Easy on the Eyes (12 page)

I’m still fuming when Michael makes his way into the kitchen. He’s dressed in a black linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar
and crisp khakis. He has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and a pink bakery box in his hands.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. America,” he greets me, setting the box on the counter and adding his wine to the refrigerator before
giving me a dazzling smile.

His smile is pure charm, and it throws me. I take a step back, frazzled beyond belief.

I was planning on a quiet Thanksgiving, a relaxed Thanksgiving, which means a Thanksgiving without Michael O’Sullivan. “Happy
Thanksgiving to you, too,” I say coolly, wondering where the hell Christie’s gone. First she invites Michael here and then
she disappears, leaving us alone? “Where did Christie go?”

“I think she ran upstairs to check on the girls.”

Needing something to do, I rinse out my prep bowls. “I didn’t know you were friends with Simon,” I say, giving my orange Tupperware
bowl an unusually vigorous scouring.

“We go a long way back.”

“Christie’s never mentioned you.”

“At a brunch, Simon brought up Jenna Meadows’s lawsuit, I mentioned Thursday’s Larry King show, and Christie remembered you
and I had been on the show together. Small world.”

And getting smaller.

I begin scrubbing the sink. “Is that when they invited you for turkey?”

“I actually invited them to my house for dinner, but they said they’d already invited guests to theirs.”

I look at him, surprised. “
You
cook?”

“Turkey’s pretty basic.”

Not to me, but I don’t see the point in telling him it’s something I haven’t yet mastered. Sink sparkling, dishes washed,
I’m forced to turn off the water. “Alexis couldn’t make it today?”

“She’s at a conference in Quebec.”

I face him. “Thanksgiving weekend?”

He’s leaning against the counter, watching me. A crooked smile curves his lips. “The Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving in October.”

“What kind of conference?”

“Cosmetic surgery.”

“Really?”

Christie bustles back into the kitchen, a heavy folded tablecloth in her arms. “Alex is a plastic surgeon, too,” she says
cheerfully. “She’s a brilliant woman, and she’ll find the right guy someday. Michael’s just not the right guy.”

My jaw drops so hard, I’m sure it smacks the floor. I shoot Michael a swift look. “Alexis is a surgeon?”

“You didn’t know that?”

No.
Those breasts… the very blonde hair… the red sequin dress. “Why didn’t you introduce her as a doctor?”

Michael’s expression is strange. “I did. I said she was an expert in the field of cosmetic surgery.”

“I didn’t know you meant— ” I break off, shake my head, cheeks hot.

“You didn’t what?” he asks.

My face warms. I thought she was a bimbo. I took one look at her, noted the packaged sex appeal, figured she was brainless.
Figured Michael was shallow. Figured I was superior.

Oh God, I’ve goofed again. Seems like I’m getting more wrong these days than right.

What’s happening to me?

Ashamed, I focus my attention on the empty platter on the counter, a platter I need to fill with crackers and fruit to accompany
the baked Brie.

Christie comes up to me, wraps an arm around my waist, and whispers in my ear, “I thought she was a
Playboy
Playmate the first time I met her. Turned out she’s Mensa and her IQ’s about a hundred points higher than mine. Awkward.”

The front door opens, slams shut. “I’m home,” Simon calls out. “Let’s get this party started.”

Michael leaves the kitchen to meet Simon, and I whisper to Christie, “They’re not a couple?”

Christie steals a red grape, pops it in her mouth. “Nope. Haven’t been for about six months. Apparently she’s having a hard
time letting go.”

“Then maybe he should make it easier for her by not taking her as his date to black-tie functions.”

“You mean the Getty fund-raiser.”

“She was clearly into him.”

“Alexis knows he’s dating other women. I wouldn’t call him a playboy, but he’s definitely popular with the ladies.”

I shudder. “Gross.”

“What’s so gross? That women find him attractive?”

“I don’t know. The whole thing. His fake charm. His excessive good looks. His money. Is it really necessary?”

Her brow furrows. “The same could be said for you.”

“But I’m not fake, and I don’t lead men on!”

“So what is the relationship between you and Trevor? Soul mates… true love… recreational sex?”

“You’re comparing apples and oranges. I’m nothing like Michael. I don’t use men.”

“Why are you so critical of him?”

“Have you heard the way he talks to me? He’s always making fun of me— ”

“He’s teasing you.” She shakes her head. “Playing with you. Where’s your sense of humor? You’ve always been able to laugh
at yourself.”

“Not anymore,” I answer, knowing it’s true. I don’t laugh like I used to. I’m far more tense, as well as intense. I never
used to be this stressed about my work, but success has become more bitter than sweet. Even one year ago Mark would never
have slammed me in a staff meeting the way he did last week. The show’s ratings have never tanked. I’ve never needed saving.
I’ve always done the saving.

I want to be the invincible Tiana Tomlinson again, the girl wonder who couldn’t get it wrong.

Now I can’t seem to get it right.

I suddenly sniff. Something’s burning. My mushroom caps. I completely forgot. I rush to the oven, grab a hot mitt, and retrieve
the tray, but they’re blackened. Inedible.

Holding the tray, I look at Christie and she’s looking at me and I’m so mad because this is what I’m talking about. I don’t
burn stuffed mushroom caps. I don’t get distracted. I don’t fall apart. But my eyes are welling with tears and there’s a huge,
dark hole opening up inside me. “You don’t suppose I could serve them anyway?” I ask wistfully.

“You could try.” Christie smiles. “Maybe no one will notice.”

I glance down at the baking sheet with the charred puffs. “Or maybe I could just give them to Michael. They’d go nicely with
his black heart.”

Christie laughs and then wags her finger at me. “Tiana, I’d be careful if I were you. Karma’s a bitch!”

Thankfully, the baked Brie turns out golden and flaky. Surrounded by crackers, grapes, and pear slices, it’s a glorious appetizer
and I carry it toward the living room, where I hear the sound of a televised football game. Simon’s from Oklahoma, went to
Texas A&M, and is a diehard Dallas Cowboys fan. I enter the living room expecting to find Simon and Michael in front of the
enormous flat-screen TV. Instead, Simon’s watching the game alone.

“Where’s Michael?” I ask, setting the platter on the low glass coffee table.

Simon waves to the stairs, his gaze glued to the screen. “Upstairs, playing Princess Monopoly.”

I climb the stairs and follow the raised voices to Kari’s room, where the door is partially open. Melissa’s apparently upset
about how someone’s playing. I stick my head around the door to see the girls and Michael clustered on the floor, but they’re
not playing Princess Monopoly; instead they’re gathered around Barbie Queen of the Prom, a game Melanie got last year for
her birthday— and loved— much to her mother’s dismay.

“That’s my boyfriend, Michael. You have to get your own,” Melissa is explaining to him with exaggerated patience. “You have
to land on a different square.”

“But I need a boyfriend to go to the prom,” he protests.

The girls are in fits of giggles.

“Yes, but you can’t have mine,” Melissa answers, trying to be severe and failing.

Melanie is also trying to keep a straight face. “You’ll just have to go on a date again.”

“Again?” he exclaims.

The girls are laughing harder. “Well, I wouldn’t,” Kari says. “Skip the going on a date, and try to go to the class party,
otherwise you’ll lose too much time and never make the prom.”

“But don’t I have to go steady before I go to the prom?” Michael asks, bewildered.

“Yes,”
they chorus loudly.

He sighs heavily, clearly overwhelmed by the trials of being a girl in 1961. “Going to the prom is a lot of work.”

“And yet to Barbie, so worth it,” I say, stepping into the room and taking a seat on the edge of Kari’s twin bed. Kari’s just
had her room redone from pinks to lime green and chocolate brown, and I love the fun, fresh colors. They’re perfect for a
young tween.

Michael looks up at me, dark blue eyes creasing at the corners. He’s in his element here, playing a board game with three
little girls who clearly all have a crush on him. “Have you played this game before?”

“Many times.”

Melissa looks at me. “We let Michael take your place,” she says apologetically. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. He probably needs to practice his dating skills.” I meet his gaze, smile a little.

“Actually, I’m quite good on a date,” he defends himself, holding my gaze. “It’s the shopping for a dress I’m struggling with.”

My lips twitch. I can’t help it. He’s such a contradiction: On the one hand, he’s Mr. Sophisticated in his black linen shirt,
yet here he is stretched out on a green carpet playing the Barbie Game.

He sees my amusement and his smile deepens, the light back in his deep blue eyes, and there’s something in his smile that
reaches into my chest and squeezes tight.

Keith. Keith’s smile.

That’s how Keith used to smile at me. Smart, laughing, loving. Wicked and wonderful. Mostly wonderful.

I breathe in so hard that my chest constricts again and I stumble to my feet. Need air. Must get air.

Descending the stairs, I hear Christie talking to Simon and I slip down the hall for Simon’s study with its balcony overlooking
the ocean.

I push open the sliding door and step outside. Clouds have moved in, partially obscuring the sea, hanging low and gray over
the rocks and sea and sand. It’s colder, too, the temperature dropping with the thick clouds. I shiver and gulp in air.

Michael’s not like Keith.

They’re not at all the same. Not the smile. Not the values. Guilt assails me. I don’t know why I’d even compare the two. No
one’s like Keith, no one.

But then I hear the sliding door open and I look over my shoulder and see Michael walking toward me.

My stomach falls. Not him, not now.

I swiftly reach up and wipe my eyes, hoping he can’t see any of what I’m feeling. I’m usually so good at hiding my emotions,
but I’m too raw right now and far too tender.

“Nice view,” he says, coming to stand next to me, resting his weight on the balcony railing.

I nod, gaze out at the ocean where the clouds hang above the waves’ white foam tips.

“You all right?” he asks quietly.

I nod again.

“Simon told me this isn’t an easy day for you,” he adds even more quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t sound like a shallow playboy, and his simple words bring a lump to my throat and fresh tears to my eyes. “It’s
okay,” I say thickly.

“No, it’s not. Death’s a terrible thing. No one understands it, do they?”

And suddenly I’m crying again.

I rest my elbows on the railing and cover my face and cry hot salty silent tears into my hands. I
loved
Keith. I loved him as much as I could love anyone and it didn’t keep him alive. I loved him with all my heart and soul and
it wasn’t enough. I gave him all of me and it couldn’t protect him. How the hell are we supposed to love when it doesn’t last?
How are we to love when life is so capricious that love can be taken away at any time?

This is the grief I can’t bear anyone to see. This is the pain that shadows me when I’m alone, yet here Michael is, witness
to it all.

He closes the distance between us and wraps his arms around me and holds me as I cry. He says nothing, and a little voice
inside me insists I push him away, but I can’t. I’ve been lonely and too full of grief for far too long. Besides, he’s warm
and solid and he keeps me from toppling down, which is something.

The tears finally stop and I step carefully out of his arms and away from him even as I wipe my eyes dry. “Sorry about that.”

“You loved him,” he says.

My eyes sting, my throat aches, my voice is hoarse. “More than anything.”

“He was lucky, you know. Not everyone gets loved like that.”

I look at Michael warily. I don’t trust him. I won’t ever trust him— he is Dr. Hollywood, after all— but his tone is sincere
and his expression is serious, and after a moment I nod. “We just didn’t have enough time. There should have been more time.”

“But that’s how it should be, shouldn’t it? We should be greedy with life. It’s so damn short.”

I search his gaze, not sure what I’m looking for. Mockery? Sarcasm? Cynicism? But I find none of it. “Too short,” I agree.

“He’s been gone how long?”

“Seven years today.”

“And you’ve never married again.”

“No.”

“You don’t want to marry again?”

I can’t answer that. I don’t even know the answer. Part of me would love to fall in love and marry, but another part of me,
a big part of me, is too scared to take the risk. And I don’t want to forget Keith, don’t want him to be wiped away completely.
“You don’t know if they’ve opened any wine, do you? I think I could use a glass.”

“I do remember seeing a very nice white wine chilling in the fridge. Let’s say we open that.”

I smile, grateful that he’s allowing us to move on and away from this painful subject. “Yes, please.”

I don’t return from Laguna Beach until close to ten. At Christie’s insistence I’ve brought home a plastic container filled
with turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and gravy, along with another container of pie. Upon entering my house, I go straight to
the kitchen to put away the leftovers.

I change for bed, wash my face, and as I apply the necessary lotions and potions to keep Father Time at bay— lotions and potions
more critical now than ever before— I think about the conversation I had with Michael on the balcony. It was a Michael I’d
never seen before. A Michael I hadn’t known existed.