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“I can’t emphasize this enough, O. Georgina is exactly Caleb’s type and he just broke up with some airheaded supermodel, so he’s gonna be especially on the prowl. A thousand bucks says he’s gonna pounce on Georgina the second he gets a clear shot. So, for the love of God, make damned sure he doesn’t get a clear shot.”
“So, you’ve seen Georgina, then?”
Shit. I remain mute, feeling like I’ve been caught red-handed.
“So... hmm,” Owen says. “I’m sensing Georgina might not only be Caleb’s exact type. Could it be she’s also someone else’s exact type, too...?”
I grimace sharply to myself at my implicit admission, but, nonetheless, forge ahead in a businesslike tone. “I’ll be heading straight to the concert from the airport,” I say evenly, “so be sure to tell the LA car service about the change in my itinerary.”
“Will do, boss. No problem. Enjoy the chicken pot pie with your momma. I’ll text you the new flight info. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure Georgina meets the entire band, all at once.”
“Good. Don’t fuck it up, O. Your job depends on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
After hanging up with Owen, I text the change of plans to my driver, Tony, out front, and then return to my mother’s room. When I get there, I find my mother staring blankly out her window at the garden.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t flinch.
I place my palm gently on her shoulder. “Ready to eat, Mom?”
She turns her head. “Who’d you call?”
“Owen.”
“The gay man who works for you?”
“The gay, smart, loyal, reliable, funny, organized, creative man who works for me.”
“I like that you have a gay male secretary.”
“Owen’s not my secretary. He defies traditional description.”
“So do I.”
I laugh. I meant that Owen’s job defies traditional description, thanks to everything he does for me and the label. But Mom’s retort was too funny—and accurate—to correct. “That’s true, Mom. You most definitely defy traditional maternal description.”
“Have I met Owen?”
“No. But guess what? His last name is French. Boucher.”
She gasps. “Butcher! He’s from France?”
“Not Owen himself. But somewhere along the line, someone in Owen’s family tree was French. He told me about it once, but I forget the details.”
“Yet another reason for me to meet this man. My instinct tells me Owen Boucher and I would be kindred spirits. He’s got a French butcher somewhere in his family tree and I’ve got a French carpenter in mine. We’re soulmates.”
“Owen’s name is ‘yet another reason’ you’re soulmates?” I say. “What’s the first reason?”
“He’s gay,” she says matter-of-factly. “And I’m an artist. Artists and gay people always get along. We share a common understanding of what it means to be an outsider in this dark and lonely world.”
I smooth a lock of her gray hair. “Maybe I should bring Owen the Butcher here to have chicken pot pies with Eleanor the Carpenter some time, eh? You two can sit in the garden and talk about art and sexuality and Sylvia Plath and being outsiders until your heart’s content.”
“And our French lineage.”
“That, too.”
“I’d like that.” She frowns sharply. “Seeing as how my son hardly ever visits me because he’s too busy going to rock concerts and awards shows in California.”
I close my eyes and pray for strength from a God I don’t believe in. “I visit as much as I can. If you’d let me move you to—”
“I’m not moving to Malibu, Reed. My home is here.”
My gaze drifts to Mom’s painting again. To my nephew on the outskirts of the grassy park—the first new “family” member she’s ever painted. And it’s enough to keep me from going completely mad. Barely, yes, but it is. “If I bring Owen to visit, will you promise to include him in your painting that week?”
Mom shrugs, as noncommittal as ever. And I know in my heart, even if I were to fly Owen to Scarsdale to have chicken pot pies with her, even if they were to have the best conversation in the world about art, sexuality, ‘outsider-ism,’ Sylvia Plath, and France—a torture I’d never subject Owen to, by the way, unless I were paying him a hefty bonus—she wouldn’t paint him in that week’s opus. Because he’s not family, and she’d need years to shift gears enough to let an outsider, even an exceedingly pleasant gay one, intrude in her reality.
I also know something else as I stand here with Mom. A thought I quickly stuff down and push away the moment my brain conjures it: no matter how many “Owens” I might arrange for my mother to talk to, or what fancy French paints I might buy for her on rush delivery, none of it will ever be enough to make her love me. At least, not like most mothers love their children. Not the way she loved a certain four-year-old who never grew up to become imperfect in her eyes, who never grew up to remind her of his father, Terrence—a dashing, charismatic, broad-shouldered man who, many moons ago, promised to take care of and love a gorgeous, tempestuous teenager named Eleanor... but, instead, only wound up shattering her already broken heart.
