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“You don’t understand because you can’t.” Christie leans against the counter, pot mitt on one hand. “You’re extraordinarily beautiful. You were born beautiful, and thanks to fate and great genetics, you live a life the rest of us mortals only dream about.”
“Knock it off.”
“Tiana, your looks do more than secure a fat paycheck. They get you reservations, great tables, great service. You’re photographed, admired, envied. You wouldn’t have a clue what it’s like to be average, or ugly.”
“Neither do you!”
Christie scoffs, “No? Then why don’t I work the red carpet? Why don’t I get asked to host televised events?”
“Because you’re a writer and a director.”
“I used to be a writer like you. But no network would put me in front of a camera. I realized I wasn’t ever going to work if I didn’t find work for me to do. So I got damn good at being behind a camera.”
“This has nothing to do with looks,” I answer, setting aside the baking sheet and beginning to prepare the baked cheddar mushroom caps appetizer.
“Cut the bullshit, Tia. It has everything to do with looks. I’m not ugly— I work hard to make sure I don’t fall into that category— but I’ll never be beautiful. Not even pretty. I score okay on a good day— ”
“No.”
“And attractive on my very best day.” She stares at me pointedly. “Beauty is power, Tiana, and most women don’t have enough of either.”
“So if you were me, you’d have a face-lift?”
Christie turns to look at me hard. She studies me for a long moment and her expression changes; her mouth softens and emotion darkens her eyes. “No.”
“No?”
“You’re still beautiful. And you have more goodness and love in you than anyone knows. You’re more than your face, and if the show execs can’t see it, then screw them. They don’t deserve you.”
I try to smile but can’t. Instead I go to her and hug her. Hard. “Thank you,” I whisper. “God knows I needed that.”
She hugs me back. “I mean every word of it. You’re wonderful. And don’t you forget it— no matter what they tell you, or try to sell you.”
“Don’t make me cry,” I warn, giving her a last quick hug and a smile before stepping away. “I’m already an emotional wreck. If I start crying again today, I don’t think I could stop.”
She shoots me a side glance. “Keith?”
I nod. “And then I had to torture myself by playing sad songs the whole drive down.”
“But if it made you feel better?”
“I don’t know that it did. Keith wouldn’t want me this sad. He wasn’t an emotional guy.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t be an emotional girl.” She flashes me a smile. “But you’re here and we’re thrilled you’re here, so let’s get cooking!”
We spend the next twenty minutes chopping, sautéing, and mixing, and I’ve just begun spooning the cheddar filling into mushroom caps when the doorbell rings. Christie is elbow deep in hot, soapy water, washing pots and pans, and I offer to answer the door. “I can get that.”
“Would you? I bet it’s Michael.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “You know Michael O’Sullivan— ”
I freeze. “Dr. Michael O’Sullivan?”
Christie looks at me strangely. “He’s a close friend of Simon’s. Why? Is there a problem?”
The last twenty minutes of warmth and comfort desert me, and my spirits plummet. “You know we don’t get along.”
“No, I don’t. I knew you squared off on Larry King, but I figured that was just for television.” She frowns at me, rinses her hands, and reaches for a dish towel. “Are you serious? How can you not get along with Michael? He’s one of the best people I know.”
Chapter Six
From the kitchen, I hear Christie open the front door and welcome Michael. Michael’s deep voice answers in reply. She drops her voice, says something to him I can’t hear. He laughs, a low, husky sound, and she laughs in return. Aren’t they cozy?
Irritated, I march to the double ovens in the wall and shove the tray of cheddar-stuffed mushroom caps into the top oven, the one without the roasting turkey. Christie could have said something to me about her other guests earlier. A little warning would have been nice.
I’m still fuming when Michael makes his way into the kitchen. He’s dressed in a black linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar and crisp khakis. He has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm and a pink bakery box in his hands.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. America,” he greets me, setting the box on the counter and adding his wine to the refrigerator before giving me a dazzling smile.
His smile is pure charm, and it throws me. I take a step back, frazzled beyond belief.
I was planning on a quiet Thanksgiving, a relaxed Thanksgiving, which means a Thanksgiving without Michael O’Sullivan. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too,” I say coolly, wondering where the hell Christie’s gone. First she invites Michael here and then she disappears, leaving us alone? “Where did Christie go?”
“I think she ran upstairs to check on the girls.”
Needing something to do, I rinse out my prep bowls. “I didn’t know you were friends with Simon,” I say, giving my orange Tupperware bowl an unusually vigorous scouring.
“We go a long way back.”
“Christie’s never mentioned you.”
“At a brunch, Simon brought up Jenna Meadows’s lawsuit, I mentioned Thursday’s Larry King show, and Christie remembered you and I had been on the show together. Small world.”
And getting smaller.
I begin scrubbing the sink. “Is that when they invited you for turkey?”
“I actually invited them to my house for dinner, but they said they’d already invited guests to theirs.”
I look at him, surprised. “You cook?”
“Turkey’s pretty basic.”
Not to me, but I don’t see the point in telling him it’s something I haven’t yet mastered. Sink sparkling, dishes washed, I’m forced to turn off the water. “Alexis couldn’t make it today?”
“She’s at a conference in Quebec.”
I face him. “Thanksgiving weekend?”
He’s leaning against the counter, watching me. A crooked smile curves his lips. “The Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving in October.”
“What kind of conference?”
“Cosmetic surgery.”
“Really?”
Christie bustles back into the kitchen, a heavy folded tablecloth in her arms. “Alex is a plastic surgeon, too,” she says cheerfully. “She’s a brilliant woman, and she’ll find the right guy someday. Michael’s just not the right guy.”
My jaw drops so hard, I’m sure it smacks the floor. I shoot Michael a swift look. “Alexis is a surgeon?”
“You didn’t know that?”
No. Those breasts… the very blonde hair… the red sequin dress. “Why didn’t you introduce her as a doctor?”
Michael’s expression is strange. “I did. I said she was an expert in the field of cosmetic surgery.”
“I didn’t know you meant— ” I break off, shake my head, cheeks hot.
“You didn’t what?” he asks.
My face warms. I thought she was a bimbo. I took one look at her, noted the packaged sex appeal, figured she was brainless. Figured Michael was shallow. Figured I was superior.
Oh God, I’ve goofed again. Seems like I’m getting more wrong these days than right.
What’s happening to me?
Ashamed, I focus my attention on the empty platter on the counter, a platter I need to fill with crackers and fruit to accompany the baked Brie.
Christie comes up to me, wraps an arm around my waist, and whispers in my ear, “I thought she was a Playboy Playmate the first time I met her. Turned out she’s Mensa and her IQ’s about a hundred points higher than mine. Awkward.”
The front door opens, slams shut. “I’m home,” Simon calls out. Let’s get this party started.”
