Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ridge
I’m standing outside on Whitney’s terrace overlooking the in-ground pool.
The colossal statues of naked Greek men interspersed between tall Italian Cypress trees along the edges of the garden cause me to do a double take.
I had just met Whitney’s mother, Sylvia, when we were interrupted by my phone buzzing.
Seeing Beverly’s name on the screen, I politely excused myself, telling them I needed to take the call.
“Hello, Lovely,” I say, making sure my back is to the house. I don’t need Whitney and her mom witnessing my facial expressions as I speak to the woman I love.
“Hey.” Her voice cracks.
I frown. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Haven’t you seen it? We’re on the front page of all the tabloids. Someone took a photo of us saying goodbye at the Atlanta airport. They captured us kissing.”
I exhale a quick breath through my nose. I knew this would eventually happen. It was only a matter of time. As a Hollywood A-lister, I’m used to the paparazzi and crazy fans. For Beverly, this has probably been quite a shock. I should’ve warned her.
“Tell me what happened.” I listen, and she tells me all about her mother’s phone call and the grocery store incident.
“What if someone follows me to my house or to the school? I don’t need those people camped out, waiting for me to make an appearance. It’s creepy. I don’t like it.”
I grip the back of my neck with my free hand. “I know you don’t, sweetheart. And I’m sorry you’re feeling this way. The best advice I can give you is to ignore them and continue to live your life as normal.”
“Normal? I’m sorry, but having someone follow you around with a camera in your face is not normal. Why would they even be interested in me? I’m a nobody compared to you.”
I shake my head, Beverly’s innocence beguiling. “But you’re dating me. I’m afraid it comes with the territory.”
She’s silent for a beat. “I thought the media and paparazzi only hounded folks in Hollywood or New York? You mean to tell me they live and work in Atlanta too?”
I chuckle, unsure how to explain the craziness I deal with as a celebrity. “Atlanta is a movie town now, just like Hollywood and New York. Unfortunately, someone must’ve tipped them off, and they knew I’d be at the Atlanta airport.”
“Who would do such a thing?” she asks.
My heart sinks knowing exactly who would tip them off, Whitney’s sly smile coming to mind. I don’t mention her name. “I’m not sure. But you’re okay, right?”
“Yes, just a little unnerved.”
“I get it.”
Whitney’s voice cuts through our conversation as she hollers, “Ridge? Roman is awake now.”
I cover my phone with my hand and holler back, “I’ll be right there.”
“You’re with Whitney?” Beverly asks.
“Yes. I stopped by to see Roman and to finally meet her mother while she’s in town.
“Oh, boy. How’s that going?”
“It’s fine. But I wish I were with you.”
“Me too.”
“Call you later?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay. I love you. Go about your day as normal. It’s gonna be okay.”
“All right. I love you too, Ridge. Bye.”
“Goodbye.” I tuck my phone into my back pocket and turn around.
Whitney is standing on the terrace holding Roman on her hip.
She locks eyes with me, and a wide smile spreads across her face as if she thinks she’s got the upper hand.
I sigh and make my way past the marble statues of young, muscular males, and I swear, they’re smirking at me.
I don’t tell Whitney about my phone call from Beverly. Instead, I quickly get back to basics and lovingly scoop my son out of his mother’s arms. “Do you and Sylvia have any plans for dinner?” I ask.
Whitney seems surprised by the question. “Um, no. No plans tonight. Did you have something in mind?”
I’m making funny faces at Roman, his toothless smile adorable, and his baby giggle music to my ears. “As a matter of fact, I thought you could give Mira the night off so I can look after Roman and cook for you ladies.”
Whitney follows me into the house, her bare feet slapping on the marble floor to keep up. “Really? You want to stay and cook for us?”
I stop in the great room underneath the black chandelier. “Of course. I’d like to get to know Sylvia a little better. After all, she’s Roman’s grandmother. And we can talk more about Christmas if you’d like.”
I dare not mention our conversation about joint custody. I want her to chew on that one for a bit. I want her to relax and see me in action as Roman’s dad. I want her to conclude that I’m not a threat and that I’m a good father. A little wining and dining on her home turf might help.
Whitney palms my shoulder, and I turn my head to look right at her. I swear, there are tears welling in her eyes, her voice hoarse with emotion.
“I’d like that very much.”
***
Before Mira left for the day, she offered me the number to the local market, and I had ingredients delivered for our impromptu dinner.
I keep it simple, whipping up a delicious meal of shrimp tacos.
I borrowed one of those over-the-shoulder baby-holders like I’d seen George wearing at Thanksgiving and held Roman against my chest while I prepped our meal.
The ladies snacked on chips and cheese dip while sitting at the large kitchen island, keeping me company, the sounds of Tony Bennett wafting through the space over hidden speakers.
With a black-and-white checkered towel hanging over my belt, I impressed them with my bartending skills and presented them with homemade margaritas.
“Mmm,” Sylvia hums, sipping from the salted rim. “How did you learn to make such a delicious drink?”
I palm Roman’s bottom with one hand and steal a chip with the other. I’m relaxed and enjoying myself, thankful to witness Whitney animated and happy while I take care of everyone around me.
“I was filming a movie in Mexico City and happened upon this bar near my hotel where I was staying.”
Whitney waves her hand in the air, nearly spitting out her mouthful of margarita. “I know which bar you’re talking about. Brujas, right?”
I laugh. “Right. How did you know?”
“It’s the place to be in Mexico City. Duh!” She swivels her body on the stool to face her mother. “Mom, you would love this place. It’s an all-female-run bar, and it rocks!”
“It sounds nice,” Sylvia says flatly.
I happily bounce Roman against me and kiss him on the head.
“One of those clever female bartenders gave me a few pointers on how to make the best margaritas at home. A little agave, a little orange liqueur, and some freshly squeezed lime. She suggested I use half mezcal and half tequila, which gives it a bolder, smoky flavor, and voilà!”
“Margarita magic,” Whitney purrs, lifting her glass to her glistening lips. “It’s delicious.”
“What is mezcal?” Sylvia asks.
“It’s the smoky, spicy cousin of tequila,” Whitney replies.
I watch her take another sip, her shoulders moving to the rhythm of the classic jazz tune, “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” She’s in her happy place, the tequila obviously giving her a buzz. One batch of margaritas is enough, and my plan is to switch out our drinks to sparkling water at dinner.
She carefully sets her glass on the counter and trots around the edge of the island toward me. “I love this song, Didge. Come here. I wanna dance with my boys.”
I stiffen and glance at Sylvia, who’s watching our every move.
Whitney grabs my hands, and we playfully swing dance with our baby between us for a few stanzas in the kitchen.
She’s laughing and lighthearted, occasionally bending low to rub noses with Roman among the music and the scent of shrimp and cilantro.
As the song ends, she sways back to her chair and plops down, intent on finishing her drink. “Whew, that was fun!”
Sylvia watches me stir the shrimp one last time in the pan. “Do you need any help?” she asks.
“Nope. I’ll fix everyone’s plates and serve you.”
“Would you mind topping off our drinks while you’re at it? Come on, Mom.” Whitney picks up her drink and loops her arm through her mother’s, guiding her to the table.
I lift Roman out of the baby carrier and place him on his back in a portable crib under a colorful mobile in the corner so the adults can eat.
I set tall glasses of sparkling water at everyone’s place setting, and once I’ve plated everything, I bring our meal to the table and sit down. Whitney immediately gets up.
“I’m sorry, did I forget something?” I ask.
She grabs her empty margarita glass. “Nope. I need a refill, but no worries, I can get it.”
Sylvia looks on with her lips pursed together before she turns her attention toward me and smiles. “Thank you for this. Everything looks delicious.”
“You’re welcome.”
We eat our meal and talk about the upcoming holidays.
I notice how Whitney barely makes a dent in her food, and how she finishes the batch of margaritas I made, plus the one her mother never finished.
Hearing Roman fuss, I know it’s time for his bottle and excuse myself to go change and feed him, leaving the women in the kitchen debating about multi-colored Christmas lights versus plain white.
It’s quiet upstairs, the scent of baby powder prevalent as I enter Roman’s room.
I’m not the best diaper changer in the world, but I get the job done.
I change him into the pajamas Mira left out and pick him up.
As I’m about to go downstairs to make his bottle, I’m surprised to see Sylvia standing in the doorframe with the warm bottle already in her hands.
“Oh, thanks for bringing that up. You saved me a trip.”
She smiles and enters the room, handing off the formula to me. Pressing her fingers lightly against Roman’s head, she sighs. “I’m thankful for you, Ridge. You’re an excellent host and a noble father.”
My heart blips in my chest, grateful for her praise. “Thank you.” I walk over to the glider in the corner and sit, Roman eagerly going after his meal. “I’ll be down in a bit to clean up, unless Whitney’s already on it.”
Sylvia leans against the crib and folds her arms against her chest. “Whitney’s done for the night.”
I scowl. “What do you mean?”
“She’s drunk.”
I’m taken aback, not sure if I heard the woman correctly. “She couldn’t be drunk. I only made one batch of margaritas.”
Sylvia hangs her head. “One batch of margaritas. And… one empty bottle of tequila.”
Now I’m really confused. “What are you talking about? There’s three-quarters of a bottle left.”
“Nope. It’s all gone. You didn’t see my daughter creeping around the kitchen stealing shots while you were cooking?”
“No, I did not.”
“Well, every time she passed by the counter where you made our margaritas, she took a swig of tequila straight from the bottle. She’s passed out on the chaise lounge in the living room.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” I’m dumbfounded.
I never saw Whitney slugging tequila from the bottle. I certainly would’ve noticed that. And she never showed any signs of drunkenness while we ate dinner at the table. Knowing she’s currently passed out downstairs leaves me shaking, my impulse to protect my son at the forefront of my mind.
“My daughter has a serious problem, Ridge. You know her history with drugs. And even though she’s been clean for well over a year, I’m afraid she’s been hiding her alcohol dependence in plain site.
She’s never going to change unless she hits rock bottom.
I’m worried about her. And I’m worried for my grandson. ”
Her eyes are misty, looking straight at me, and I can’t find any words to comfort the woman. I feel enormous guilt for serving margaritas with our meal. I know it’s not the drugs she used to crave, but I should’ve known better.
“The only way she’s ever going to beat her addiction is to have a desire to change and to seek professional help. I’ve been trying to help her since she was fifteen years old.”
“Fifteen?” I croak.
“Yes.” Sylvia is quiet for a moment, her motherly gaze landing on Roman in my arms. “Do you wanna know why I’m still living in Kansas even after she invited me to live here with her after Roman was born?”
“Tell me.”
“I’m staying in Kansas because it’s peaceful there; that’s why.
Whitney always wants too much attention.
She’s wanted attention from everybody all the time her entire life.
She finally wore everyone out. She wore me out; she wore her father out, God rest his soul.
And mark my words, unless she gets help, she’s gonna wear you out, and it’s not gonna be pretty for my grandson. ”
She shakes her head and stands close enough to the glider where she can palm Roman’s head. I can see the concern on her face and the tenderness of love in her eyes. Sylvia is trying her best to warn me about Whitney. And I’m listening.
“I love my daughter very much. But I just can’t pay attention to her anymore. Believe me, I want to, especially having a new grandson.” She bends low and kisses Roman’s forehead. “But I just can’t do it. Whitney needs an ultimatum. And you’re the only one who can give it to her.”