Chapter 13 Pink is out and sauce colors are in.
Pink is out and sauce colors are in.
Josie
I LIFT AN eighteen-month-sized brown corduroy skirt romper over a golden-yellow onesie from the mountain of baby clothes on the guest bed. The color combination is hideous.
“Híjole,” I cry. “Someone must think you’re a terrible mother to gift you this. Why would someone ever put this on their child?”
From across the bed, Emmy gives me a stricken look. “I bought that!”
“Why? Because pink is out and sauce colors are in?”
“You’re out of touch. These days, it’s gentle parenting and non-gender-specific colors.”
“There’s nothing gentle about this outfit. It’s a barrage of meatballs and mustard.” I fold it and put it in its appropriate pile. “Hopefully, the baby will be a boy so he won’t have to wear that.”
Emmy folds another tiny outfit on her big belly. “Jason is hoping for a girl.”
“No second opinions on the ultrasound pics?”
She massages her bump. “Nope. And since we opted out of genetic testing, we’ll have to wait until the next ultrasound.”
I hold up an adorable yellow sleeper with navy blue stripes and am surprised by a stab of longing. “If I had a baby, I’d only dress it in stripes. Babies look so cute in stripes.”
“I would love your striped baby,” Emmy says without missing a beat. “You could even name it Stripe.”
“Stripe Days. Wow, that sounds like a band.”
“Or would it be Stripe O’Sullivan?” she teases.
“Really?” I drop the outfit into its appropriate pile. “What are you, twelve?” I don’t tell her that the chances of there ever being a Stripe Anything are close to nil. I can’t imagine having a baby with someone when I can’t even tell them my real name.
“Sean and Josie, sittin’ in a closet,” Emmy sings. “K-I-S-S-I-N…” She thinks hard for a rhyme. “Sausage!”
“Not even close.” I chuckle. Then the ghost of kisses past ripples through me. “Actually, it came closer to sausage than I expected,” I admit.
“‘Closer to Sausage.’ Isn’t that an Indigo Girls song?”
“Ha ha, not even going there, but that’s a good one.”
In the living room, peals of laughter ring out as Jason, Peyton, and Mattie play on the VR.
It’s such a happy sound. So comfortable.
Moving out here wasn’t the easiest decision, but I don’t regret it.
Emmy’s trailer is nicer than mine, and we found the perfect spot for it on their property until I can save up enough money to afford my own place.
My trailer sold for just enough to fund my semi-new start in California.
They’ve even loaned me a car to drive—a white MINI Cooper that will eventually go to Peyton when she gets her license but for now, helps me avoid a car payment and insurance.
Yes, being out here in LA is risky, but Emmy and Peyton are everything to me. I know I’m not officially family, but this is as close as I’m going to get. I just have to not blow it all up.
That means no more fantasizing about Sean O’Sullivan’s mouth and all of its lucky charms. I need to make a plan.
Letting Hugo Valencia catch us in the closet was a big setback.
He’s seen my face. He’s heard me speak Spanish.
He knows I spent time in Mexico City, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still got that crime board of Chuy’s disappearance on the wall of his office.
Even if he can’t put all the pieces together on his own, all he has to do is show my photo around until someone eventually says, Hey, isn’t that Savannah Bateman with a dye job?
But if I disappear out of the public eye, for example, by staying as far away from Sean as possible, Hugo will have no reason to show my picture around. At least I hope not.
The doorbell rings. It’s A-list actor Margarita Ayala coming to pick up Mattie, her son with Jason.
Emmy and I eavesdrop on their greetings as Margarita blusters her way into the house.
I have to say I’m impressed with the way these guys have been able to co-parent for the past couple of years. I know it hasn’t been easy.
Usually, Margarita just picks Mattie up and goes, so it surprises me when she appears in the doorway with her toddler, Eva, on her hip. Her gaze shoots straight to me, but she doesn’t say anything. Emmy and I exchange confused looks.
“Hello, Margarita. It’s lovely to be stared at by you,” I say.
“Hugo Valencia is right.” She narrows her perfect, smoky eyes. “You do look familiar.”
My pulse shudders. Shit. Margarita is from Miami. She probably grew up watching Club Bilingüe on cable!
“I just have one of those faces,” I mutter, lifting the blanket I’m folding between us.
This isn’t going to go away on its own. I need to call Hugo and nip this in the bud. Get him to cease and desist. Beg him. Bribe him. Threaten him. Whatever. Everybody has a price. “Excuse me. I have to make a phone call.”
Margarita spins to continue staring at me like a camera-headed robot as I grab my purse and head for the patio.
Digging out Hugo’s card, I close the French doors behind me.
I’m not sure how I’m going to play this, but I have to protect the people closest to me.
Juan Ernesto, Lupe, and Miguel are making a name for themselves with their new sci-fi show.
Emmy is living the dream she’s worked so hard for.
None of them needs the Savannah Bateman scandal coming out of the woodwork to ruin it for them.
Knowing Emmy and Miguel, they’d try to stand up for me and go down, too.
My family… Well, it would just be another blow for them, and I don’t think I could bear to let them down a second time.
Hugo answers on the second ring. “Bueno.”
“Mr. Valencia, it’s Josie Days.”
His satisfied laugh is reminiscent of Jabba the Hutt’s, but more he he he than ho ho ho. “What can I do for you this fine evening, Ms. Days?”
I wander to the far end of the patio and peer out at the sunset over the dark water, my heart hammering in my throat.
“I was never a nun,” I blurt. “But I do have very compelling reasons for keeping my identity private. Personal reasons that are no business of anyone else’s.
” And have nothing to do with a certain puppet.
“I see.”
“I’m calling you to find out what it’s going to take for you to back off of anything at all to do with me. I just want to fade back into the wallpaper.”
The Jabba chuckle again. I hope he doesn’t ask for money. I don’t have a lot of that to give. I hope he doesn’t ask for sex. I have a lot of that to give, but alas, it’s intricately tied in with my self-respect.
“Listen,” I bluster, “it’ll be really easy for you to let me go. I’ve given up my date with Sean. There’s nothing between us. That thing you saw was just… a moment. So, what’ll it take, Hugo? What do I have to do to make you forget I exist?”
I’m babbling. Too much. I need to get it together. I don’t have a lot of leverage here, and I don’t know if a cry for pity is the best tactic. Hugo Valencia isn’t a guy who’s easily moved by tears.
But to his credit, he says, “All right, Ms. Days. I don’t want to put you in any kind of danger.”
I exhale in relief. I must’ve given off witness protection vibes. That was unintentionally clever of me. I may pull this off after all.
“But I’m also not a man who gives away something for nothing. If you want my silence, it’s going to cost you.”
“Name your price.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pray it doesn’t include me in a skimpy gold bikini.
“You’re going to go on that date with Sean, and you’re going to give me an exclusive.”
I hesitate in confusion. “I told you I already canceled that.”
“Then you’re going to un-cancel it.”
“It’s this Friday.”
“That’s the deal, Ms. Days. You go on that date with Sean, and you give me an exclusive.”
I stare at the fingernail of sun on the hungry horizon. “But I don’t want my face on TV. I thought I was clear about that.”
“You can wear a disguise if you want. The important thing is that I won’t take the story in the direction of Who is this mysterious woman and what’s her deal? We’ll leave your past in the past. We’ll focus on the present. The future, too, if there is one.”
The last bit of light is sucked into the sea, and suddenly, the patio is darker, cooler, haunted by shadows. “One date. One interview. And we’re done?”
“One interview, and then you can fade into the wallpaper, as you put it, if that’s what you choose.”
The French doors open, and Jason is there, waggling a glass of red wine at me. Cocktail hour has officially started in the Connor household. I cross the patio to accept it and watch him close the doors, giving me back the space.
“Do I have to do anything special on this date?”
“Just have fun, and tell me about it, on my show, at least a week before you talk to anyone else. That’s the deal. I need a ratings boost, and you, my dear, are it.”
It sounds too good to be true, but I’d be a fool to say no. I’d actually really love to go on a date with Sean O’Sullivan. Maybe Emmy’s right. Maybe I do deserve to have nice things.
I take a sip of wine, swishing it around in my mouth. It’s quality, not the grocery store stuff we used to buy. I let the flavor linger on my tongue before swallowing.
One date. One interview. One final hurrah for Josie Days before she gets buried in the credits. “Okay, Hugo. You’ve got a deal.”