Easy on the Eyes (15 page)

I’m at my desk just about to turn off my computer and I have to listen to her voice mail twice before I realize tomorrow’s
Friday. She’s here tomorrow.

I can’t believe I forgot Shey was coming. We originally were supposed to convene in Seattle for Zach’s baptism, but the date
was changed. Instead Shey rebooked her flight to head to L.A. to spend a girls’ weekend with me.

And now she’ll be here tomorrow and I’m craving a girls’ weekend as well. A good one. Decadent, relaxing,
fun
.

I instant message Madison, who ducks into my office to see what’s up. “Can you see if you can get me a reservation for a two-bedroom
suite at the Parker in Palm Springs for two nights?” I ask her. “The hotel also pulls up as Le Parker Méredien. I’d love the
Gene Autry guesthouse but don’t know if that’s available.”

“New romance?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.

“With my best friend.”

“Oh, fun. I’ll get right on it.”

Madison dances her way back to my office ten minutes later with a reservation confirmation. “You got the Gene Autry residence
and they love you.” She places the printed confirmation in front of me. “No, seriously, they looooove you and have promised
to spoil you rotten. Daily morning coffee service. Spa treatments. Dinner at Mister Parker’s. I wish I was going.”

“If that’s what you want for Christmas…?” I answer, slipping the confirmation into my briefcase.

“Really?”

“Unless you have a better idea.”

“I’ll do Palm Springs!”

“Smart girl.”

*    *    *

I’m practically singing my way through Friday morning’s taping. I’m so excited about the weekend with Shey and thrilled to
be leaving the city for a girls’ getaway in Palm Springs. I was so jealous when I heard that Marta and Shey had their own
getaway in the San Juan Islands a few years ago. I haven’t done anything like that with either of them since I started at
America Tonight
—my fault, not theirs, as it’s my schedule making things difficult.

We’re done taping by noon, and I’m in my car and rushing to the airport. I’m just five minutes away when I get the text from
Shey saying her plane has landed and she’ll be heading toward the curb as soon as they reach the gate.

I’m circling Arrivals in my Jag when I spot Shey emerging from the terminal. Nearly six feet tall and a gorgeous, willowy
blonde, she’d be hard to miss, too.

I pull up to the curb, shift into park, and jump out to greet her with a hug and a laugh. I feel like a midget hugging her,
but then I am barely five three.

“Are you shrinking, Tiana?” Shey teases me as she gives me a squeeze.

Oh, my God, it’s good to see her. Her voice, her warmth, her Texas twang. “I was just asking myself the same thing,” I answer,
opening the trunk to put her luggage in the back. “How was the flight?”

“Uneventful.”

“The best kind of flight.”

“How’s life?” Shey asks as we climb into the car and close the doors.

“Could be better, but you know I love a good challenge.”

“You’ve certainly been in the news a lot.”

“Not by choice,” I mutter as I pull away from the curb.

“This new guy of yours, Trevor Campbell, he’s gone? Out of the picture?”

“Yep.”

“What happened?”

“Not entirely sure, but I think he started sleeping with his co-star.”

“Is that what he said?”

I glance at her. “He hasn’t returned my calls in a week.”

“But he appeared on
ET
—”

“Spouting lies.” I shrug indifferently, but then my brave face crumples and I feel the sting of rejection all over again.
He never did call. Never did care. “To be honest, I feel like a fool. I guess it wasn’t much of a relationship, and I should
be relieved it’s over. I guess I’m relieved— ” I break off, gulp a breath. “Sort of. No, not really, because now I have to
start dating all over again.”

Shey arches an elegant brow. “Why do you hate dating so much?”

“Because the whole Tiana Tomlinson identity trips men up.”

“How?”

I wave a hand as I change lanes and prepare to enter the freeway. “I think they fall for the package and don’t realize there’s
a real me beneath all the hair and makeup and celebrity appearances, a me who’s considerably different than the TV persona.”

“Are you different?”

I shoot her an accusing glance. “Of course I’m different. You know I’m different— ”

“Not if you’re dating actors like Trevor Campbell for six months! Did you really think he’d fall in love, settle down, and
be ready to start making babies before your biological clock runs down?”

I’m staring straight ahead, concentrating on the 405’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, but I also hear every word she’s saying.

“T, you need someone your age or older, someone settled, someone mature, someone not in the business.” Her tone softens. “But
if you don’t want the marriage and kids, then admit it, and just be done with it. But that’s not what I hear from you. I hear
you still want a family…?”

I know she’s looking at me, and I just tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Of course I want a family. It’s normal for a
woman to want a family. But most women aren’t widowed at thirty, either.

Shey leans toward me, taps the back of my hand where it clenches the wheel. “You know, if Keith hadn’t died, you’d be a reporter
in a small city, juggling assignments between making cookies and driving kids to music, dance, and sporting events.”

I see the I-10 intersection ahead, knowing I want to go east.

“You’d already started collecting baby clothes, remember?” she adds.

“One outfit and one blanket, not exactly an entire layette.”

“But you know what I’m saying. Having a baby was a top priority once Keith returned— ”

“But he didn’t, and I haven’t met anyone close to Keith, so the baby blanket and onesie are long gone and my focus has been
on work.”

“Okay. We’ll drop the subject… for now.” She grins and slides her seat back to give her more legroom. “I do have some big
news, though. Well, it’s actually not my news. It’s about Marta.”

I glance at her again. “Yeah?”

Shey’s grinning. “Do you know why Zach’s baptism was postponed from this weekend until the end of the month? Marta’s pregnant.”

“What?”

Shey’s grin grows. “Marta’s just hit her second trimester, but she’s still really sick.”

“Zach’s not even a year old yet.”

Shey just laughs her throaty laugh and tucks a wave of thick blonde hair behind her ear. “But that’s not all. She’s carrying
twins.”

I let out a screech, and Shey laughs again. “Eva let the news slide when I called the house last night. Marta doesn’t know
we know yet.”

“We’ve got to go see her. I know the baptism has been postponed until the twenty-eighth, but we should just surprise her—
” I break off, bite my lip as I realize this is Marta we’re talking about. “She doesn’t want anyone to see her sick, does
she.”

Shey shakes her head. “Apparently she can’t keep any food down and she’s lost a lot of weight— ”

“Not that she needed to lose any,” I interrupt.

“Eva says Luke’s been worried about her, but according to the doctor the pregnancy’s fine.”

“Wow.” Marta pregnant with twins. Incredible. Just two years ago she and Eva were an island, and now Marta’s married and a
mom to little Zach and expecting two more.

Shey casts a sympathetic glance my way. “I promise, if you want it, your turn will come, Tits.”

I force a smile. “I know.” But I don’t know, not anymore. Shey’s right about Trevor, though. Trevor would have never married
me or had children with me, nor would any of the last few men I dated. But those are the men I date. I’m not attracted to
the kind, salt-of-the-earth men— and those men do still exist. I just avoid them. Just like I avoid being hurt.

“Good things come when we least expect it,” she adds.

I roll my eyes. Shey can say that because she’s known only good things. She comes from a stable, loving home. Her modeling
career fell into her lap. Her brilliant, wealthy husband pursued her hard for two years before she capitulated. She has adorable
boys, an Upper East Side apartment, a country estate, and a thriving business. In short, she has it all.

“I hope so,” I whisper.

Shey reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I know so.”

I glance at her, and she looks so serious and so sure of herself that some of the tension in me eases. How can I not believe
Shey? Shey has a huge heart and more strength than any woman I know.

“So do you want to know where we’re going?” I ask, shooting her a quick smile.

“We’re not going to your place?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Thought we needed to do something totally escapist and self-indulgent.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Are we going to a spa?”

“In Palm Springs.”

Shey lets out a whoop and pumps her fist in the air. “Road trip!”

O
ur hotel, the Parker, has enjoyed an impressive list of owners and names, first as Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch Estate, then
as the Merv Griffin Resort and then the Givenchy Hotel & Spa, and now the Parker. The villa walls are pale pink and draped
with bougainvillea, and the gardens are as lush as a desert oasis. Restyled by designer Jonathan Adler, it’s also hip, stylish,
and popular among celebrities fleeing Los Angeles for sun and fun.

Shey and I tumble onto the slipcovered living room couch with happy sighs. The doors to our private garden and pool are open.
Fresh flowers and chilled champagne greet us. We even have our own “butler” on call for the next two days.

“It’s forty-five degrees in New York,” Shey says, wiggling her bare toes. She’s been talking about changing into her swimsuit
to go lie out by the pool, but she still hasn’t moved from the overstuffed sofa. “My kids would die to be here. They’d love
the pool.”

“The boys are good swimmers, aren’t they?”

“For city kids, yeah.” She stretches, yawns. “I love my boys, wouldn’t trade them for anything, but God, sometimes it’s all
so much. Sometimes it seems like everyone needs so much from me.”

Shey turns her head, looks at me, her expression unusually serious. “You don’t know how badly I needed this. Two days of nothing.
Two days to be lazy. Two days where I can just take care of me for a change.”

After an hour by the pool, we finish off the afternoon with massages and oxygenating facials before changing and making a
ten-minute drive into downtown Palm Springs for dinner. The sun set behind the mountains an hour ago, and the desert city
sparkles tonight. The night is calm and clear as we arrive at one of my favorite restaurants.

The maître d’ knows me on sight, welcomes me warmly, and finds us a table almost immediately. Not long after we’re seated,
Brett, the owner, appears table side with a kiss for me and a complimentary bottle of champagne.

I introduce Shey, and he swears he recognizes her. She laughs, demurs, and then he snaps his fingers. “
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue 1991.”

“Yes,” she admits, cheeks dusky pink.

“I knew it. Green bikini in the waterfall. And then there was the lizard-skin one-piece against the sand. Right?”

Her jaw drops a little. It’s been a long time since she’s been recognized as a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model. “That’s impressive, sugar.”

He just grins. “I have two of the most beautiful women in America dining at my restaurant. Am I a lucky man, or what?”

As he walks away, Shey shakes her head. “That never happens anymore.”

“It’s because you’re always with your husband. Men aren’t going to trip over themselves in front of John.”

The exchange with Brett reminds me of my conversation with Christie on Thanksgiving when she told me that beautiful women
get better reservations, tables, and services. They get attention and eye contact.

I tell Shey about the conversation Christie and I were having in Christie’s kitchen, and I ask Shey if she’d ever consider
getting work done.

“Probably, at least my eyes,” she answers without much hesitation, but then adds, “But Marta would kill me. She’s so antisurgery,
so anticaving to societal pressure.”

“You’ve discussed cosmetic surgery with Marta?”

She nods. “Marta just about took my head off. Wanted to know what kind of role model would I be for Eva? What kind of example
was I setting for other girls?”

“Easy for her to say. She’s not in front of a camera, not like you or me.”

“Which is why she was livid I’d consider it. Apparently I’d be perpetuating Madison Avenue’s propaganda, that only young and
beautiful women are valuable.”

A little heavy-handed, but that’s Marta for you. And although heavy-handed, Marta’s usually right. I don’t know if it’s because
she’s the mother of a daughter or a rebel at heart, but Marta just doesn’t succumb to society pressure the way many beautiful
women do. But maybe that’s what makes Marta beautiful. She’s strong, different, unique.

“If you were to take Marta out of the equation, surgery wouldn’t be an issue then? You’d have the surgery tomorrow?”