Chapter 1 Beth
Beth
“I can’t believe you know this song from my college days,” I say, smiling at Celeste, whose feet are up on the dashboard as she pops a red Twizzlers into her mouth.
“Your songs are our songs now,” she says. “You know, you look almost the same as you did in college, Mom. I hope I get that lucky.”
“Um, thank you,” I say, glancing at myself in the rearview mirror.
“But I think you need glasses.” I see laugh lines next to my eyes and a worry wrinkle between them.
My dirty-blond hair is natural, so I guess I’m lucky.
I don’t have the time, or the inclination, to do anything about the passage of time, which makes me an outlier in Orange County, California.
I guess I’m happy with myself and my life.
Although I do miss my daughter terribly.
“Want one?” Celeste asks, offering me a Twizzlers from a bag she’s pulled out of her purse. Our shared cheat treats.
I grab one of the floppy red licorice sticks and take a bite, grinning at Celeste.
I miss her; I miss together time. She’s in her second year of law school at Northwestern in Chicago, and it has been hard to let her go, even as I watch her thrive.
The curse of a close relationship, I suppose.
I take a deep breath and remind myself to enjoy these moments with her, as they are too few and far between these days.
My identity for so long was that of a single mom. Now, I’m single, period. Except my cat.
“I hope I left enough cat food out,” I say, thinking of Peanut, my fluffy white constant companion.
“You did, Mom; you know you did,” Celeste says, her long blond hair glowing in the sunshine. She is effortlessly beautiful. Looking at her makes me think of my best friend in college, Sunny. The resemblance is uncanny, and I smile at the memory and my daughter.
“You’re right. Peanut is fine. And I have my next-door neighbor checking on her too,” I say, reassuring myself. I think of my cozy bungalow in Huntington Beach and wish I could turn the car around and drive us both back home.
“Mom, I think that’s our exit,” Celeste says, pointing. She’s excited to get there. Me, not so much.
Maybe I was trying to drive past the exit on purpose. Savoring these last few minutes with Celeste. Alone. We won’t have many more moments like this, ever. How did my baby girl grow up so fast?
“Oh, thanks,” I say, reluctantly pulling down my turn indicator. I make it over two lanes, and just like that, we’re exiting the freeway.
I take another look at my strikingly beautiful daughter, remembering her childhood.
It was the two of us while she was growing up, and sometimes it was a struggle, but most of the time, it was happy.
We were a team, side by side, like this.
But then I remember why we’re driving to Palm Springs, and my chest squeezes with sadness. Everything has changed now.
“I still cannot believe you’re engaged,” I say, shaking my head. “Of course, I’m happy for you. It’s only, well, life happens fast.” I think that’s true for everyone and truer the older you get.
“It does, Mom,” Celeste answers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And then, before you know it, you’ll be a grandma.”
“Stop,” I say. “I’m barely used to this marriage idea. And you have plenty of time. You’re only twenty-two.” Ever since she told me the engagement news my emotions have been waffling between happiness and panic, but I don’t tell her that.
“You were twenty-three when you had me,” she reminds me. “You like Zach, and we’re in love. Nothing else matters.” She takes off her sunglasses, and I can feel her stare. “Right? You’re going to be strong and not let anything, or anyone, bother you this weekend. You promised.”
I meet her eyes before refocusing on the road. “I said I’d try. For you. And Zach. And I will.”
The closer we get to their “dream desert home”—leave it to Roxy to wax poetic on a party invitation—the more dread floods my body.
My neck is so tense I can barely turn it side to side.
It’s bad enough being the one my sorority sisters always think of as “the scholarship student.” Poor Beth.
That label sticks for life, no matter how much time passes.
But now I’m also the ever-single mother of the bride, who works for a living as president of a nonprofit and barely keeps her head above water with the Southern California prices.
I glance at my hands gripping the steering wheel: blue spidery veins and chewed fingernails.
I’m sunk before I even arrive. I cannot compete with these women, these so-called friends from college. The fact is I never could.
I snap back to the present as a car almost sideswipes us. As it speeds ahead I note the vanity plate: TINGLEY.
“Jerk,” I say under my breath.
“You look pale, Mom. Are you OK?” Celeste asks, touching my leg.
I take a deep breath and force a smile. “I love you. I’m fine.
I can handle Roxy for a couple of days. I mean, I handled her for four years in college.
I’m excited to make special memories here with you, my favorite girl,” I say.
“As long as I get to spend time with you, and you’re happy, that’s all that matters this weekend.
Thanks for flying home and driving over with me. ”
“Of course. How could I pass up one last mother-daughter road trip?” she says. “Zach wanted to come, too, but his mom insisted he fly straight to the desert. And you know his mom.”
“Roxy always gets what she wants,” I say. She did back in college, and as far as I know, she still does, every day. It might have been twenty-five years since I’d seen her last, but I have a feeling nothing’s changed.
“Yep. That’s why Zach and I live in Chicago, far, far away,” Celeste says with a laugh. “But not forever. Promise. Just until we finish school, and then we’ll be back home. I want to raise all my babies right next to you.”
I can’t help but laugh with her. Her joy, as ever, is contagious. “How many are we talking now? I know, you hated being an only child, so what’s the number up to?”
She grins. “At least four, maybe six.”
“And Zach is on board?” I ask.
“Mostly,” she says. “He’ll come around.”
“Ok, bring ’em on. I’m ready,” I say. “But not until after the wedding. Deal?”
“Deal, duh,” she says. “Oh! It’s only four more miles.”
She’s so excited. I wish the feeling were mutual. “Almost there indeed.”
“Come on, Mom. Let me see you smile,” she says.
“Did you know this is the first time the Gentrys have all come out to the new property? Ryan has been working on fixing it up for two years, I guess. Zach said his dad always wanted a property in the desert, and when this one came on the market, he jumped on it. Didn’t even tell Roxy before he bought it. ”
“Wow, I bet that ruffled Roxy’s feathers,” I say, stopping at a stop sign. “She never did like surprises.”
“Yes, so I’ve learned. But in this case, from what I know, she wasn’t in charge at all. Ryan was,” Celeste says. “I think that’s the Gentrys’ place. On the right.”
I still cannot believe my little girl is marrying a Gentry. She’ll soon be a Gentry. Of all life’s curveballs, this one takes the cake.
“There it is! 26398 Sands Lane. We’ve made it, Mom,” she says, pointing. “Look at that fancy gate and a winding lane beyond.”
We made it. Whoopee. Of course Roxy has a big gate to keep out the riffraff, people like me.
The gates are magnificent, shiny metal guardians of the property, with a design that is intricate and imposing.
Ornate scrollwork and filigree patterns create a sense of luxury and substance.
The gate has a decorative crest, GH, displayed prominently in the center.
With gates like these, I can only imagine what lies beyond.
I pull into the driveway and stop at the closed metal gates.
For a brief moment I have the weirdest sense of déjà vu, like I’ve been here before.
but that’s impossible. I’ve only been to Palm Springs once, ever.
I roll down the window and push the call button as hot desert air whooshes into the car.
“It’s so warm outside,” Celeste says, rolling her window down, too, and sticking her long arm out. “Now it feels like a vacation.”
“Hello! Welcome to Gentry House,” says a slightly Southern voice through the call box. Even after all these years, I’d recognize that twang anywhere. Roxy. “Come on in, Beth and Celeste; we’ve been expecting you all.”
I paste on my best Theta Gamma Mu sorority recruitment smile, the one they taught us to use when speaking with an eager rushee who had absolutely no chance of getting a bid on Pref Night. “Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth. “Can’t wait to see you.”
“Mom, relax,” Celeste says. “Your shoulders are up in your ears. This is a party for you and your sorority sisters. Roxy has planned everything for a special reunion. I’m excited to meet everyone. It will be fun, not stressful.”
“I’m afraid your future mother-in-law has that effect on me,” I say.
I still cannot believe that fate put these two lovebirds together.
That they both picked Chicago for grad school isn’t a surprise, as there are a bunch of great institutions there.
But of all the young men in Chicago, Celeste had to run into Zach at a party. Ugh.
“You’re going to be fine. I’m here,” Celeste says.
“Ooh, the gates are opening! I cannot wait to see this place. Zach says it’s been a money pit but that his dad wanted everything to be restored to its former glory.
Apparently, it was originally built in the 1920s as a private compound for a movie star. Can you imagine?”
As I drive down the winding gravel road I notice the mature landscaping.
Palm trees and other tropical desert greenery shade our drive as we head toward the house, or rather a cluster of houses that look like typical Palm Springs abodes, with white stucco walls and low-slung tile roofs.
It does feel like another era, another time.
Sunshine and seclusion, a hideout for the rich and famous.
I once read that in the 1920s, Palm Springs society epitomized opulence and leisure against the stunning backdrop of the California desert.
As the allure of the desert oasis grew, the elite flocked to this sun-soaked paradise, transforming it into a glamorous playground for the wealthy.
Lavish resorts and exclusive country clubs dotted the landscape, hosting extravagant soirees at which socialites, Hollywood stars, and business magnates mingled beneath the swaying palm trees.
Polo matches, tennis, and golf became popular pastimes, showcasing the leisurely pursuits of the affluent.
During Prohibition, speakeasies offered private escapes, adding an air of rebellion to the high-society scene.
Palm Springs in the 1920s radiated an aura of indulgence and sophistication, forever etching its name as one of the “it” places when it came to glamorous American history.
I suppose it is all of that still. I’m too wound up to appreciate it.