Life is Sweet (17 page)

By “the rest of us,” Becca assumed Pam was referring to herself. “Please don't say anything about test drives. I might throw up.”

“Cal was infatuated with you, and you just sort of went along like it was your due. You were the TV star. What chance did the rest of us have?”

Becca leaned against the butcher-block table. Good thing Walt had fixed it, because she needed the support. Her legs noodled under her. She couldn't believe she was hearing this from Pam. Her friend. Pam was aware of all her insecurities—she certainly knew, or should have known, that the very last thing Becca felt like was some kind of privileged celebrity. That had been the whole point in moving here. It was her chance to start over.

“You make it sound as if I swanned in and ruined everyone's lives.”

“Not ruined them, exactly,” Pam said. “And maybe not permanently. At least Cal and I are together now.”

Becca shifted mental gears to make the adjustment required to see Pam and Cal as anything more than buddies. It wasn't that hard, actually. “I swear to you, Pam. I thought you two were just friends.”

“We were. And I know we've always argued—since forever—but there's also always been something more.”

It seemed so obvious now. Pam and Cal had known each other for years, and it was an open secret that they cared for each other deeply despite all the sniping whenever they were within shouting distance of one another. They were the Beatrice and Benedick of Leesburg, and she'd bumbled into their lives and inadvertently busted them up. In Pam's place, she would have been furious. Yet never in all these years here had she felt resentment from Pam over what had happened with Cal. Becca thought back to the marriage chapel in Vegas, where Pam had been witness at the little ceremony. Her reaction—the silence, the weeping, the nausea—made perfect sense now. It must have been one of the hardest nights of her life.

“Why didn't you ever say anything?” Becca asked.

“What could I have said?”

Good question. Becca's head spun. “But this thing you have with Cal now . . .”

“It's not a
thing,
” Pam said. “It's a relationship.”

Becca had to tread carefully, but she didn't want to completely renounce her friendship right to urge caution. “Pam, Cal's sort of in a weird place, I think.”

Too late, she realized it was the wrong thing to say.

“I didn't come here for advice,” Pam announced in a clipped voice. “I came to give notice.”

Becca blinked in confusion. “You're officially ending our friendship?”

“Notice that I can't work at the shop anymore,” she explained. “The real estate market's picking up again, and I got a contract to represent a new condo development. And now I'd really like to spend more of my free time with Cal. I just won't have time for a second job anymore.”

Becca swallowed. “Of course. I understand.”

Pam's lips twisted. “Also, I know you'll call me a snob, but Walt makes me uncomfortable. I suspect the guy's been napping in the storage room. It smells like Irish Spring and old socks back there.”

She was more observant than Becca had given her credit for. She'd been blind to a lot of things about Pam, evidently.

“I'll still fulfill my obligations for the next two weeks.” Pam lifted her chin. “Except at some point I'll have to go to Richmond. For reals. Mom insists on seeing me so she'll know that there's not some maniac holding a gun to my head.”

Becca mumbled more apologies—she suspected she should just issue a blanket apology to everyone for the past three years. Maybe nothing had been as idyllic as she thought.

She walked Pam to the door and flipped the shop's sign to Closed. She didn't care if it wasn't technically closing time yet. She was in no mental state to deal with the public. Really, she just wanted to go upstairs, eat leftover strawberry cake, and watch more weepy movies. She was ready for a tearjerker movie blub-berfest.

The phone ringing on the counter made her jump out of her skin. She hurried to answer it, ready to bark, “Sorry, we're closed.” The caller wasn't a customer, though.

“Rebecca?” a bright voice asked. “This is Renee Jablonsky.”

“Who?”

“From
Celebrities in Peril—Child Star Edition
?”

Becca groaned, but her sound of dread didn't register with Renee Jablonsky. She suspected nothing would, short of a grand piano falling on the woman's head.

“I have terrific news! We've definitely snagged a Partridge, and we
just might
have a Brady on board.”

“A what?”

“One of the children from
The Brady Bunch
is in negotiations to do the show. Because we haven't reached the contractual stage, I can't divulge names just yet, but I thought that might sway your decision.”

“I don't really see how this pertains to me,” Becca said.

“Well, I know that in our first conversation, you expressed concerns.”

“No, I said I didn't want to do it.”

“But that was before we had any talent lined up. I was just putting out feelers.”

“Consider me felt, then. Also, not interested.”

“Before you make a decision, you might want to know that we have a location scout in beautiful Alaska as we speak.”

“Alaska?”

“Snowed-in cabin,” the woman explained eagerly. “No sharks to worry about. And my executive producer informs me that the grizzlies are all in hibernation at the time of year we'll be filming.”

“So it's just starvation and hypothermia we'd have to worry about, then.”

“Exactly!” the woman chirped.

“Don't be shocked, but I'm still not interested.”

“Okay, but I was saving the best for last. We just got a call from Abby Wooten's agent, too. Abby is in!”

Was she kidding? If the idea of six weeks in freezing Alaska wasn't bad enough, the prospect of spending any time in the wilderness with Abby was enough to send Becca's blood into sub-zero territory. Just the name Abby Wooten pressed all the wrong buttons today. Her friendship with Pam was suddenly shaky, and now here was the ghost of her old frenemy, taunting her.

“No,” she said. “Definitely no.”

“Maybe I should talk to your agent,” Renee suggested. “Who represents you?”

“No one. I'm not in show business.”

The woman laughed. “Okay. I'll be sure to keep you apprised of developments.”

Becca hung up and banged the phone down on the counter. What was wrong with people?

She plastic-wrapped the icing in the mixer so it wouldn't crust over, and stuck everything in the fridge. She'd have to come down and finish the cupcakes after dinner. Right now, she was starving. She ducked into the storage room and turned off the light.

Pam was right. It did smell like Irish Spring and old socks.

Her lips curved down. What had happened to Walt? He'd gone upstairs for a shave and a sandwich and then disappeared. And just when he was starting to seem more reliable.

She grabbed her stuff and headed up to her apartment, mulling over her employee situation. With Pam gone, she was going to be back on her own again. Having Walt around might come in handy. Of course, that wasn't a long-term solution.

She reached the top of the stairs and called out a hello to Walt. She didn't want to stumble upon him if he'd left the bathroom door open or something like that. But he wasn't in the kitchen, or anywhere she could see.

She headed back to her bedroom and tossed her purse and keys on the bed. Too late, she realized she was tossing them straight at Walt, who was lying across the mattress on this back, his legs dangling off one side. The keys smacked him right against his ear, but he didn't move. Not a muscle.

Chapter 13

Taking advantage of a house without television, Matthew got busy finishing up a work project he'd only made dabbling progress on during the past week. For too long, his concerns had centered on party favors and place settings, permission forms, and whether Becca was going to call. Now it was all behind him, and he was glad. Even if, in the end, the party couldn't have been declared a rousing success, at least those distractions were out of his life. Mostly.

Through no fault of her own, Becca remained a distraction. She couldn't know how many times per day he was tempted to dial her number and shoot the breeze—to let her know how Olivia was, or to talk over an irritating thing that had happened with work, or just to hear her husky laugh. If she knew how much he thought of her, she would have been horrified. He wasn't too pleased about it himself.

As mortifying as it had been to have Olivia ask him point-blank if he and Becca were involved, it was even worse to remember how emphatically he'd responded in the negative. Technically, it wasn't a lie, but to his own ears, in his own gut, the denial hadn't rung true. He liked Becca. If he were free . . .

But he wasn't free. Until a few weeks ago, he would have recoiled at the idea that he would look at anyone else. Part of him recoiled now. He wasn't a philanderer.

Olivia puttered into the kitchen, where he'd set up his computer on the table. He'd tried to use Nicole's home office, but he could never get over the feeling that he was trespassing there. She opened the fridge, leaving the door gaping while she weighed her beverage options.

“Didn't you just get a soda?” he asked.

“Am I being rationed on those, too, now?”

Her long-suffering tone might have worked on a less knowing listener. “No, but it's pretty late,” he said. “I don't think it's a good thing to get sugared and caffeinated up before bedtime.”

“Have you heard from Mom?” She grabbed a bottle of juice and then pulled a glass out of the cabinet.

“Not since the e-mail Sunday night.”

“And you told her what happened at the party? All except the part I asked you not to mention?”

He'd clarified this several times already. “Yes.”

“And she e-mailed back to say . . . ?”

“That she was surprised and dismayed. And that I'd done the right thing.”

Actually, Nicole had written
“I never liked that Monica kid, or her crazy mother,”
but Olivia didn't need to hear that. Difficult enough to keep her chastened as it was.

The trouble was, Nicole hadn't written Olivia since the incident, or called. The silence seemed odd to Matthew, and it had a very unsettling effect on Olivia. Her nerves were clearly jangling in anticipation of being chewed out by her mother for her rudeness. “I wish she'd just call and yell at me and get it over with,” she muttered. “Are you sure you told her the part about having to reimburse the Minters for the cost of Monica's jacket?”

His lips quirked up. “Next time your mom and I exchange e-mails, I'll cc you.”

“That's okay. I'll take your word for it.” She wandered back to her room. They would probably go through the same question-and-answer session several more times until Nicole called again.

He concentrated on the numbers on his computer screen. Or tried to.

When
was
Nicole going to call?

He powered down his computer, stood, and headed to his room. He changed into pajama pants and a T-shirt and went to brush his teeth. A soft rocking
thump
coming through the wall let him know that Olivia was still up, ostensibly doing homework but probably brooding. When he turned off the tap, another noise put his nerves on high alert. It sounded like the front door.

His first thought was that Olivia was going out—but why would she do that? Unless she'd decided to run away or something crazy. But she wasn't
that
upset about having her television privileges taken away. He hurried out, slinking through the hallway toward the front entrance like a commando. An unarmed commando.

Someone was coming in. He heard the door's security chain being latched.

He frowned. Why would a burglar latch the door
after
breaking in?

He rounded the corner and was met by a startled gasp. He choked in surprise.

Nicole sank against the back of a wingback chair. “My God, you scared me half to death.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

A brittle laugh escaped her. “Coming home?”

Of course. He relaxed his home-defense stance. “But when did you get in? Why didn't you tell us? You didn't call, or message me.”

“I know I should have, but I got a last-minute flight with practically no layover. And I felt so exhausted. We always meant to finish around this time, but the whole situation just . . . well, it sort of blew up.”

“The project?”

She closed her eyes. “Do you mind if I just don't talk about it right now?”

She looked stressed. After a flight all the way from Hawaii, who could blame her?

“I just wish I'd known you were coming in,” he said. “Olivia and I could have picked you up at the airport.”

Nicole waved away the idea. “I took a cab back. The company pays for it.”

“Right.”

He was trying to think of something to say when Olivia charged into the room. Her eyes widened in amazement. “Mom!” She launched herself at her mother, nearly knocking her over before wrapping herself around her in a huge hug. “You're back!”

Nicole laughed patiently. “Yes, I am.”

“For how long?” Olivia asked.

“For a long time, I hope.”

Not wanting to trespass on their reunion, Matthew grabbed the handle of Nicole's suitcase, which was approximately the size of Ohio, and started to take it to the bedroom. Lucky it had wheels or it might have thrown his back into spasm.

“You might just as well roll that into the laundry room,” Nicole called after him. “All the stuff in there needs washing or sending to the dry cleaners. I'll sort it out tomorrow.”

He dutifully changed direction, and it occurred to him that, unlike Olivia,
his
first instinct hadn't been to run over to Nicole and hug her. They hadn't even exchanged their usual hello peck. Everything about Nicole's sudden arrival seemed ominous.

Back in the living room, Olivia was still strung so tight she was practically twanging with excitement. “Did you bring me any souvenirs?”

Nicole planted her hands on her hips. “What are you talking about? You just had your birthday—and botched it up in a big way, if my sources are correct.” She telegraphed a wry smile in Matthew's direction.

Olivia sighed. “I know. I'm
really
sorry. I wrote the Minters a long letter telling them and mailed it off this morning. Do you want to see a copy? I saved the rough draft on my computer, even though Matthew told me I had to write it out in my own handwriting, on real stationery.”

“Very Emily Post of him,” Nicole said.

Matthew smiled even as disappointment rippled through him. He'd tried hard to convince Olivia to take this groveling seriously, and now Nicole seemed to be making light of the entire situation.

“Anyway,” Olivia went on, “souvenirs aren't the same thing as birthday presents. You always bring me souvenirs when you go someplace new. It's like what we learned in school about animal groupings. Souvenirs and birthday presents are, like, different species. Like elephants and zebras.”

Nicole relented. “Okay—brownie points for the science connection. You convinced me. Go to the laundry room and open my suitcase. Any bag that you see that looks like it has a grass skirt in it might be for you.”

Olivia executed a joyous fist pump and tore out of the room.

When she had disappeared from view, Nicole narrowed her eyes at Matthew. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” Belatedly, he went to her and brushed his lips against her cheek. “Am I glad to see you. Since the birthday party, Olivia's been treating me like I'm a prison camp commandant.”

She chuckled, stepped out of her shoes and his embrace, and headed for the kitchen. “You can't make too much of dust-ups like this. Kids need to sort things out for themselves.”

“I think so, too, usually, but this was pretty exceptional. She attacked someone—and it was caught on film. I had to watch it five times, twice in slow motion. Talk about excruciating.”

Nicole frowned into the fridge, reminding him of Olivia half an hour earlier. “Where's the low-sugar cranberry juice?”

“There isn't any.” Her crestfallen expression over the lack of juice irked him for some reason. “You're the only one who drinks it, and you haven't been around.” If he'd had some warning . . .

She grabbed a diet soda, elbowed the door closed, and collapsed into a chair at the breakfast table.

A
whoop
of happiness floated down the hall as Olivia hit souvenir pay dirt.

“I was just trying to make her see that what she did was wrong,” he said.

Nicole popped open her can. “Tossing a drink on a friend? I'm pretty sure she knew that was a major screwup. She apologized, didn't she?”

“Yeah . . .”

“Then why make a federal case of it?”

The question brought him up short. Had he overreacted? Maybe being the substitute parent had made him too strict. Although he'd assumed that Nicole would be on the same page. Olivia herself had been trembling at the idea of her mom's reaction.

Now Nicole was home, looking as if she couldn't have cared less about the party, and Olivia was in the doorway with a grass skirt over her jeans, tunelessly strumming a ukulele. “How do I look?”

“Great,” they answered at once.

Olivia's smile faded and her glance flicked anxiously between them. “You were talking about me, weren't you?”

“We're done,” Nicole said.

Olivia didn't look convinced. “Am I going to get punished more?”

Nicole laughed. “I think you can put away your hair shirt for the time being.”

“What does that mean? Do I still not get to watch television for two months?”

Nicole cast a surprised look at Matthew, then turned back to her daughter. “You should get ready for bed. And please wait until tomorrow to start your career as the next Don Ho. I desperately need some z's tonight.”

“Okay.” Olivia rushed forward and hugged her again. “Good night, Mom. Thanks for my souvenirs.”

“You're welcome. 'Night, O.”

When Olivia was out of earshot, she gaped at Matthew. “Two months! You really are a hard-ass.”

“If you had been there, you would have—”

“It was a birthday party, Matthew. These kids go to birthday parties all the time, and there's always drama. If I tried to get involved in every little dispute, I'd go insane. I have enough on my plate without worrying about Olivia's stuff.”

She did look stressed out, which made him try to overlook the lecture. And the fact that she'd cut him off. And all the other indications that she didn't seem happy to see him.

“What happened in Hawaii?” he asked.

She peered at her soda can. “It's such a mess.”

She obviously didn't want to talk about it, a sentiment he understood. Some days it was a relief to discuss messed-up work stuff, but other times talking about it seemed almost as irritating as living it all over again.

Though he'd agreed not to, he couldn't help asking, “Is it the project?”

“No—the project's fine. Or as fine as it can be at this stage. You know how it is. One step forward, two steps back. The usual insanity. But now there are all these personality conflicts. It's so good to be back.” She let out a long sigh that had a hint of defiance in it. “I'm going to take the rest of the week off. Enjoy my life for once. Cook dinners and relax. You don't know what a strain it's been living out of hotels.”

“I can imagine.”

He worried about her. Nicole usually weathered work issues by steaming right ahead, single-minded. She wasn't one to let personal conflicts make her lose focus. They certainly never frazzled her to the point that she would take impromptu personal time off.

Olivia reappeared in the doorway, tapping the ends of her fingertips together in tension. “I just remembered that Career Day's tomorrow.”

“Oh right.” Nicole leaned back. “I forgot all about that. But it's no problem—I was just telling Matthew that I'm taking the rest of the week off, so I'm all yours. Just tell me what time to be there.”

Olivia's gaze pleaded with Matthew for help.

He took a deep breath. “Becca's got it covered.”

Nicole's brows arched. “The cake lady? I thought we agreed that you'd sub for me.”

“Right,” Olivia said, “but Matthew's job is so dull, so then I asked Becca if she'd come to the school instead and she said she would.”

“Well.” Nicole smiled. “Now she doesn't have to.”

The assurance didn't calm Olivia. “Should I e-mail Becca and tell her not to come?”

“That would be a good idea,” Nicole said. “Or better yet, I'll give her a call or an e-mail in the morning. Don't sweat it.” She glanced at Matthew. “I'm not sure having women coming into the schools telling kids they can fritter away their lives making cupcakes is the greatest message anyway.”

“She runs a business,” he pointed out.