversation peppered with the occasional declarative “Ha!” that Annabelle, Lori and Kira’s daughter—fourteen months old, he learned—was enamored with just now. Annabelle toddled from one cupboard door to the next, opening each, then closing it, then opening it again, apparently delighted with the activity as much as the contents.

“What will they do when she’s old enough to talk?” he asked Brenda as the two of them carried platters into the dining room.

“What do you mean?”

“Which one is ‘mom’? And what will she call the other one?”

Brenda laughed. “I don’t know. Ask them. They’ll tell you anything—everything, in fact, that you could want to know. Did you know, for example, that Kira has a doctorate in electrical engineering, but since moving here she’s decided to try professional photography?”

“She’ll get on well with Julian, then.”

Brenda looked at him with concern. “I hope you will, too.”

“I’m doing what I can. I brought him on to my project, didn’t I?”

“You did, but you two haven’t talked about anything of substance—unless you’ve forgotten to mention it to me.”

He shook his head. “No. He’s busy. I’m busy. We’ll deal with all that when we’re here in the fall.” She gave him her raised-eyebrow look and he said, “Let’s not worry about it right now.”

The doorbell chimed. “I’ll get it,” he called to his mother. “Are you expecting a delivery?” Since his dad’s stroke they’d been using a do-it-all service, for cleaning and errands and, in his father’s case, the occasional whim for crab-and-avocado-cream ceviche, when his mother was out and his father could cheat a little on his usual low-fat diet.

When he opened the door, there was Blue Reynolds.

Her expression was as naked with surprise as his must be. Her recovery, however, was quicker. She said, “Well, Mitch Forrester, I had no idea you were here.”

“I—yes—it’s spring break. I’m visiting my parents.”

She nodded. “So I see.”

She must also see, now, that he was at a complete loss as to what to do next. “I—you look great,” he managed.

“Thank you.” She glanced away, her embarrassed smile making her look so much like the Harmony Blue who had charmed him so thoroughly. “Time’s been pretty good to you too,” she said.

“Yeah? I … thanks.” He stared. “We heard you were going to be in town, but I’m just so surprised to see you
here.”

“Oh.” She appeared suddenly worried. “I was told that Daniel called my hotel and invited me to join him and your mother—” She looked past him into the house, where a quick glance over his shoulder told him they were being observed by Brenda and Lori, and the baby, now holding tight to Lori’s leg. Blue said, “Along with a few other guests, I see, for dinner.”

His father, lord. The man hadn’t said a word—had forgotten, maybe, that he’d extended the invitation. Or had deliberately failed to confess it.

“Okay. Sure. That explains it then. He didn’t say.” Realizing he was still blocking the doorway, Mitch stepped backward. “Please, come in.” She did, and he turned to introduce her. “This,” he pointed, “is Brenda McCallum, and then this is Lori—I’m sorry Lori, I don’t know your last name—”

“Goldberg,” Lori said, her eyes as wide as her daughter’s just now.

“Goldberg,” he echoed. “She lives next door—that’s her daughter Annabelle, and her, er, partner, Kira …”

“Moreno,” Kira called from the kitchen doorway, where she and his parents now stood.

Blue stared at Annabelle as if the child was a novelty, her expression curious but also hesitant. Then, abruptly, she looked up at the women as
though remembering there were others present. “Hi,” she said simply. “I’m Blue Reynolds.”

The gathering took on the feel of a party, something like a conference after-celebration where the esteemed guest elected to come out to the bar with the devoted attendees. It was tough to be subdued and natural while feeling awestruck, so no one tried. Instead, they grouped together in the kitchen and smiled and laughed about everything Blue said—though it wasn’t a lot, and stared when they thought they wouldn’t be caught at it. Even Mitch could not help feeling dazed. This dinner party, her presence in this kitchen, in this house, in this town—it was all so vivid and yet so unreal.

His father brought up some crisis on yesterday’s show, something about Blue crying over a guest’s emotional outburst. “That poor girl got the better of a lot of us,” his father said.

Blue twisted her wineglass where it sat on the counter in front of her. “It was the end of a long week—”

“And your poor old dog!” Lori said.

“My dog—? Oh. Oh, yes, my poor old dog. My pets mean so much to me. I just don’t always show it so openly.” Lori patted her arm in solidarity and Blue said, “Tell me, does little Annabelle here have any furry companions at home?”

When they’d finished off a good amount of wine and all the fruit, they made their way to the dining room. His mother, beaming like a proud parent, sat at Blue’s right and said, for at least the second time, “I can’t believe Daniel invited you without telling me!”

“And I almost didn’t make it,” Blue said. “This is crazy, but…” She proceeded to tell them how she’d found the house and decided to make on offer almost on the spot. “Well, not really an offer,” she laughed, “more like a plea—’I have to have this house,’ I said. Really, I must seem insane.” A chorus of protests followed. “No,” she said, “it is pretty odd. I’m not impetuous—in my line of work, impetuosity can get you into a lot of trouble.”

Kira and Lori agreed, citing several notable examples of celebrity catastrophes
before Lori stopped mid-sentence to say, “Oh—I hope we didn’t just trash any of your friends!”

“Tell us about the house,” Kira said. “I bet it’s that two-acre walled estate, am I right? The one that looks like a little Taj Mahal?”

“Or the oceanfront Victorian,” Lori guessed. “God, I wish we could have afforded that one.”

Blue was shaking her head. “No, neither. It’s just a little cottage with this wonderful yard, maybe a quarter-mile from here.”

The pair stared at her, perplexed, while Mitch’s father stood up with wineglass in hand and said, “We’re practically neighbors, then.” He raised his glass. “Welcome—”

“… to the Conch Republic!” chimed all the women, except non-resident Brenda, who sat looking bemused.

Ah, Brenda. She hadn’t moved from his side since Blue’s arrival, and seemed to be watching him closely. Not that he was doing anything wrong—why would he? That he still found Harmony Blue—
Blue—
attractive and was enjoying being around her did not mean he was going to ditch Brenda and attempt to win back Blue. If that was what was in Brenda’s head, she was letting her imagination carry her off.

That said, he might slow down his wine intake in case his own imagination was inclined to travel the same path.

Brenda raised her glass. “To new beginnings.”

Likely she was as fascinated by Blue as the neighbors were, which made him feel a little freer about his own reaction to having Blue six feet away. She
was
still Harmony Blue Kucharski; her mannerisms—the way she lasered her attention on whoever was speaking, for example—hadn’t changed. No question, however, that she was also a great deal more than the girl she’d been when he knew her. Watching her, he understood more clearly than ever the term
larger than life.

After the topic of conversation had turned to how full they all were, they cleared the table and then settled in the den, where Brenda spoke up with a question he suspected had been on her tongue since Blue arrived.

“So, Blue, I’m really curious: How did you go from being Lynn’s receptionist
to being—to getting where you are today? It must be a remarkable tale.”

Blue glanced at him, then her glance ricocheted back to Brenda, so quickly he couldn’t be sure anyone else would have noticed. He wanted to assure her it was okay, that Brenda knew about their past.

Their past. He and
Blue Reynolds
had a past. He let the thought fill him up in a way he’d not allowed before, and it made him buoyant. Or maybe that was the wine.

“Well, I don’t think anyone was more surprised by my career path than I have been.” She outlined—surely for the ten thousandth time—the path she’d taken. It began with a meeting she arranged with Morgan Cole, she said, explaining to Brenda, Lori, and Kira who Morgan was. “We’d met maybe two years previously—”

“At New Year’s!” his mother said.

“Yes, that’s right, at your party.”

Mitch had the sense that this bit, the party, was not embedded in her standard story. Neither, he soon realized, was any mention of the period of time that came after his mother’s employ and before her meeting with Morgan—she skipped right over it, didn’t even look his way to see if he’d noticed that she had left a gap. Yet he was positive the omission was deliberate. Why? Clearly, now was not the time or place to satisfy his curiosity on that account. Later, though? Maybe if they got a minute or two alone he’d ask. Where had she gone when she ran away? Who was she with? A friend? A man? Someone he’d known at the time? How badly had he broken her heart? He let the questions pile up like a stack of unopened party favors you weren’t sure you were going to like.

Blue was saying, “I had the idea, then, that I might like to be a TV reporter. Morgan took me under her wing, and that helped me get on-air much faster than I might’ve otherwise. The assignments were mostly crap. I did a lot of minute-long interviews with, you know, the fire chief, police officers on the scene of whatever crisis, the mayor’s assistant’s assistant—you name it. If there was a cat in a tree, I was there getting the story.”

That was the most she’d said all at once since arriving. Could be the wine was working on her, too.

Brenda, who was now so relaxed by the wine and the food that she leaned her head against her chair’s back, observed, “Those treed cat reports must have been exceptional.”

“I don’t know about that,” Blue laughed. “My next stint, as entertainment reporter, was better. Morgan told me, ‘Anyone can look at a camera and talk. Make it personal.’ I just took her advice, and the rest followed from there.”

Mitch knew, more or less, what “the rest” was: anchor at WLVC, then a morning talk show in Kansas City, then her own show in Chicago, then syndication and world-wide popularity. She was one of those people who seemed to have
the touch.
Certainly she’d had it, if in an undeveloped way, with him.

Brenda said, “You make it sound easy, but I’m sure it took a lot of determination and effort to get where you are today.”

“I was fortunate to be working with smart, experienced people who were always on top of the trends.
TBRS
was not my brainchild; I wanted to get on at
60 Minutes
or
Nightline.”

Mitch couldn’t imagine that version of Blue. “But you’re a natural at what you do. People loved your show from the start—”

“And up you went, like an Atlas rocket!” his father declared.

“Well,” Blue said, “maybe a fast elevator.”

“I’m hopeful Mitch can find that elevator for his new project,” his mother said.

Mitch gave her a warning look. “Mom, really, she doesn’t—”