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But no more.
Tonight was the end of it.
* * *
It’s now or never.
Didi spied the approaching car, and her throat turned as dry as the dust spraying up from the Caddy’s tires. The babies. Her
babies. Was she making a huge mistake?
“You can do this,” she said, determined. Yes, this was the biggest con of her life, and yes, she was nervous, but it was close to going down. Heart thudding, she told herself she should feel some sense of exhilaration rather than angst, but one of her little ones started to cry, and she had to shut out the sound for fear that her damned milk would let down and gushers of milk would stain her dress despite undergarments that had been guaranteed not to let that happen. Geez, how had her life turned to such a mess, all deception and lies? She’d once been a Missouri farm girl, filled with promise and enthusiasm, but that girl, Edwina Maria Hutchinson, had died a quick death the minute she’d turned eighteen, took the bus out of the small town she’d called home, and, two days later, landed on sweet California soil. At that moment, Edie, as she’d been known in the Midwest—she had even gladly embroidered it onto her tight cheerleading sweater—had died a quick death, and Didi Storm had been born.
Even at eighteen, she’d known she’d been blessed with the face of an angel and the body of a she-devil, and she’d been certain she would take the entertainment industry by her new surname, which was one of the reasons she’d chosen it. Didi Storm. It just had such a great ring to it, y’know? However, like so many others who had believed they were the next big thing, she’d been sadly mistaken and horridly disappointed. No, she’d not become a household name like Meg Ryan or Demi Moore or Jennifer Aniston or Julia Roberts or whomever. There were dozens of women who had, and Didi had been determined to become one of them. She’d start out at the bottom, take bit parts in soap operas or do commercials, anything just to get a toehold on stardom. But it hadn’t panned out, not at all, she thought bitterly as her Cadillac hurtled through the desert. Because stupidly . . . stupidly, she’d let herself get pregnant, and all of her dreams had gone up in dust—or, more accurately, in piles of dirty diapers, sinks full of baby bottles, and long, sleepless nights with a baby girl.
If she hadn’t been so foolish as to become a teenage mother, she was still certain, she would have made the big time. Instead, she’d spent hours as a waitress in a seedy bar or going to auditions or rocking her colicky infant while staring at the television in the studio apartment she’d rented in Sherman Oaks. The tips had been okay, and at least she hadn’t had to stoop to turning tricks or fall into the trap of becoming some kind of porn star with more than one X in her name. No, she’d scraped by, and deep into the nights, though exhausted, she’d watched dozens of old movies and learned to mimic the stars of the silver screen. Marilyn Monroe, with her combination of innocence, sexy charm, and breathy voice, quickly became her favorite, and she’d practiced every nuance of the blond bombshell’s on-screen personas. But Didi hadn’t stopped with Marilyn, not when she had been able to watch hours of MTV with its endless music videos. She taped her favorites, then replayed them over and over, studying the dance moves and singing styles of the female artists she adored. Cher was the best, but Whitney Houston, Madonna, and Joan Jett all were close seconds. Didi loved the most flamboyant and independent, the pop stars and rockers who dressed to suit themselves, their costumes brilliant and outlandish, their attitudes sassy and outspoken—women she’d emulated while trapped with a sickly infant.
Yeah, pick your poison, boys, she’d thought, Didi does it all. And had for years. All because she’d drunk too much rotgut tequila one night and thrown caution to the wind. She’d ended up with a mother of a hangover that hadn’t really ever gone away, considering she’d conceived Remmi that night.
The daughter who had stopped her from getting to the big time.
The pregnancy that had started her downfall.
If she hadn’t been knocked up with Remmi, who knew how bright her own star would have shined. As it was, she’d made a name for herself of sorts by bathing in, and reflecting, the luminescence of much bigger celebrities.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath but told herself she’d learned her lesson. Now, she knew how to use a baby to get what she wanted. She just had to hold onto her nerve a little while longer.
She’d started her impersonation act as a way to put food on the table and pay the rent while still dreaming of making it big and hoping her talent would be discovered. It was a stopgap until she was discovered and soared to the heights of celebrity, but now, nearly fifteen years later, with gray hairs beginning to sprout, her boobs starting to sag, her skin not nearly as tight as it had once been, she was still doing her routine at a dive off the Strip in Sin City.
But not for long.
Nuh-uh.
Tonight was the big score.
Her eyes narrowed on the approaching car—a Mustang, from the looks of it—speeding over the dry terrain. Getting closer by the second. Near enough to spy the driver, a dark silhouette of a man who was about to be taken down a peg or two.
“Here we go.”
She slowed to a stop only twenty feet from the Mustang, whose headlights appeared to glow an evil yellow as the dust settled between the two idling cars.
“God,” she whispered, then turned in her seat and said to the two infants who were beginning to whimper, “It’s showtime.” Then as the babies started to wail, she got out of the car and opened a back door. “Shh, shh, shh, little one,” she whispered as she unbuckled one of the car seats. “Hush now. It’s time to meet your daddy.”
* * *
What?
Your daddy? Is that what Didi had said?
And what did she mean by “showtime”?
Remmi couldn’t believe her ears. Had her mother really hauled her twins out here in the middle of the damned desert at twilight to meet their father? Even for over-the-top drama queen Didi Storm, this seemed far-fetched.
And who was this guy?
As the car door slammed shut, doors locking with a resounding click, Remmi wriggled to get a better view through the crack between the back seats, but she couldn’t see anything other than headlights burning through the dusty windshield.
Didi had never named the father of her twins, even though Remmi had asked her mother over and over again, just as she had about her own father, but until this moment, Didi’s lips had been sealed about the paternity of any of her children. “Some things are better left unsaid,” she’d asserted. She’d also been vague when Remmi had wanted to know if her father knew she existed. She’d never heard one whisper from him in her entire life and had assumed he didn’t know he had a daughter. Because of Didi, whose personal mantras about men included “Keep them guessing” and “The less they know, the more they’ll want to know. Everyone wants to sniff around a secret.” In Remmi’s opinion, Didi had that one down cold. Didi’s life was more of a secret diary, as opposed to an open book, and even that very private journal had had a few dark pages ripped from its binding. “A woman needs an aura of mystery to keep a man interested,” Didi had once advised her eldest daughter. “Otherwise he’ll go sniffin’ around any horny bitch who breezes by. Ya know what I mean?” This piece of advice was followed by a knowing wink. Didi had been in full regalia, her favorite glittery Cher outfit, all netting, sequins, deep plunges, and an oversized black wig. Seated at her makeup station in her “dressing room,” which had been little more than a large closet, Didi had met Remmi’s curious gaze in the mirror as she’d applied a shimmery coat of lip gloss. “You get me?”
