Chapter 25
HARLOW
The Sunday morning golf routine remained a strong tradition in the Cookie and Anne Hayes household. Harlow lay in bed, listening to them bustle about.
“Have you seen my gloves, Anne?”
“In the closet, top drawer. Cook, Marge is on the phone, wants to know if we want to have lunch after.”
“Only if Wayne buys. That skinflint wormed his way out of the last five lunches.”
“You kept count?”
“Yes, I kept count. Anne, where are my shoes?”
Harlow snickered and realized something about home she’d forgotten. Mom and Dad’s morning chatter always felt like love to her.
However, after a week of being in her pink bedroom with the Rick Springfield poster, she knew Buckhead wasn’t where she belonged. Nor New York.
Sea Blue Beach was home.
She’d get back there once she got on her feet, dealt with Xander, and landed the CCW job. By then, Matt would be back in Hollywood.
Kicking off the covers and getting out of bed, Harlow slipped into her cut-off sweats and ratty T-shirt with a glance at her old homework desk. A fragrant and stunning bouquet of roses arrived Friday morning from Xander with a handwritten note.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I might be rich, but I’m so poor without you.
His corny little ditty dripped with his signature sincerity. He’d always been self-deprecating about his wealth, careful to realize his privilege came from the hard work of his ancestors.
To her relief, the stir from Matt’s faux pas on Letterman died down rather quickly. There were a few clips on entertainment news and stories in the tabloids but not much else. Mom wondered if Xander had something to do with it, but Harlow surmised even the heir of American aristocrats didn’t have that sort of clout.
He’d called Friday night, and they talked for an hour.
“People seem to accept Davina and I are over, and I’m still in love with you. Have you thought any more about us?”
“Not much, no. Now that Matt told the world my story, can you answer why you locked me out of the penthouse without a word, Xander? Why you wouldn’t take my calls? Why I learned you were back with Davina on Entertainment Tonight?”
“I told you, I don’t know that Xander Cole. But, darling, I’ll spend my life making it up to you. And you and I did talk eventually.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Harlow felt as if she channeled a bit of Tuesday’s courage. “You’re a forty-four-year-old man, Xander, in command of your own person. You treated me like an enemy.”
“Fair enough, fair enough. I’ve no excuse. But I’m all in, Harlow. I’ll do whatever it takes to win you back.”
When they hung up, she thought of Matt. His apology. His expression as she left the Starlight. So genuine and unassuming. For the first time since she met Xander, his sincerity didn’t seem as pure as she remembered.
Mom caught her daydreaming several times, and her Yoda-like senses suspected something amiss, worried something might topple her goal of seeing Harlow back on top of the modeling game.
Saturday morning, Harlow braved the scale. She was down ten pounds from the big green machine at Biggs. With Mom’s hovering, she knew she’d keep on track.
Saturday afternoon, she joined Dad for lunch at the cookie plant. They had an invigorating discussion about the business book he’d sent to her.
“With your name and reputation, you could start a business, build your own brand in cosmetics or fashion,” he said.
“So you’re telling me I have options.”
“You have options.”
“Harlow?” Mom came in as Harlow tied on her running shoes. “We’re off to the club. Do you want to come?”
“Mr. Fernsby banned me in 1975.”
“I don’t think that still stands.” Mom walked over to inspect the roses, and Dad leaned against the doorframe. “Fernsby would be groveling at your feet if you showed up.”
“Probably not.”
Her hook shot on the ninth hole a dozen years ago had sailed over the sand trap and landed smack-dab on the middle of Stu Willingham’s bald head. Of course he made a big stink and threatened to sue—who and for what no one knew—but the club acquiesced. Harlow was banned.
However, to this day, the shot was legend, and no matter how much Stu complained, it was part of club lore.
“Nonsense. You’re the Harlow Hayes.”
“Oh yes, my free pass in life. Mom, I’m sleeping in my teenage bedroom. Not the image most people have of the Harlow Hayes.”
“It’s a step up from sleeping on couches all over Manhattan.” Mom straightened the edge of Harlow’s covers.
“But not my own place in Sea Blue Beach.”
“You had to get away from that monster.”
“Matt?” Harlow laughed. “Outing me on national television isn’t much worse than what Xander did. The more I think about it, I’m grateful it’s out there. No more holding in that secret.”
“I still want to know why you never told me he locked you out. Why I had to learn about it on a late-night talk show.”
“Anne, let’s go.” Dad gently steered Mom out the door with a compassionate glance at Harlow. “We’re late.”
As her parents drove off in one direction, Harlow ran in the other, through the morning sun, sweating out her thoughts. Should she—could she—return to Xander? After seeing a darker side of his character, could she trust him?
She ran two miles in record time, then grabbed a glass of water from Mom’s gourmet kitchen.
She’d planned an egg white omelet with toast for breakfast, but being as she was alone, and knowing Dad kept a stash of Hayes Cookies in his desk, she wandered toward his office. How many times had she stared at that drawer, aching to open it but never gave in?
Dad’s office of wood and leather overlooked the trees and flower gardens of the backyard and the kidney-shaped pool. Papers, letters, and notes written on scrap paper littered his antique mahogany desk. She studied a drawing of a new cookie package with the ingredients written in a lovely script. Caramel, crushed almonds, chocolate swirls.
A brilliant businessman, Dad worked with eclectic organization.
The wall above the wainscoting was dark blue and mounted with the history of the Hayes Cookie Co., founded by her great-great-grandfather, along with a recipe, a dollar, and two bits. She leaned closer to the large black-and-white print of the first batch of Hayes Cookies. 1887.
“Same year the Starlight was built.”
The phone rang, and Harlow let the machine get it. Mom was probably calling to tell her what she could have for breakfast. Or it was Xander, who she didn’t want to talk to at the moment.
However, the machine didn’t pick up and on the sixth ring, Harlow answered.
“Hayes residence.” She flopped into Dad’s big comfy chair.
“Hey, it’s me.”
She fumbled forward, nearly spilling her water. “Matt.”
“I just want to say—”
“You don’t have to apologize again. You’re forgiven. I think it’s blown over, really.”
“I feel like I can’t stop apologizing. But we’re cool?”
“Yes, Matt, we’re cool. How are the signatures coming?”
“We’re getting there. I’m going on the Rollo on the Radio show again. Simon took flyers to the houses on the northwest side of town. A lot of those folks work in Fort Walton and are on the edge of Sea Blue Beach happenings. But we’re down to the wire. Last day is Thursday.”
“Well, good luck. Tell Tuesday I’m sorry I’m not there to help.”
“You’re where you’re supposed to be. How’s it going? Granny and Spike say hi,” he said. “Nora and Simon too. Well, everyone at the rink. Audra asked about you.”
Twelve years in the world fashion scene and no one had called her in the last two years. Jinx had only reached out once since she left Manhattan. “Tell everyone hi for me. I miss them.”
“I’m heading to LA for a week,” Matt said. “I’m up for a spy-thriller, and the producers finally settled with the Conner Reid ousting from the Cindy Canon movie. Roger Woods wants to start rehearsals. Not sure I’ll be able to make it back for the signature validation.”
“Try. Tuesday counts on you.”
“She told me to tell you to keep skating.”
“Is that a metaphor? It feels like a metaphor.” Harlow reached for one of Dad’s mechanical pencils and added her doodles to his desk calendar.
Milk chocolate instead of semi-sweet.
Harlow Hayes.
The Starlight.
Matt Knight.
Roller skating.
“Probably. She knew there was a skater in you.”
“When she asked me to skate with her, I couldn’t say no. Your granny is hard to resist.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve got a story about peas, Saturday morning cartoons, and Cap’n Crunch that’ll curl your hair.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got stories about Anne Hayes that will make your granny look like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy rolled into one.”
He was so easy to laugh with. Harlow yanked open Dad’s lower desk drawer to see his stash of Hayes Cookies. She dug out a handful.
“Hey, I should let you go,” Matt said. “It was good to talk to you.”
“Oh, okay. Well, thanks for calling,” she said, munching on a small round cookie, craving milk.
“I’ll call again, H. I lost one important relationship in my life. I don’t want to lose another.” Important? She was important to him?
“You didn’t lose me. I’m glad the world knows. The secret was weighing me down. I’m free of it now.” She popped another cookie in her mouth and washed it down with her water.
“Good luck, Harlow.”
“S-same to you, Matt. And hey, maybe Booker isn’t so mad at you anymore. If I forgave you, maybe he has too.”
Harlow settled the receiver on the cradle, wondering why she’d left Sea Blue Beach in such a huff. Maybe she should’ve stayed. Worked it out with Matt.
Yet, there was Xander and CCW and . . . She grabbed another handful of cookies and walked to the kitchen for a glass of milk. At the counter, she considered her omelet fixings while licking the cookie dust from her fingers.
Harlow Hayes. What would it take? Every time she made it on the weight-loss bandwagon, she ended up falling off.
Draining the last of the milk, she put her glass in the dishwasher and vowed to be on her guard the rest of the day. She returned to Dad’s office, cleaned the crumbs from his desk, and put the almost-empty box back in the drawer with an IOU.
On her way to shower, she detoured into Mom’s office. Dad’s door was always open but not Mom’s. It was her domain, a dark paneled cave with thick carpet, curtained windows, and in Harlow’s mind, secrets.
Mom’s desk, unlike Dad’s, was neat and organized, with her Day-Timer open to today’s date. Harlow flipped through her schedule of dinners and meetings. She had a note to call Jinx, with CCW update circled in red.
Mom, oh, Mom. She needed a life beside Harlow’s. The office had no personal or private photos of their family life. No family vacations. No Christmas mornings or Thanksgiving dinners. The frames on the credenza were of Harlow on the runway. Harlow’s first Vogue. Mom and Harlow during Fashion Week. Dad, Mom, and Harlow at the Talk to Me Sweetly premiere. A half dozen Harlow headshots from various photo shoots.
Mom, oh, Mom. A stranger would think she merely kept the stock photo that came with the frame. It all felt so cold. It reminded her of Xander’s office, also with very few personal photos.
He had two, actually. Both formal, shot by Princess Diana’s favorite photographer, Patrick Demarchelier. One from their engagement, which Harlow had loved. It was a stunning black-and-white taken at the family’s Montauk house. And the other at the Coles’ private island.
Harlow thought of her own house. Why hadn’t she set out pictures? Next time she went to 321 Sea Blue Way, she was going to take a lot of pictures, frame them, and fill the barren part of the wall going into the kitchen. She had a top-of-the-line Nikon upstairs in her bedroom.
Thinking of Sea Blue Beach made her smile. She’d framed a few mental pictures in the last few months. Tripping down the Beachwalk in a pair of brownies. Falling across the Starlight floor in Tuesday’s skates. Matt’s alluring, teasing smile—that’s his real crime, being so darn handsome—the morning he banged on her door at five a.m. to go for a jog.
She also felt a bit energized about her goals to undo the last two years, regain her reputation, and have a future with CCW. Also, Harlow Hayes needed money. After that, she could decide the rest of her life. Viewing options from on top of the world were far better than the ones at rock bottom.
She peeked in Mom’s cherrywood filing cabinet, which was full of meeting minutes, and travel agendas from Harlow’s early days in modeling. In the closet, she found a couple of sweaters and Mom’s UGA cheerleading outfit. Classic long skirt, saddle oxfords, and a sweater sporting a big G. On the top shelf was Dad’s old projector and tucked into the back corner was Grandma’s trunk. She’d never looked in the large leather thing before. She wasn’t even sure why Mom had kept it. She had very few mementoes from her impoverished childhood, least of all anything Grandma owned.
A red-and-cream-colored paper with pastoral scenes lined the inside. The top drawer held several dull brass medals on faded ribbons from Mom’s college days, a picture of Dad’s first day at Hayes Cookie Co., when he was, like, twelve, and a frame with his college diploma.
Harlow removed the drawer to find an old photo album she’d never seen before. When she dug it out, a musty, ephemeral odor floated into the closet. The album was thick with images of Anne Hayes, née Greensly, as the Miss Georgia first runner-up, 1955. Mom! Harlow knew this room had secrets.
What else was hidden in this treasure trove? Dad’s high school letterman sweater and a pair of very tired-looking leather roller skates. Beneath those things Harlow found Mom’s senior yearbook. 1953.
“You told me you lost this.” Harlow settled with her back against the wall and flipped it open. Mom was beautiful with her fifties hairstyle and fixed smile. The pages were loaded with signatures.
To Anne, the most beautiful girl in school. Good luck. Harvey. ’54.
Anne, will you marry me? Har! Fred Posey. ’56.
Anne, we had so much fun in Mrs. Wallace’s Home Ec. class but you’re going to be a star in New York. Remember me when you’re famous! Always, Lucy DeMarco. ’53.
Famous? Mom never wanted to be famous. She just wanted to marry “the Cookie Monster,” her nickname for Dad.
At the page titled 1953 Trojan Ambitions, Harlow scanned for Mom’s name. Anne Greensly, Anne Greensly.
I’m going to be a famous model and actress.
Harlow read the words over and over. Since when? Scouring through the yearbook, Harlow learned Mom had been homecoming queen and star of the high school play, Junior Miss.
She never! When Harlow adjusted the book to crawl out of the closet into a better light, a manila envelope fell out.
At Mom’s desk, she dumped the envelope’s contents. Eight-by-ten headshots of Mom, eight-by-tens of her walking down Madison Avenue with two very beautiful women. Harlow recognized both of them: Winnie Hart, now famous under her real name, Wilhelmina, and the gorgeous Sunny Harnett. The date on the white edge was May 1957.
The last picture was a snapshot in a quintessential midtown office with long windows overlooking the city. Mom stood by the corner of a desk, arms folded, her gaze fixed on a man talking to a statuesque beauty with artisan features.
Annis Miller, founder of the Icon Agency. This looked like some sort of meeting, not a photo shoot. Mom wore a suit and heels, her brownish-gold hair styled in a simple flip. Why was she so fixed on the man, the one who pointed to the papers in Annis’s hand? He looked familiar. Dashing smile, dashing jaunt in his stance, his hair in a dashing ducktail probably held in place with a good dash of tonic.
Whoever held the camera captured a private moment. Mom definitely had eyes only for him. Her expression was . . . love.
In that moment, the past and the present collided, and Harlow jumped up. The man. She knew him.
“Oh my gosh—”
“Harlow?” Mom dropped her clubs against the wall. “What in the world are you doing in here?”