I can’t stop thinking about her.
You tell me—is that love?
I wish I could know for sure.
Getting out of my car, I’m wearing a smirk that I’m certain can’t be erased, and I know if I asked Cam about it, he’d say you know it when you know it.
And fuck, I guess he would be right.
I do know it.
Saying it, though, is terrifying. I might have said it to my old man, and possibly my brother, and maybe even Cam. Yeah, they’re all men. Never have I said those words to a woman. Not that I can remember, although I’m sure when I was younger, I said them to my mother because back then, I did love her. She was funny and made me laugh. I think that is what I loved about her. That faded, though, as she got busier and I grew older.
Slow and steady are my strides, but way too fast that smirk on my face is gone. With each step I find my nerves resurfacing. I take a deep breath. Fuck, I wipe my palms on my pants and try to calm myself down. She’s my mother, not the queen.
Way too soon I find myself turning the corner and I spot her immediately. She’s standing outside the restaurant, smoking one of those vapor-like cigarettes. It’s blue, a change from the Virginia Slims Menthols she’s smoked ever since I can remember. A habit my little brother picked up years ago, but strangely I just realize I haven’t seen him smoke since arriving in California.
My chest tightens as I try to move forward, and I have to curl my hands into fists as an unsolicited anger threatens to make an appearance.
Enough!
At my age, the disappointment is long over. All the basketball games I waited for her to show up for. To surprise me, even though she told my father she wouldn’t be flying in after all. All the times I sat by the phone on holidays and birthdays, hoping she’d call. Those days are all long gone.
Time to get this over with.
Still unable to move, I watch while her gaze wanders as if looking for me, but she doesn’t notice me across the street. Curious, I study her behavior. It’s as if she’s not certain I’m going to show up. Then again, she didn’t have her personal assistant call to confirm. Without looking too much harder, she extinguishes her tip and drops the rod into her Gucci bag and heads into the restaurant.
Emma Fairchild is a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, and well groomed. Her hair is always the perfect shade of blond. Her nails are never chipped. And her clothes are always meticulous. Today is no different.
Broadway star turned actress turned Hollywood mogul, she has made a name for herself, that’s for sure.
Mother, though, isn’t one she wears with the same pride as the one in lights, nor is wife for that matter. Married twice, divorced twice. Two kids. And endless credits to her name.
Celeb chef Wolfgang Puck’s trendy Beverly Hills restaurant is not where I would have picked to meet after more than two years of not seeing her, but according to Brooklyn, Spago is her favorite place, so I suggested it when I called her yesterday to get on her schedule for dinner.
Actually, she made time for me quicker than I had anticipated. Perhaps because I didn’t have to go through her personal assistant, or perhaps she has more free time these days—who knows, and who cares.
The restaurant is decked out in white. White walls, white linens, off-white floors. The only color comes from the black chairs.
Emma is sitting in a private area near one of the fireplaces and appears to be sipping water with lemon in it. So unlike her to not have a drink in front of her at this hour. She’s always been an early-hour cocktail queen. Normally, happy hour starts at four and ends well past seven.
“Keen.” My mother’s voice, as always, twists my mouth. “You made it,” she says, standing from her seat and holding out her arms.
Never much on hugging, I cautiously step into her embrace and tentatively greet her, but she doesn’t let go of me. Her arms are around me and she’s holding onto me tight. “Mom.” I manage pulling away because I feel a little suffocated.
She steps back and smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “How are you?”
“I’m actually doing pretty well.” I circle around to hold her chair while she sits.
She looks over her shoulder at me. “I am so glad to hear it, Keen.”
And there’s sincerity in her voice that I have to say I don’t recall. My whole life I’ve felt like an inconvenience to her. An appointment she didn’t really want to fit into her schedule, but somehow knew she dutifully should. A child she birthed and left in New York as she followed her dreams to California.
Taking my own seat, I look across the table at her. “What about you? How are you?”
Pressing her napkin to her lap, she raises her blue eyes. The one very noticeable commonality between her, Brooklyn, and me. “I am . . . very happy to see you.”