Just Kiss Me (2 page)

Three years ago, when she’d rolled into town, she’d been a little cocky, riding a wave of success and money. She’d just been nominated for a People’s Choice award, and learned that her seven-inch Zahara action figure—metal bikini edition—had sold more than all the other Raffle figures combined. Back then, she’d returned to Charleston to help her momma host a housewarming party, and she’d felt like she was hot shit. This time, she just felt like shit. This time she was home to plan her momma’s funeral.

“You’re on the cover of the
Enquirer
again. Apparently you were caught in a sex romp.”

Who cares? Vivien’s perfect brows scrunched together and reminded her of her headache. Sarah was just doing her job. Or perhaps her assistant was trying to take Vivien’s mind off the awful details of the past twelve hours when her life had been sliced to pieces like celluloid on the cutting-room floor.

Twelve hours ago, she’d been drinking appletinis at a lavish party on Mulholland Drive and pretending interest in the latest Hollywood news and gossip. Scoring an invitation and getting seen at parties of the rich and swanky was part of the business. Flashing a smile for photographers and having her picture taken on the arm of men like Christian Forsyth was good for Vivien’s career, no matter that he was the most boring man to walk upright and she had no romantic interest in him at all.

Twelve hours ago, her life had been about the right film roles and spending time with the right people. Twelve hours ago, she’d been playing the part of glamorous Vivien Leigh Rochet. Actress. Movie star. Hot shit.

Roll camera. Sarah’s sudden appearance at the party should have tipped Vivien off that something was wrong, but she’d had a few too many cocktails on an empty stomach to give it a thought. If she hadn’t been intoxicated, she might have noticed the worry in her assistant’s blue eyes. She might have had a little forewarning before Sarah stepped close and whispered the impossible in her ear.

Her momma was dead. Twelve hours later, Vivien didn’t know any real details. She’d been told that paramedics had tried to revive her at home but that she’d died on her way to the emergency room. Her death appeared to be natural. Natural? Nothing that had happened in the past twelve hours felt natural, and Vivien could hardly breathe past the pain and guilt slashing her heart.

“I guess it sells more than the usual anorexic stories,” said Vivien.

Macy Jane Rochet was dead and fake stories in gossip papers seemed so trivial. So stupid. There had been a time when no one had cared enough about Vivien Rochet to print her name, let alone make up entire stories about her. A time when she would have killed to get a mention in the tabloids and to see photos of herself splattered across magazine covers. Her mother was dead and Vivien’s life suddenly seemed stupid and trivial.

And completely empty now.

Before Sarah’s sudden appearance last night, everything in Vivien’s life had been so clear. So charted. She was a bright star blazing a trail toward mega stardom. Now it was blurred and her head was congested with pain and caffeine and booze. She could hardly think past her raw emotions, and so much had happened in the past twelve hours, she wasn’t even sure if it was Sunday or Monday.

It had to be Sunday. Maybe. “What day is it?”

Without looking up, Sarah answered, “June sixth.”

Vivien reached into her red Kelly bag and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. She slid the black frames on her face and leaned her head back. That didn’t really answer her question, but it had to be Sunday. She’d been at the party on Saturday night. Had that been just last night? It seemed like more time had passed since when she’d learned about her momma.

Her mother had been kind and loving, delicate and beautiful. She’d also been difficult and exhausting, and if truth be told, sometimes crazy as a bessie bug. She’d certainly embarrassed Vivien more times than she could count. With her erratic highs and lows. Her overblown elation one day and her utter despair the next. Her huge dreams of a happily ever after and difficulty with men. The earth beneath her feet ebbed like the tides, changeable, predictable, and leaving those around her restless and worn out at the same time. But even when she’d been at her most difficult, she hadn’t been difficult to love. Not for Vivien, because no matter the highs and lows and instability, she’d always known that her mother loved her as no one else on the planet loved her. No judgments. No expectations. Just warm and generous love from her wide-open heart.

Macy Jane hadn’t been perfect, but she’d done her best to take care of Vivien. When she’d fallen short, Vivien’s mamaw Roz stepped in. After Mamaw Roz died, Vivien took care of herself. She took care of her momma, too. It had been the two of them against the world. Together.

Always.

The Escalade took one of the last exits and headed into the heart of the Holy City, church spires and steeples pointed toward heaven, heavy with thunderclouds typical of July. The SUV continued down Meeting Street and moved toward the harbor, toward cobblestone streets lined with palmetto and plumeria. Toward the genteel opulence and polished grandeur south of Broad Street. Vivien had grown up in the middle of the elite class. Smack-dab in the middle of old families with old family names. Names that could be traced back to the founding of the St. Cecilia Society and beyond to the original thirteen colonies. She’d grown up surrounded by “good families,” but she’d never belonged. Her “people” didn’t have towns or bridges or golf courses named after them. Her “people” worked hard to scrape by and her family tree looked more like a spindly shrub than a stately live oak.

“Take a left on Tradd,” she told the driver. “Then another left on East Bay.” Instead of returning to the only home she’d known for the first eighteen years of her life, the SUV headed for a set of row houses, each painted in a different bright color. Her mother had once said the row resembled a strip of Candy Buttons and that she could be happy in a yummy house. Three years ago, Vivien bought her momma the pink button so she could be happy and so she never had to live in anyone’s backyard again.

“In the front is fine,” she said and the Cadillac pulled to a stop next to the curb. She put her bottled water into her purse, and waited for the driver to open the back door before she slid from the vehicle. From beneath the brim of her wide hat, she looked up at the pink stucco, and the three stories of white window frames and gray shutters. A drop of rain hit her bare shoulder and dotted the stones around her black, four-inch heels. The one and only time she’d been at the row house, her mother had been excited and animated, directing florists and caterers all at the same time. Her mother had indeed seemed happy, and Macy Jane in a happy mood was always infectious—if you didn’t let yourself worry about the subsequent sadness.

Several pieces of furniture had been delivered the day before, and Vivien and her mother had run around, pulling plastic off of the sofa and chairs in the grand drawing room and a small dining set in the kitchen. Movers unloaded an Elizabethan four-poster bed and an antique Aubusson rug that Macy Jane had discovered at an estate sale. Vivien wasn’t shocked that her mother had done very little to furnish the 4,200-square-foot townhouse before the housewarming party. She was a bit annoyed, but not in the least surprised by Macy Jane’s indecision.

“I don’t need to have every room furnished with stuff to host my party.” Macy Jane had defended her laissez-faire approach to home ownership and to life in general.

Which Vivien supposed was true and hadn’t bothered to argue that the point of having the party was to show off to her friends and impress them with her home and “stuff.” It wasn’t to show off an empty house.

Not that it had mattered. The party had taken place in the private courtyard and caterers had provided everything from tables and chairs to the fine pink linens.

“Is it always this muggy?” Sarah asked as she and the driver unloaded their bags.

“Yes ma’am,” the driver answered, appearing not in the least bothered in his black suit and tie. “After it rains, it won’t be so bad.”

Vivien pulled a house key from her purse and stepped inside the small alcove. Her hand trembled as she unlocked the door and pushed it open, half expecting to see her mother, arms open wide. “Let me hug my sweet girl’s neck,” she would always say in her smooth drawl. Instead the foyer was dark and empty. Her mother had died here. Somewhere.

A tear slipped down her cheek and she pulled off her glasses and hat. The coroner hadn’t determined the cause of her mother’s death yet. Only that it appeared to be natural. She moved into the drawing room, and her feet came to an abrupt halt as she took in the room within her watery gaze. White sheets covered the furniture and a thick layer of dust covered everything else. The Aubusson rug was rolled up in front of the fireplace and someone had pulled down the mahogany mantel. Vivien blinked as if she didn’t trust her eyes. When she’d spoken to her mother just last week, she hadn’t mentioned that the floors were being sanded and the mantel was torn out. She hadn’t mentioned any sort of renovations at all. Then again, she hadn’t mentioned feeling the slightest bit ill, either. She hadn’t mentioned much of anything beyond signing up for the seniors’ Zumba class in hopes that they didn’t “work up a glow.” Which Vivien had argued was the whole point of Zumba.

Vivien wiped her cheeks and set her purse on the covered couch. She had so many questions, and the more she looked around, the more came to mind. She walked past the winding staircase and through the light pouring in from the cupola above. The dining room and library were as empty as the last time she’d been in the townhouse. No towels hung in the bathroom, and the small table and four chairs sat exactly where they’d been placed several years ago in the brick kitchen.

A baggie of apples sat on the granite counter and a thermos and a drinking glass had been placed on a towel, upside down as if they’d been recently washed and left there to dry.

“It looks like your mother was remodeling,” Sarah said as she walked into the kitchen.

“This is so strange.” Vivien opened the refrigerator. Empty but for one can of Coca-Cola and a bag of carrots. Old shriveled carrots.

“Yuck. Do you want something to eat?” Sarah asked as she opened and closed cabinets and drawers. “I’m starving to death.”

The thought of food made Vivien’s stomach roll, either from grief or hangover, she wasn’t certain which. Maybe both. “Find anything in there?”

Sarah shook her head and moved through the open pantry door. “Just a box of teas and some cups in here.” She returned and pulled out her phone. “I can call around and have something delivered. After that, I need a bath and a nap.”

At the moment, Sarah’s stomach and bath and nap seemed too much for Vivien to take on. The responsibility too daunting. She had so much to do and think about. She wanted to scream and hit something. She wanted to curl up on her momma’s bed and catch the smell of her momma’s hair on a pillowcase. She wanted to cry big sloppy tears until her mind was as empty as her soul.

“I have a better idea. Pick a hotel somewhere nearby and stay in it.” She wanted to cry until she succumbed to exhaustion. She wanted to be alone, and she wasn’t a bit surprised when her assistant didn’t bother to even put up a token resistance. Sarah loved nothing as much as room service and a pool bar. She handed Sarah an American Express, and twenty minutes later, waved good-bye as her assistant wheeled her suitcase to a waiting cab.

Once alone in her mother’s Candy-Button house, Vivien moved to the French doors and looked out onto the stone courtyard spotted with splashes of rain. The last time she’d stood beneath the shade of flowering maple, breathing in the sweet scent of camellias, her mother had been alive with the kind of energy that lit up her eyes and made her buzz around like a hummingbird.

“Momma, you’re going to wear yourself out before anyone arrives,” Vivien had warned as she’d stepped into the courtyard after she’d showered and changed into the appropriate floral dress, yellow heels, and yellow hat.

Her mother looked up from a bottle of Moet and Chandon champagne, rose of course. “If everyone who RSVP’d makes it today, we’ll be quite the fancy group.” Macy Jane wore pink from hat to heels to match her house.

“Why wouldn’t everyone make it?”

“It’s hot as hades. Some of the ladies might just want to stay cool with their bought air.” The cork popped and flew across the bricks to land in a bed of red impatiens. “Did you see that? Your mamaw always said popping corks brought luck. The bigger the pop, the bigger the luck.”

To Vivien, the bigger the pop, the more likely it was you got hit in the head with a flying cork. “How many people did you invite?”

“Twenty, including Nonnie and her boys.”

Vivien reached for a crab puff from a three-tier serving stand. “Why would you invite the Whitley-Shulers?” She carefully bit into the little hors d’oeuvre.

Macy Jane looked up from two champagne glasses. “They’re some of our oldest friends.” She set the bottle next to a silver urn filled with a gorgeous mix of lilies and hydrangea and roses.

“They were never our friends, Momma.”

“Of course they are, sugar.” She shook her head as she poured. “Don’t be silly.”

Sometimes Macy Jane stretched the truth until it fit her reality, but she never told a flat-out lie. Lies made baby Jesus cry, and her momma had always been very concerned about landing in a fiery hell for upsetting baby Jesus. Vivien took the flute her mother offered. The smooth crystal cooled her palm. “We worked for them.”

“Oh that.” Macy Jane waved away that tiresome bit of truth with her hand. “We just did a little light house cleaning for pin money. You practically grew up with Henry and Spence.”

Now that was certainly stretching the truth to its snapping point. She’d grown up across the formal lawn of the Shuler mansion. She’d grown up in the converted carriage house, but more than sculpted hedges, fountains, and rose arbors separated the two families. More than money or manners, her last name alone separated her from Henry and Spence. The brick courtyard between them might as well have been an insurmountable brick wall. The boys attended an exclusive boarding school in Georgia. Vivien walked to school fifteen minutes from her front door. Henry and Spence passed the lazy days of summer in the big house in Charleston, or at their granddaddy’s beach home in Hilton Head. They vacationed in Paris, France. Vivien spent her summers at public beaches and vacationed at Uncle Richie’s split-level in Paris, Texas.