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She doesn’t speak. Tears film her eyes. Blindly she reaches up to wipe the tears before they fall.
My fingers squeeze her forearm. “Shey, you can’t quit! Don’t give up— ”
“It’s not me, though. I don’t want this.” She’s struggling to catch the tears before they fall but failing miserably. “John’s the one who changed— ”
“No.”
“He loves the boys. He says he loves me. But he’s not in love with me anymore.”
“Is he seeing someone else?”
It takes her a long time to answer. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Yes, you can. This is me. Tits. Your best friend in the whole world,” I say fiercely even as tears fill my eyes.
“It’s just so impossible… so painful.”
I wait, blinking tears.
“Tiana, it’s… it’s… Oh God— ” She breaks off, gulps a breath. “It’s another man. A designer. John thinks… he thinks…” She swallows hard. Her voice drops so low that I have to strain to hear her. “He thinks he might be… gay…”
“Gay?”
She looks at me, her expression haunted. “He wants to tell the boys, and I’m terrified. Coop’s already struggling. He’s already self-conscious about his height and how thin he is. Bo’s dealing with depression. This will devastate all of them.”
How could it not?
I’m beyond dumbfounded, and we lapse into silence. I’m grateful for the silence, struggling to process everything. This isn’t the world as I know it. It’s not the world as I want to know it. I can’t even imagine Shey’s pain. She’s such a traditional girl. So small town and wholesome values. Her parents were married for fifty-three years. There’s never been a divorce in her family. She never looked at another man after she met John.
If Shey’s rock-solid marriage has come to this, what hope is there?
What relationship lasts?
Ten minutes from Marta and Luke’s new Medina waterfront house, Shey puts in some eyedrops and applies fresh makeup.
By the time we arrive she’s smiling, and she keeps up the cheerful smile as Marta opens the door and welcomes us with fierce hugs.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Marta as Luke enters the hall with Zach in his arms.
Marta pats her stomach, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Good. Better now that I’ve hit the second trimester.”
She does look good, and clichéd as it might be, she has that glow.
Eva arrives a minute later and lets out a scream as she throws herself at me and then Shey. A couple of years ago, Eva practically shaved her head in a fit of frustration, but her thick dark hair, the same shade as Marta’s, has grown and now hangs below her shoulders. She’s a sixth grader now and still lanky thin, but she’s so sparkly and full of life that I don’t know any girl more beautiful or wonderful.
We head to the living room, and we don’t move for hours. Luke has Chinese takeout delivered, and we sit on the floor of their living room eating and talking while baby Zach sits in his swing rocking back and forth.
I must admit, I’m smitten with Zach. He’s a big, bouncing boy with wide blue eyes and soft apricot cheeks. His hair has a touch of red in it, and as he gurgles and waves his baby fists, you can see his dad in him.
This is what I want, I think, entranced by Zach’s gurgles and coos. Family, home, baby. With a man I love. A man who loves me for me, the real me, not the one everyone sees on TV.
Marta sees me watching Zach. “You can take him out of the swing, if you want. He’d probably love a chance to grab your hair.”
I don’t need a second invitation. After stopping the swing, I undo the strap in front of Zach, unhook the harness, and lift him into my arms. He’s heavier than he looks, and his forehead puckers as he gazes into my face. I bounce him a little. His expression clears. He likes that. I bring him closer against me, my arms snug underneath his padded diaper bottom. The top of his head grazes my cheek. He’s warm and smells of baby powder. “Aren’t you gorgeous, Zach Flynn?” I whisper in his ear.
He coos. He’s so firm in my arms. So sweet.
My heart turns over.
And then I look at Shey. She’s curled up on the couch, talking earnestly to Eva, and my heart turns over again.
This is so life. This is how it is. Up and down and rough and smooth and good and bad. It’s wonderful and terrible and forever unpredictable. And I don’t mind unpredictable as long as it doesn’t hurt my friends. But right now it is hurting Shey, and it doesn’t seem fair that just when Marta gets her dream, Shey’s world falls apart.
Late that night, I lie sleepless in my guest room bed. I’m sharing a room with Shey, but Shey’s finally, thankfully, asleep.
I’m worried about Shey. She barely ate, and even though she kept smiling all evening, I could see the confusion and shock in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. She reminds me of me after I got the call that Keith had been killed. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it was happening. Keith had to come back. He said he’d be back. He promised.
And John adores Shey. He has since they met on the Vogue photo shoot, and that was what? Fifteen years ago?
I know affairs happen. Mistakes get made. But this… this… how could he now love a man instead? It doesn’t make sense. People don’t change like that.
Do they?
And what happens to Shey and the boys now that John wants to try something new?
The baptism Saturday morning at Sacred Heart in Clyde Hill is beautiful. It’s a big modern church with large modern stained-glass windows and a soaring ceiling. Zach squawks when he’s dipped into the baptismal pool and then howls when his head is touched.
That afternoon, once we’ve returned from brunch I log on to my computer to check my e-mail and discover a message from Peter Froehlich, a German member of the foreign press. He’s e-mailing to ask if I’d be interested in attending the Globes dinner and awards ceremony with him on January 11.
Peter’s a lovely man in his fifties and very kind. We met at a Golden Globes pre–awards show dinner my first year hosting America Tonight and hit it off and have been friends ever since.
I’m not sure I should say yes, though, not after I’ve taken a hiatus from America Tonight, but before I can answer, I get a call from Max. He’s just returned from a Swiss ski trip and discovered that I took a leave of absence from America Tonight.
“Have you lost your mind?” he roars. “Are you mad?”
Eva is sprawled on the bed next to me, and I bend down, kiss the top of her head, and head out of the bedroom and out the front door, where I can talk without anyone hearing us. It’s raining, a steady gray cold drizzle, and I bundle my arms across my chest. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t think I needed permission to take a break for a couple weeks.”
“You have to know this is the worst time possible to take an extended vacation. Contract negotiations are just beginning. The award show season is about to descend. This is when you need to be present and visible!”
“I’m not sure I want to return to the show.” I sit on the front step and stretch my sweater over my knees. “I’m using this time to consider my options.”
“What options?”
“I think, Max,” I say carefully, “that is your job.”
“You have a great gig going, doll. People would kill to be in your shoes.”
“Maybe I’m ready for a new challenge.”
“Like what? Where would you go??
??
“I don’t know. That’s the whole point of this exercise.”
“I’m going to call Glenn first thing on Monday and I’m going to tell him it’s hormones, a perimenopausal thing, and that you’ll be back to work start of the New Year— ”
“No.”
“Are you listening, doll? You hearing anything I’m saying?”
“Yes, every word, and I think I’ve heard enough. This isn’t working.”
“What?”
“This isn’t working. I think we’ve come to a fork in the road and I’m ready to head in a different direction. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but— ”
“You’re firing me?”
“— I no longer need you to represent me.”
He’s finally speechless. Good. About time I shut him up. “But I thank you, Max, and I’m glad we had these years to work together.”
He finds his voice. “You can’t fire me! I got you that job, I made you Tiana Tomlinson— ”
“No, Max, you didn’t make me. It’s my work. My talent. I made me who I am. I’ll follow up with a formal letter, but I think this is it for us. Good-bye.” And resolutely, I hang up the phone.
A moment later I appear in the enormous living room, cheeks flushed, emotions high. Marta’s nursing Zach, and Shey is sitting next to her on the couch. They both look up at me. “I just fired Max,” I say brightly.
Shey’s grim expression eases, and she looks happier than I’ve seen her in the last two days. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She jumps up and gives me a high five. Our palms smack so loud that Zach pops off Marta’s nipple and looks around with interest.
“I hated him,” Shey says. “He was a jerk.”
“I know.” I glance at Marta, who is trying to get Zach to latch back on, but he’s smiling a milky smile at me. I suddenly laugh with relief. With hope. Things are looking up. Which reminds me: I need to e-mail Peter back. I think I’m going to go to the Golden Globes after all.
Back in Los Angeles, my stylist, Shannon, comes over the first week of January to show me several gowns that would be good options for the Globes. One is a pretty strapless orange pleated gown, rather Grecian and very soft and flowing, and the other is a bold corseted gown the color of spilled red wine. The deep red gown’s beaded bodice is intricately designed, tightly fitted, with two hidden zippers and dozens of little hooks. The neckline plunges low, and the skirt is smooth to the top of the hips and then turns full. A hint of fine black tulle peeps from the gown’s hem.
