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Chapter 7
Coming home always turned into lots of meals and lots of cups of coffee and lots of conversations with Rob and his wife, Joy, and then a family dinner with Mom, and Rob, and Joy, and their daughter, Amy, who was newly married. Amy’s husband traveled a lot for work and was gone that weekend so Amy, Joy, and Paige cooked dinner for Paige’s last night home. Mom insisted on a game of Scrabble after dinner—a game Paige loathed but her mom loved because she usually won—and then finally everyone was gone, and Paige retired for the night.
She couldn’t sleep, though, and texted the girls that Grandma and Uncle Rob and everyone sent their love. She then texted Elizabeth to check on her since she’d heard nothing from her since they’d arrived the night before.
Are you doing okay there?
Elizabeth answered immediately. Surviving. Drama city, though.
Paige smiled. What did you do now?
Nothing!Elizabeth responded. I just asked Mom if we should shift her bedroom to one of the downstairs rooms, like the dining room, or dad’s old office. You would have thought I’d suggested she burn the house down.
I thought you were coming home to patch things up?
Elizabeth texted back furiously. I’m trying, but she’s going to fall and break her neck.
Paige smiled crookedly. Maybe you need to think positive thoughts.
Elizabeth answered with an indignant emoji, adding, Maybe you need to pick me up for pancakes in the morning.
8? Paige answered.
Perfect.
Paige put the phone down and stretched and stared at the wall with the framed oil of a smiling cow. Her mom loved collecting farm-animal artwork now. The framed pieces were all over the house. Cows, horses, pigs, chickens. This was something new since her dad had died. When he was alive there had been no dancing pigs, no strutting roosters. No, it had been a rather masculine, practical house. Funny how things changed when older women were left alone.
Which reminded Paige, didn’t she still have some of her things here? Paige went to her mom’s sewing room next door and opened the closet. Boxes filled the shelves; boxes Paige had labeled with a fat purple Sharpie: High School. UCB. Grad School.
She pulled out the box marked UCB and set it on the floor. These were things from Berkeley—papers she’d saved, cards she’d gotten, even a sweet letter her brother, Rob, had written to her during her sophomore year at Berkeley, letting her know how proud Dad would have been of her, and how proud he was, too.
There were also old photos and photo albums, and there was one album in particular she was looking for now. She found it, too. The album from her summer in Paris, the adhesive pages not quite as sticky, the paper yellowing. She flipped through the books, sending photos sliding. Paige paused to study certain pictures. A group photo of all the American students at the airport in New York. Another photo of the first night at the hotel in Paris. Pictures of the sunset cruise the students took on the Seine River. Pictures of the friends she’d made, girls whose names she didn’t even remember anymore. Pictures taken at the Louvre. Photos of the Notre-Dame and the Eiffel Tower. A pair of photos of her wearing all black, drinking wine, and smoking outside a café; Paige shook her head at those. The only time she’d ever tried to smoke was in Paris, and she’d hated it. But so many of the European students smoked, and they made it look chic. Cool. How she’d wanted to be cool, too, and not the girl from the sticks, raised surrounded by crops and cows.
Paige turned the page and looked at a photo of herself with her roommate, Genevieve. They were wearing lots of eyeliner, paired with dark lipstick. No highlighter in sight. Those were the days where makeup looked like makeup, a little heavy, a little savage. Twenty-year-old Paige was young, cheeks round, figure almost plump. She’d carried more weight then, “baby fat” her mother called it. Her hair was short, above her shoulders. She must have had a perm because it was a curly honey blond. The permanent looked dreadful. She didn’t know how to style it well, and the big hair did nothing for her full face. But the twenty-year-old girl she’d been didn’t seem to know or care. She looked happy. Exuberant.
Paige turned a few more pages, skimming through the photos of the field trip to Provence, before finding the picture she been looking for: Jack.
Jack.
Her heart did a painful little jump, making her chest squeeze.
Amazing how thirty years later, he still did a number on her heart.
* * *
At breakfast the next morning after they’d been seated, had ordered, and were savoring their coffee, Paige asked how Elizabeth’s mom was doing that morning. “Is she feeling better? Or are things still strained?”
“In a better mood. We went through some of the old yearbooks and she talked about some of her favorite students and what they were doing now. Out of hundreds of students over thirty-five years, only one really made it big and is still acting.”
“Who is that?”
“Nick Crawford.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Yes, you do. He does all those insurance commercials. And he does a ton of voice-over work, including lots of cartoons.”
“Is he really the only one?” Paige asked, thinking of Ashley and her odds of making it.
“There were others who worked in New York and LA, but most aren’t pursuing acting as a career anymore. I think the one that disappoints Mom the most is Margot Hughes. Mom was sure Margot would succeed. She thinks she was one of her most talented students, as well as ambitious. Do you remember Margot?”
“No.”
“She was a freshman when we were seniors. Light brown hair. Tall. Dramatic. Eccentric. She always wore cardigans draped over her shoulders. Ankle socks. Mary Janes. As if she were living in the fifties instead of the early nineties.”
“Okay, that does sound vaguely familiar,” Paige said.
“She used to hang out in Mom’s classroom, and was always talking about leaving Paso Robles, going to New York, getting an agent, making it big.”
“Did she?”
“She did go, after graduation, and Mom thought she had a real chance—” Elizabeth broke off as their breakfast was served: steaming eggs, pancakes, a side of crisp bacon. “I don’t know how long she spent in New York, but apparently she’s back in the area, working in Cambria for an escrow company. Mom wants me to reach out to Margot, but what am I supposed to say? I knew her because she was one of Mom’s favorite students, but we weren’t close.”
“If she was one of your mom’s favorites, why doesn’t she reach out?” Paige asked, shaking hot sauce onto her eggs.
“I don’t know. Mom seems to think she might need a friend.”
“It’s not as if you live in the area anymore.”
“I know. But it made Mom happy to think I was being friendly and supportive, so I’ll reach out to Margot next week at her office and give her my number and let her know that the next time I come home, it’d be fun to meet for coffee.”
“Wouldn’t Margot prefer to have coffee with your mom?”
“Mom thinks maybe Margot might feel . . . sensitive . . . since she isn’t acting anymore.”
“Or maybe Margot is really happy with her life,” Paige answered. “A lot of us get to that point where we realize we just want a stable job, a decent income, and a comfortable life. Acting doesn’t provide a lot of security. I see what Ashley’s going through, and I would never want that for myself. To be honest, I wouldn’t want it for anyone. You subject yourself to constant criticism and rejection. You put yourself out there over and over and you’re lucky to get even a small part. At this point, Ashley would just be grateful to have any role in anything.”
“Do you ever talk to Ashley about alternative careers? Does she have a backup plan?”
“No. She’s waitressing, and going to auditions, and waiting for her big break.” Paige sighed. “Or even a little break. I would be thrilled just to see her cast in something at this point.”
“I wonder how many years Margot pursued her acting career before she gave it up.”
