Chapter 3
3
Poppy
Two years later . . .
“Orange or black?” I swap out the dress in front of my body. When Marina takes too long to decide, I swap them again. “Neither?”
Tapping her chin, she stares at the dresses. “I’m thinking.”
“Think much longer, and I’ll miss the luncheon.” Perking up at that idea, I add, “That might not be so bad.”
“Blue,” she says, resting her hands back on the bed. “Orange isn’t your color, and black feels too heavy for this time of year. It’s a wedding.”
I level my eyes on my best friend. “It’s my mom marrying my ex-boyfriend, Marina.”
She shrugs, sifting through the dresses on the bed next to her. Tugging an ice-blue dress from the pile, she holds it proudly. “Exactly, and blue’s your color.” While she goes on about how good it looks against my blond hair and the cut of the fabric, I get mesmerized by the shade.
I remember being instantly drawn to it when I saw it last year in the store. The dress is more traditional than I usually wear, with a rounded lace collar and looser fit. It was the color I loved. Still do.
“Why are you catering their wedding anyway? You can say no.”
“I don’t care about Trevor. She can have him.”
“But your mother—”
“I know,” I snap. “I don’t need the reminder.” Not all of us are as fortunate as she is to have doting parents, supportive brothers, a husband who adores her, and a baby and stepson who love her unconditionally. I take a breath to calm down. “I know you mean well. I just . . .” I sit in a chair near the window and stare as if the distant ocean view can compensate for the perpetual loss. “I just feel empty.”
She gets up and crosses the room. Kneeling beside me, she rests her hands on my leg. “You’re not alone, Poppy. Move back to the city. I’m there, Loch is there, even my mom visits all the time now that we have the baby. She considers you a daughter. And Cullen adores you. We’re your family. Let us be there for you.”
“You have Cash, and a career, and your sweet baby. I’m not going to crash into your perfect life.”
Standing, she pulls me to my feet. “I know it’s been difficult since the accident in Austin, but why do you stay in LA? It’s been two years, Pops. Come home.”
I take a deep breath, too in touch with my feelings these days. “I feel more myself out here than in New York City. I don’t know why. I just do. Maybe it’s the salty air and the spring breeze, seeing the Hollywood Hills while driving down the freeway, and living in the year-round sunshine. At night, I can see the stars—”
“Like your mysterious tattoo.”
I run my hand over my shorts, where the ink is engraved in my skin. “How can I remember everything but the weekend I got this tattoo?” A heavy sigh leaves my chest as I sit back down. “Why would I get a tattoo in Austin? We were there to watch Cash's race. That’s all. And why’d I pick a star with a yellow rose inside it? Who knows?”
“Still no memory? Nothing?”
I usually get too frustrated to dwell too long on my memory loss, but the questions still plague me. “That night is a blank space in my memories, the only thing I lost that weekend. None of it makes sense.”
She moves back to the bed and sits on the edge. “You were lucky—”
“I know. I know. I was lucky to have survived the wreck. I’m not ungrateful. I just wish I had answers for what happened that night.” I glance at the paper stuck to my mirror. Two years of staring at it. Two years of mystery wrapped up in three words and an initial.
I love you. L.
Someone cared enough about me to give me a love letter.
“Who is L?” I ask myself for the billionth time.
She looks over at the note. “I have no clue. The last text I got from you was when you went back to your hotel. Unless you were hiding some guy— ”
“Was I?”
Her hands secure themselves to her hips. “I know you weren’t dating anyone prior. You usually tell me everything.” I hear the question in her tone.
“I do tell you everything, Marina. I always have.”
“Well, you apparently left something out.” She’s smiling when she walks over to the note and taps the mirror next to the paper. “Have you thought about having it dusted for fingerprints?”
I crack up, but she doesn’t. “Okay, detective. You’re not on a Broadway stage right now. This is real life.”
“Sorry, sometimes I go method with my acting.” Moving back to the dresses, she flips through a few again before adding, “I think you’re right.”
“About?”
“Black, like the funeral this wedding is.” My best friend always has my back.
I hang the dress on a hook on the back of my bedroom door and walk into the living room. “How long are you in LA?”
She follows me from room to room. “It’s a quick trip for a studio visit.” She’s right. We’re like sisters, and her family is better than my own.
I spent so much time at her house growing up because my mom never seemed to miss me. I doubt she even knew I was gone half the time. My dad is the asshole who wanted a redo when he hit forty and left us both. Opening the fridge, I ask, “Wine?”
Sitting on a barstool, she laughs. “No wine. You need to face this moment. Look her straight in the eyes and—”
“And hide what I really think about them hooking up behind my back? ”
Scoffing, she waves her hand. “You didn’t even like Trevor. You’re the one who broke up with him, remember? Now, he’s her problem. If it were me, I’d be celebrating.”
“You’re right.” Flipping my hair over my shoulder, I hold my head high. “I’ll go to this lunch with her, holding my head high, and let them torture each other for the rest of their lives.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I couldn’t ask for a better friend. She always has my back . . . and apparently, matching haircuts these days as well. “Your hair is darker,” I say, handing her a glass of water. “I’d ask if you want still or sparkling, but I only have tap today.”
“Tap works,” she replies, swiveling and jumping off the stool. I notice she leaves the water behind, though. “It’s for the meeting. Makes my eye color pop.”
Light against dark is always an attractive combination. I take another look, but I'm not sure why it’s so familiar. I think this is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. “What role?”
“A Bond girl,” she replies as if that’s not an amazing opportunity.
“That’s incredible.” Tugging open the sliding glass door, I add, “One. I thought you were sticking with Broadway?”
We walk onto the patio and sit at the bistro table I have out there. “It’s been a few years since I did a movie. More than three.” She sighs, letting her thoughts get the better of her. We’re a lot like each other that way.
She’s the brunette to my blond, blue eyes to my hazel. She studied to be an actress, and I blew through culinary school, but some things never change—our friendship and always being there when the other needs us most. She’s also one of the few people in the world who can hold me accountable without my defenses going up .
My mother doesn’t have the same talent.
She asks, “And two?”
I glance over, and she’s more beautiful than ever. “Two. Happiness suits you, Mare.”
Her smile is prettier than mine ever was, but she’ll deny it. Reaching across the table, she covers my hand with hers. “Thank you. How are you really doing?”
“I’m ready to work. All this time off has made me want to get back to what I love to do. Cook. Be creative in the kitchen again. Though it’s funny because my chicken pesto is always the most requested dish.”
“It’s delicious and a classic. I’ll pay you to make it for me again.”
Cracking up, I sit there dabbling in my feels. Who needs blood relatives when you have family like Marina? “Your money is no good here. I’ll make it the next time you’re in town.”
“Or you’re in New York.” Eyeing me as if someone threw eggshells between us, she adds, “It wasn’t time off, Pops. You were recovering.” The memory of the accident appears to pain her. She was in Austin and became my life support in so many ways. “Learning to navigate a new normal. I’m glad to hear you’re excited about finding work again. Broken ribs and a leg—”
I wave my hand between us. “And my dominant wrist. The coma.” Moving to the railing, I look out at where the sun sets. It’s not even eleven in the morning, but night is my favorite time of day. Glancing over my shoulder, I add, “I don’t want to relive it. I’m ready to move forward. Scars and all. I’m ready to relaunch my personal chef business.”
“Any leads?”
“I’ve received a few bites from an agency and an email about a potential job out of town. Maybe that will work out. Free vacation. Sounds like an easy gig to get back into it. But I’ll also put out feelers in the next few days.”
“So is there a three?” Her laughter trickles through the air, making me smile.
Resting back on the railing to face her, I ask, “Three. Please go with me to this luncheon. I’m begging you.”
The applause subsides.
Everyone’s attention remains fully focused on my mother, who sits in a chair surrounded by a mountain of presents. It’s so over the top like her.
What can she possibly need at fifty-two years old with an inheritance to last two lifetimes? She still has the three sets of dishes from her wedding to my father and two family trees of traditional crystal and silver.
It was foolish of me to assume she flew to California to see me and to discuss the menu she wanted me to cater. I never expected a bridal shower.
She basks in the glow of her friends from both coasts and a few who flew in from Europe to attend this extravagance in Malibu.
I’ve come to accept my place in her life, not needing the affirmations I did growing up. Just as I hold my champagne glass in the air, my mom holds out her arms and makes grabby hands at me.
Naturally, I glance at her glass beside her to see if she’s drunk. Mimi Stanfield isn’t one for PDA unless it comes to Trevor or alcohol is involved. I believe she’s only on her second glass, so I’m confused by the sudden display of touchy feels aimed in my direction— Ah!
This isn’t for me but for her friends. Got it .
I set my napkin on the table and stand to play my role as the devoted daughter. Making my way to the front of the private dining room at Nobu, I go to her and open my arms to hug her. Though I have doubts, there’s an inkling of hope she’s being genuine.
“What are you doing?” She’s quick to brush away my offering before I make contact. “No. No, Poppy. Not you. It’s time for you to present your gift to me. The bride.”
I don’t miss the snide little dig at the end, her tone snapping when she thinks no one else can hear her.
“My gift?”
“Your wedding present for me and Trevor.”
My eyes widen, but somehow, I’m able to hold my mouth closed. I expect her to start laughing, but she doesn’t. Joke’s on me, though, as I stand there dumbfounded in front of everyone. She asks, “What did you get me?”
“Well,” I start, leaning closer, “some people consider their children a gift.” I smile, hoping I suffice for once in my life.
“Not me,” she corrects with a fake smile plastered on her lips.
“Nope, not you.” That’s my cue. I turn around and head for the exit with only a quick detour to grab my purse from the table. What did I expect? She’s never going to change.
I open the door, ready to slip out, but hearing her call my name stops me. Am I being petty? A bad daughter?
“Poppy?” she calls once more, feigning pain as if I’ve wounded her. Maybe her ego but she never had a heart.
I hate myself for doing this, but I give her one last chance. Standing in the doorway, I turn back, ready to be the bigger person and support my mom when it comes to something important to her. “Yes?”
“Email me the menu tonight by eight o’clock. ”
With every pair of eyes in the room swinging from her to me, I realize my mistake was trusting her in the first place.
I slip into the main restaurant, ready to make a quick getaway, but duck when a server walks by with a tray full of plates. “Sorry,” I say to his back as he rushes away.
When I turn to leave, I run right into a heavenly-scented, soft cotton-covered wall of hard muscle. My hands fly up and fist the T-shirt just as I’m caught by the elbows before I bounce off. “Oh God,” I squeal, mortified.
Before I have a chance to properly apologize and meet my savior, my ankle wobbles. “Oops,” I yell, catching myself by grabbing him around the middle and holding on. Good lord, this man is built like the statue of David .
“You’re safe.” The soothing tones of his deep voice wrap around me like a snuggly sweater. My eyes close, and I sigh contentedly, happy I didn’t fall for him . . . I mean, off him. “I think it’s safe to let go.”
His honeyed tone has me savoring every second. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man— Oh my God! I remove myself from his incredibly delicious body and visor my face in horror as I hurry away, hoping I don’t make more of a scene than I already have. “Sorry,” I shout.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to—”
“Sorry. So sorry about that.” The hostess opens the door for me. I look back quickly, my eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments before the door closes. I hand my ticket to the valet and walk to the corner, wanting to be nowhere near the restaurant. If I could wait down on the beach, I would.
Pulling my phone from my purse, I call my best friend, needing her to talk me down from this ledge of humiliation.
“Hello? ”
I begin to pace, holding my hand to my forehead. “I’m so embarrassed, Marina.”
“Oh God, what happened?” I appreciate the perfect pitch of panic in her tone.
“I was clinging to him.” Raising my voice, I say, “Clinging,” as if she didn’t hear me the first time.
“Um, I’m going to need you to back up and tell me the full story. Don’t leave out any details. Who were you clinging to?”
“The most perfect man I’ve ever . . . Well,” I start but stop, my shoulders dropping. “I didn’t get a good look at him, though I got a brief one, and he was gorgeous, but I got a great whiff.”
“Poppy, tell me you didn’t smell him.”
“Okay, when you say it like that.”
My car pulls up to the curb. I tip the valet and hop in, locking the doors as if I can keep the mortification out. I can’t. When I check my appearance in the rearview mirror, I look like I have a bad sunburn.
Marina asks, “Is there another way to say it?”
“Oh God.” This is torture. I pull away from the building as fast as I can without breaking the law, knowing I’ll never be able to return to one of my favorite restaurants. “What have I done?”
“You did nothing wrong, Pops. Don’t worry about it.” She can’t hide her laughter on the other end of the call. “Inquiring minds want to know, though. What did he smell like?”
“Sin, Marina. He smelled like the best sex of my life.” Ugh. I miss being touched and desired, craved to the point of losing myself in someone else. “Happy?”
“Yes,” she replies so smug since she’s not the one who disgraced herself in front of the man of her dreams. She’s also married, so she won’t get it. “I need to hang up now so I can die on the inside from complete and utter embarrassment.”
“No need to die, but that might mean you’re ready to date again.”
“What’s the point when I just blew it with the most perfect man I’ve ever me—smelled?”