The only problem? I have nowhere to go. No place I need to be today and no one I want to try to explain this mess to, anyway. I’ve been so careful not to talk to anyone through the years, not to show any chinks in Veronica Romero’s armor. I know some stars get professional help, but that was never an option for me. Not when it meant tarnishing my father’s legacy and my mother’s reputation. Not when talking to someone risked exposing what had happened so long ago to the world.
Oh, the shrink I chose probably wouldn’t talk—patient-doctor confidentiality and all that. But the psychologist wasn’t the only one with access to his records. Office staff, transcribers, god only knew who else might get their hands on my records. And how much they would make if they sold them to the tabloids. More than enough to compensate for whatever job they might lose by doing so.
I drive around for a while, but L.A. traffic is enough to make you nuts even when you don’t have somewhere to be. I don’t have my purse, so stopping at a restaurant isn’t an option—even if I wasn’t still in my nightgown—and eventually I find myself pulling into the driveway of the house most of the world thinks I live in.
I’ve got clothes here, some money. There’s probably even food left over from last night’s party. I won’t have to leave until I want to.
Because I’m not completely insensitive, before I get out of the car, I fire off a text to Ian letting him know that I’m going to be out of communication for the rest of the day. The fact that he doesn’t answer—and that I haven’t gotten a text from him yet this morning, tells me he’s probably still asleep.
Or so freaked out by everything I told him last night that he decided good riddance…
I don’t really believe that—he’s not the type—but I wouldn’t blame him if he decided that was the case. God knows, right now I’m far too much trouble for myself. I can only imagine what this whole mess looks like from where he’s sitting.
I let myself into the house, making sure to close the door as quietly as possible behind me. The alarm system beeps and I’m on it in seconds, punching in the code before the beeping can wake my mother. She’s a late sleeper, so I’m hoping she’s still in bed. If my luck holds, I can sneak into the Picasso room and hole up in there before she even knows I’m here.
But I barely make it out of the foyer before she finds me. She’s in a silk robe the same color as her eyes, her long blond hair curling gently around her shoulders. She looks every inch the aging but still beautiful starlet. Of course she does. Appearances are important, after all…
For a moment—just a moment—white-hot rage fills me. I want to scream in her face, want to shake her until she understands what she did to me. What she did to all three of us, simply because she didn’t want anything to mar her perfect Hollywood image.
But what would be the point? It’s not like doing so will change her. It won’t change her or me and it sure as hell won’t change the past. So what’s the use?
—
“Oh, Veronica, you got here just in time! I made breakfast for us. Why don’t you come in and sit down?”
Breakfast? She wants to feed me breakfast? My stomach rolls at the thought of any kind of food right now. “No, thanks, Mom. I’m not very hungry.”
“But you have to eat something,” she tells me, her lips puckered up in the same pout that made her famous all those years ago. “It’s my birthday.” She looks me over and for the first time seems to notice what I’m wearing. “Oh, sweetie, aren’t you just the most darling thing! You were so anxious to get here to celebrate with me that you didn’t even bother to change out of your nightclothes. Did you oversleep? I have to admit, I wondered what was taking you so long.”
Oh, shit. Today’s her actual birthday. Every year since my dad died we’ve spent the morning together. Usually I’m the one who makes breakfast for her, but it’s nearly eleven. She must have gotten tired of waiting for me. How could I have forgotten?
“I’m sorry, Mom. I did oversleep. Still recovering from the party, I guess. It was so much fun, but it totally drained me.” I force a little grin. “Plus I think I drank too much. I had a headache most of yesterday.”
She laughs then, a tinkling little sound that grates along my nerve endings. “No wonder you overslept. But that’s the mark of a good party, so you won’t hear any complaints from me about it!”
She puts an arm around my waist and guides me toward the kitchen like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Like she doesn’t notice that I’m drained and fragile and so, so sad.
Then again, in her defense, maybe she doesn’t notice. My mother isn’t exactly known for her great observation skills—especially when it comes to other people’s feelings.