Unscripted (30 page)

“Hm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What if she wanted you with her because she was, you know, scared?”

“Mona’s
never
scared. Of anything.”

“Like you?” He dropped that bomb and sat back, waiting. I didn’t rise to the bait, just made a face, so he went on, “Surgery is a scary thing, even elective surgery. I mean, sure, she opted for it, but the fear may have hit her later, when she was already committed.”

“Even if that were the case, why would she want
me
there? I couldn’t do anything—”

“Not to ‘do.’ Just to be with her, because you’re her daughter. And she loves you.”

I laughed at that. “I am the
last
person Mona would look for if she needed her hand held. I told you, it’s like I’m daughter in name only.”

“Okay.” He picked up the remote and scrolled through the DVD menu. “Do you think you can handle another half hour or so? There’s another interesting bit here.”

I would have stayed up all night if it meant spending more time with Mason. “Fire it up.”

It was an interview with Mona. Just her, in a room that was supposedly in her Palm Springs home, but which I was certain was a well-lit set instead, as she never allowed film crews into her house. Not even one guy with a camera and an interviewer. She had her rules, and she stuck to them.

In the mini-doc, Mona talked about the films she made in the eighties and a bit more about
Whatever She Wants,
then segued into her personal life, which I found surprising. She didn’t usually open up about anything that wasn’t directly related to her work.
Just like me,
I thought . . . then buried it quickly. I turned my attention back to my mom’s interview.

She was saying, “One stepson, whom I think of as my own. Jamie lives a . . . vibrant life, let’s say. I adore his energy. And of course my daughter, Rosemary—well, she goes by her middle name, Faith, but I can’t help but think of her as Rosemary, so please do excuse me if I slip here and there—Faith Sinclair, a marvelously successful television producer, director, and writer. Her show,
Modern Women,
is just fabulous.” The interviewer murmured a question, and she said in a choked voice, “I’m so proud of her, of everything she’s accomplished. The women of my era opened the door a bit, and the women of today, like my daughter, have blown it off the hinges. I’m so,
so
proud. I wish her every success in the world.” Another murmured question, which she answered, her eyes glassy, “I just wish . . . I wish we saw more of each other. Oh, I understand what she’s up against, better than anyone. Yet . . . I do miss her. What can I say? I love my Rosemary.”

The interview moved on to another subject, but I didn’t hear a word after that. When my mother got teary, so did I. When her voice constricted, my throat closed up. Dimly, I was aware of Mason watching me.

“Faith?”

“Yeah,” I answered, my voice raspy.

“You okay?”

I nodded, looking down, and a couple of tears dropped onto the blanket he had tucked around me. I intended to say, “Fine,” but instead I heard myself blurt out, “Why doesn’t she ever say that to
me?
”

Then Mason was gathering me in his arms—not in a romantic way, but to comfort me. And I was happy to lean against him as I unsuccessfully fought back more tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I thought you should see that. I was wrong.”

I shook my head, my hair moving against his shoulder. I tipped my head all the way back until I was staring at the ceiling, trying to keep more tears from falling. They didn’t stop, of course. They just ran into my ears. “I’m glad you showed it to me. Really.”

“I’m finding that hard to believe at the moment.”

I laughed a little and swiped at my eyes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to freak you out.”

“You’re not freaking me out,” he whispered. “Except . . .”

I raised my head to look at him, pressing the heel of my hand to one eye, then the other. “What?”

“It’s just . . .”

“What?” I asked again, growing alarmed.

“. . .
Rosemary?
”

“Shut up.” But I was smiling through the last of my tears, as Mason pressed his lips to my forehead.

Chapter 18

I’d love to say that after that, Mason’s lips moved from my forehead to my mouth and (ahem) other places, and that we stayed up all night, showing that sofa a thing or two. But I’d have been lying. Instead, we sat there quietly for a while longer, Mason waiting patiently until my tears finally stopped. Then he told me to get some sleep. And I went to the guest room.

Alone.

Yeah, I was pretty pissed at that, myself. But it was what it was, and I tried to view myself as he saw me—a jobless, moneyless wreck with a messed-up relationship with my mother. Not exactly alluring, especially with that whole “recently having vomited a lot” thing going on. So when my eyes opened the next morning, I vowed to present myself as physically, mentally, and emotionally whole. Because in one night—okay, it had been creeping up gradually, but
officially
as of last night—Mason had become what I’d call a “person of interest.”

I hopped out of bed, feeling even better, physically, than yesterday. And mentally and emotionally? Far better than I had in a long time. Corny as it may have seemed, I had Mason to thank for that.

I opened the bedroom door a crack and called, “Mason?”

He came down the hall. “Good morning.”

“’Morning,” I smiled. “Mind if I take a shower?”

“You don’t have to ask, Faith.”

“Okay.”

“Towels are in the closet next to the bathroom; toiletries are in the cabinet. Help yourself. I put out a new toothbrush by the sink.”

“You always think of everything?”

He smiled. “Hardly. How does your stomach feel about waffles?”

“Seriously? Waffles? I could make do with a bowl of cereal.”

“You could. Or, you know, waffles.”

“That would be amazing. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

I intended to hurry with my shower, but first I felt compelled to snoop through the entire bathroom for evidence of a wife or a girlfriend. I wanted to find some frou-frou berry-scented shampoo or facial scrub—something, anything. But there was nothing. However, this must have been a guest bathroom, because there weren’t any of Mason’s personal things in here either, so my search didn’t prove anything.

But waffles were calling, so I cleaned myself up—but not too quickly, because I was enjoying getting the last of the funk off me. No wonder Mason only kissed my forehead last night. Why would he want to go any further with me in this state?

After my shower, I put Mason’s T-shirt and sweatpants back on. I decided to go commando. It would be my little secret. And maybe, if I played my cards right, Mason would be privy to my secret as well.

I shuffled into the kitchen to find him pulling out waffle batter ingredients. He had already made a pot of coffee, and he immediately put a mug on the counter in front of me. “Relax. I’ll get the waffles going.”

“No, let me,” I said as I helped myself to cream and sugar. “I owe you for the perfect grilled cheese last night.”

Taking a step back, he said, “Be my guest.”

“Okay, let’s see. Waffle iron . . . ?”

As Mason poured some coffee for himself, I opened up a cupboard. No waffle iron, but some lovely crystal dishes stared back at me. I checked another cupboard, this time under the counter. There was the waffle iron, next to a fancy mixer, crock pot, and blender. I pulled it out, plugged it in, then took a breath and spun around.

“Mason,” I said, and it came out more forcefully than I intended, “are you gay?”

He spluttered into his coffee. “What?”

“Are you gay? Or are you married, and your wife works in, I don’t know, Seattle or something, and only comes home once a month?”

“What . . .
why?
”

“Not that it matters or anything,” I rushed on, desperate to repair the damage of my outburst. “If you’re gay, I mean. It’s cool, whatever—”

“Faith. What are you talking about?” He wasn’t angry, but he was puzzled. And I didn’t blame him. This wasn’t coming out right at all.

I tried again. “It’s just that . . . I mean . . . okay, no straight single guy has
crystal
.” I yanked open the first cupboard I had checked for the waffle iron. “I mean, what is this—a pickle dish?
I
don’t even have a pickle dish. And you have a waffle iron? Come on—oh my God.” My words tumbled over themselves as I realized. “You
are
married. This is wedding swag.”

He paused and looked down at the counter. “Ah.”

It was the longest few seconds of my entire life. My stomach dropped and my heart seized up as I waited for the confession. If he wasn’t married, wouldn’t he deny it right away? Well, wouldn’t he? What was he waiting fo—

“Um, I
was
married. ‘Was’ being the operative word here.”

I let out a small breath. My heart started up again, albeit tentatively. My stomach climbed back into its proper position. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “I was married. Now I’m divorced. Happens to the best of us, doesn’t it?”

I ignored any implied jab about my mom’s multiple marriages. I was not about to be sidetracked at this point. “Okay, that’s the short version; now give me the long one.”

Mason settled himself sideways on one of the tall chairs at the island and took a sip of his coffee before he began. “Okay. We were married for three years. It wasn’t a good idea from the get-go, but I can only say that in hindsight. I think we knew at the time we weren’t right for each other, but we went ahead with the wedding anyway. Big ceremony, huge reception, all our friends and relatives. Hence all that ‘wedding swag’ there. I got the job at the college, she had a job at the Air Force base. We bought this house, set up housekeeping. The nice décor you mentioned last night? Her handiwork. We lasted for a while.”

“And then . . . ?”

“And then . . .” Another pause, as he chose his words carefully. “She fell in love with someone else—for real, not the ‘playing house’ stuff we were doing. Now she and her new man lead drum circles and tours of the petroglyphs in the desert outside Sedona. And they’re very happy. And I’m happy for them.” My skepticism must have been showing, because he added, “No, really. I mean it. Now . . .” Mason stood up and rounded the end of the counter to stand squarely in front of me. “My question for you is . . . why do you want to know?”

He was close. Really close. And staring at me like he did the night before, like he’d done so many times since we’d met. That peaceful, direct gaze that turned my knees to jelly every time.

I had to work hard to even make a sound. “Just . . .” was all I came up with, and then I fizzled out, my throat dry.

“Why, Faith?” It was more of a demand than a question.

“Um . . .” Gee, I was a font of wisdom this morning. Couldn’t shut me up.

“Why?” he demanded again.

But if he wanted to get something out of me, he was going to have to put those hands away. Those hands that had just reached up and cradled my cheeks, with those long fingers that crept into my hair at the back of my neck, with those thumbs that caressed my jawline, gently, but persistently. I couldn’t help it; I pressed my cheek against his left hand with a sigh and closed my eyes.

“Maybe,” I started slowly, “maybe I want to know if you’ve got an opening for something a little more intimate than just guest lecturer.”

There was a smile in his voice when he said, “Why? Would you like to apply for the job?”

I opened my eyes to stare back at him. “How are the benefits?”

“Really,” he murmured, coming much closer, “
really
great—”

I tipped my head back, bringing my lips to his, my heart pounding. This. This is what I wanted, what I needed . . . This. Him. Mason—of all people. He kissed me, gently at first, then deeper, then deeper still, and I gave in. To all of it. Suddenly everything was clear; this was the only thing that made sense. I clung to him as tightly as I could, my arms around him, his hands deep in my hair now, pulling me even closer. Nothing existed outside of us—nothing.

Mason stepped back, staring into my eyes once more, his breath ragged. “What happens now, Ms. Sinclair?”

“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell.”

He ducked his head toward me once again, nuzzling my ear just as a knock sounded on the front door.

“Expecting someone?” I breathed, as his lips made their way from my jawline down the length of my neck.

“Nope,” he murmured between kisses. Then, “Oh crap.”