The True Love Quilting Club (26 page)

A buffet table groaned under the weight of the lavish spread—lobster rolls, beef puff pastry canapés, shrimp tapas; caviar and foie gras and pâté. Off to
one side, a harpist played heavenly sounding notes. It made him think of Jenny. His sister loved all things cherubic. Exotic flowers decorated the tables—bird of paradise and plumeria and bougainvillea—their lush scent filling the room.

Waiters carried silver trays laden with champagne flutes throughout the gathering. He noticed their tuxedos looked exactly like his. The plain-Jane rental type. Nothing at all like the expensively tailored tuxes that the other guests wore.

He swallowed hard and tugged at the collar of his tuxedo. The pinch of the Italian leather shoes squeezing his feet reminded him that he didn’t fit here, that he was a fish out of water. Hell, if he was being honest, he’d confess this was his first time in a penguin suit.

Except that he had no one with whom to confess. He knew no one. He was completely alone.

Buck up and stop feeling self-conscious. You’re here for one reason. Emma.

Sam scanned the room, searching the throng for that familiar flash of copper-colored hair. At last he spied her, up on the podium at the back of the room, standing beside Matt Damon and some other movie stars he recognized. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her and his mouth went dry.

Sam moved closer, trying to figure out how he was going to get her alone, realizing all the way he’d picked a bad time, a bad place. He should have listened to Nina. He should have waited.

You don’t belong here.

Matt Damon leaned over to whisper something to Emma. She laughed. He could hear it from where he stood. The soft sound of her joy.

“Here,” snapped a waiter carrying two trays with champagne. “Take one of these, you slacker.”

Before Sam could tell him he was a guest, the waiter shoved a tray at him and he stood there like the hired help, while up on the stage, Emma laughed with Matt Damon. She was a star and he was just Steady Sam from Twilight, Texas. Nothing could have been clearer.

That’s when he knew for certain that Trixie Lynn was lost to him as surely as Valerie was, and it was time he accepted it. He had to let her go.

Mentally shutting down the emotional pain that stabbed at his heart, he sat the tray down on a nearby table, turned, and walked away.

Emma had never felt so lonely in such a crowded room and she had no idea why.

All her dreams had come true. She was in L.A. at a charity event with Matt Damon. She was eating lavish food and drinking expensive champagne, and on the way inside the event a half-dozen people had asked for her autograph. It was everything she’d ever imagined and yet it did not feel magical.

She thought of what Jill had told her.
This life isn’t real, Em.
And in that moment, she realized just how true that was. Tonight she would go home. Back to the apartment Malcolm had rented for her. She’d be alone, surrounded by nothing familiar. Nothing she knew.

Biting down on her bottom lip, she tried to shake off the gloom, but all she could think about was Sam. She wondered what he was doing right now. Probably reading Charlie a bedtime story.

Emma took a deep breath. How she wished she could be there with them.

You could, if you wanted. You could dream a new dream.

The hairs on the nape of her neck lifted, and she had the oddest feeling, as if she was being watched. She raised her head, looked out across the crowd milling around the stage, saw the side exit door open, watched a man in a tuxedo walk out.

Sam
, her crazy heart cried as the door closed behind him.

Of course it wasn’t Sam. Same height, same build, same color hair, yes, but she knew he was home in Twilight where he belonged.

And she was here alone in L.A., seeing phantom images of the love she’d left behind.

A week after the charity event, Emma was sitting in the makeup chair in the trailer she shared with another actress playing a minor role in the movie, when the door swung open.

Emma and the makeup artist turned their heads.

A gaunt woman, dressed in shabby clothing, stood in the doorway. “Hey, lamb chop, remember me?”

Emma hadn’t seen her in twenty-four years, but the minute she looked into the eyes, she recognized her mother. Sylvie Parks—or whatever her name might be now.

The years hadn’t been kind. Sylvie appeared thin and worn, like a cotton dress washed too many times. There were deep lines dug in around her eyes, as if she had to keep squinting at the world to hold on to her rose-colored point of view. Her hair was long and unkempt—blond on the ends, graying and brown at the roots. She had a hank of it pulled back from her face by a child’s blue barrette, and her teeth were yel
lowed with nicotine stains. She wore a purple tunic top embroidered with butterflies, a pair of faded jeans, and flip-flops that showed off toes badly in need of a pedicure. On her wrist she wore a pale green plastic bracelet with the word “dream” printed on it in black lettering. She looked like she’d shuffled in from a day at the flea market. Emma wondered how she’d managed to get onto the set.

“Ma…Mama?”

So many times over the years she’d envisioned a moment just like this, where she’d made it big and her mother came crawling back begging her forgiveness for leaving her and praising her for having become a star. But now that it was happening, it felt totally surreal, and she wondered if perhaps she was imagining it.

Sylvie stood there assessing her, not saying a word.

Emma had forgotten how much her mother had hurt her. Taking off with the man in the Cadillac, never calling, never writing, never sending a birthday card or a Christmas present. She’d pushed aside memories of those nights she’d cried herself to sleep. How Rex hadn’t known how to comfort her or hadn’t bothered to make an effort. She’d disconnected from her teenage angst of the hurt, anger, and betrayal that had caused her to lash out in foolish ways, like joyriding in Rex’s car and graffitiing the Twilight Bridge.

And yet, in spite of all that, she felt a surprising rush of pity and forgiveness for her mother.

Sylvie opened her arms wide. “Aren’t you gonna give your mama a big hug?”

Emma did just that, waving aside the makeup artist who looked ready to call security, sliding from the chair, rushing up to embrace her mother for the first
time in over two decades. She smelled the same, like cigarettes and Wind Song cologne and despair. It was a stiff hug, awkward and cool, not like the warm, enveloping embraces she received from the members of the True Love Quilting Club.

In her mind, she’d always imagined there’d be tears at this point, from both of them. But she didn’t feel moved to that degree. She felt detached, as if she was standing outside her body watching it all play out with mild curiosity and nothing else. In all honesty, she was appreciative that there was no big emotional fallout. It helped.

Sylvie was the first to step back, and she cocked her head to study Emma. She reached up and fingered a lock of Emma’s hair. “Still shiny red.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve missed you so much. I love you, Trixie Lynn.”

Was she supposed to tell her she loved her back? Once upon a time, she had loved her mother with an undying fierceness. Now? She just felt hollow. “I go by Emma now.”

“Of course you do.” Her mother nodded. “It sounds more like a movie star name. Can’t say I blame you for that. I never wanted to call you Trixie Lynn in the first place, but Rex wanted to name you after his grand-mama.”

“Funny,” she said, “seeing as how Rex wasn’t my father.”

Sylvie’s gaze darted away. “Oh. You found out about that, huh?”

“Who’s my real father?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. It was a long time ago. I knew a lot of men before I met Rex.”

“You were pregnant with me when he married you and you didn’t tell him? How could you do that?”

“Let’s not talk about ancient history.” Sylvie ironed a palm across Emma’s shoulder. “Let’s discuss something more pleasant, like you being in the movies. I can’t believe it, my own daughter a big star. Who would have thought it would ever happen after you kicked that Broadway producer in the balls.”

“You heard about that?”

“I read the tabloids, honey.”

“And you’re just now coming to see me?”

Sylvie ignored that and prattled on. “I gotta say, ouch! You don’t go around kicking a big-time producer in the balls just because he spurns your sexual advances.”

Emma was floored. “You believed his story?”

“Well, it
was
in the tabloids.”

“He lied. He put the make on
me
, and when I refused to have sex with him to get the part, he got rough. That’s when I defended myself.”

“You’re sure?”

“Are you calling me a liar, Mother?”

Sylvie held up her palms. “No, no. Don’t get testy, I was just telling you what I read.”

“Well, it was a lie.”

“It was in the paper.”

“In the tabloids, salacious gossip rags. There is a difference between them and a real paper. If there’s a UFO on the cover and the headlines are
Brad Pitt Is an Alien and I’m Having His Out-of-This-World Love Child
, a rational person can sorta figure out it’s not true. Then again, I’m betting no one has ever accused you of being rational.”

Sylvie tucked her lips together as if to keep from saying what she really wanted to say.

Holding back her opinion, was she? How very noble of her.

“You don’t have to be so cruel,” Sylvie whispered.

Oh, so now she was the cruel one? That gave her the courage to blurt the question that had been gnawing at the back of her mind for twenty-four years. “Why did you leave me, Mother?”

Sylvie’s eyes widened and she looked startled. “I…I didn’t leave you. I went to follow my bliss, to become an actress.”

“And you never once considered that in following your
bliss
”—she spat out the last word—“that you also left me motherless?”

Her mother notched her chin up and slanted a look down her nose. “Everything is not about you.”

Emma barked out a sharp laugh. “So tell me, Mother, where did your bliss take you? Were you ever in a movie? Ever been in a stage play? Did you get commercial gigs? Voice any audio books?”

“It’s a very difficult business.”

“I’m guessing that means the answer to my questions is no.”

“I want to talk about something more pleasant.”

Anger flared through Emma. Her mother had heard about her through the tabloids. Had known she was in New York after the Scott Miller incident, but her mother hadn’t shown up then. When Emma was in trouble and could have used a shoulder to cry on, no Sylvie, but now that Emma had made a success of herself, poof, here was dear old Mom. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s talk about your movie.”

“Well, I did it. It took me a long time, but here I am.” Emma spread her hands to include the dressing room. “I did what you told me to do. I became a star.”

Sylvie looked startled. “I never told you to become a star.”

Emma drew back. “Of course you did. That’s my primary memory of you. You’d chanted over and over again, saying it like a lullaby. Then you gave me this.” Emma pulled the star brooch from her purse.

Sylvie made a noise, half grunt, half laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What?” Emma frowned. Had she imagined it? Was it all something she’d concocted in her head because she’d wanted so badly to believe that her mother wanted the best for her?

Sylvie placed her cupped hand against the hollow of her throat. “You thought I was talking to you?”

“Who else would you have been talking to? You used to rock me in your arms and whisper, ‘You’re gonna be a star, you’re gonna be a star, you’re gonna be a star.’”

“That was an affirmation.”

“And it worked. Whenever I felt down and kicked around by life, I’d just tell myself what you told me all those years ago. ‘You’re gonna be a star.’ It would renew my commitment. The fact that you believed I was capable of being a star kept me going.”

“It wasn’t an affirmation for
you
.” Sylvie laughed, dry and mirthless. “I was repeating it to
myself.
”

Before Emma could answer, before she could formulate any kind of a response, a knock sounded on her trailer and an assistant wearing a headset opened the door. “We’re ready for you on set, Miss Parks.”

“I’ve got to go,” she told Sylvie.

“Um…maybe we could have dinner later. There was something I needed to ask you.”

“I’m working all day. No time.”

“I suppose I deserve the brush-off,” Sylvie said. “Leaving you the way I did.”

So now she was having a twinge of conscience. Emma snorted. “Have you ever once thought about me in twenty-four years?”

“Sure I did.”

“When? When you heard about me on
Entertainment Tonight
?”

Sylvie looked so guilty that Emma knew it was pretty damn close to the truth.

“Let me guess, this thing you needed to ask me. Does it have anything to do with money?”

Sylvie hung her head.

Emma snorted, still holding back the pain thrashing around inside her. She couldn’t deal with it now. She had no time to process it. “How much do you need?”

“Ten grand would help a lot.”

Ten thousand dollars. The same amount Nina had paid her. Hauling in a steadying breath, she went to the bedroom and retrieved her checkbook. With a shaky hand she wrote her mother a check for ten thousand dollars, tore it out and thrust it at her. “Here,” she said. “Take what you really came for.”

Her mother stuffed the check in her pocket and mumbled, “Thank you.”

“No,” Emma said. “Thank
you
for teaching me a very important lesson.”

Somehow Emma managed to get through her fourteen-hour day. She played her part and the scenes came out
well. She managed to unhitch her mind, at least for the time while she was working, from what her mother had said to her in the trailer that morning. She was professional and proficient. She was, after all, a star, even if she had come to it by repeating affirmations that had never been meant for her.