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Alexandria stomped her yellow, high-heeled sandal against the floor, scuffing the polished hardwood. Nothing was going her way this morning. Life was blowing raspberries at her.
This morning, when she’d looked closely at her reflection in the mirror, she’d found a gray eyebrow hair.
A. Gray. Eyebrow. Hair.
She was only thirty-six… it wasn’t fair. Not when she still looked twenty-five-ish. People thought she was Alana’ssister, not her mother. She’d just started dating again. Living again.
Well, not exactly dating, she thought, holding herself honest, her eyes glistening at her reflection in the mirror.
She had naturally thin eyebrows, but she didn’t hesitate. She wiped her tears with the back of her hands and sniffled, deciding it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a sign of aging; it couldn’t be. It had to be some chemical imbalance. Maybe she needed to stock up on some vitamins and start downing them by the fistful in the mornings, like those health freaks on TV. She picked up the tweezers with a steady hand and plucked the offending hair out, leaving an empty spot. Then she arranged the remaining hairs with a tiny round brush until they lined up perfectly.
There. Disaster averted.
One disaster, anyway.
The other one, her rebellious, defiant daughter Alana, was an ongoing crisis requiring immense patience. Soon to be going to college, the breathtakingly beautiful seventeen-year-old blonde had inherited her mother’s good looks, reminding Alexandria constantly that, at her daughter’s age, she used to be someone. Precisely eighteen years ago, proudly wearing the Miss Wyoming crown on the head she held up high, she’d made second runner-up in the Miss United States pageant. It was the year America suddenly remembered all the islands it owned and felt obligated to acknowledge them by corrupting the beauty pageants from sea to shining sea. The crown went to Hawaii, the first runner-up to Puerto Rico. It was obvious the competition was rigged.Everyoneloved blondes more than brunettes.
Gutted by searing disappointment, the brokenhearted blonde didn’t see the doors that were opening for her even as a second runner-up. Aimless, she sought solace in the readily available arms of a recently discharged Army ranger from her native Wyoming by the name of Billy Joe.
A week later, she accompanied Billy Joe to see his doctor, desperate to find something to do with her time that would take her mind off the stupid pageant. The following Saturday, she was dining at one of San Francisco’s finest restaurants with Billy Joe’s orthopedic surgeon, a Dr. Aaron Keaney, originally from Kentucky. As for Billy Joe, she never saw him again.
Four months later, she was pregnant with Aaron’s baby. Another three months later, they were married at the St. Ignatius Church in downtown San Francisco, in front of a few of her family and friends and hundreds of Aaron’s.
And so, her old life ended abruptly, and her new life began. A life some would call comfortable, a life many could only dream of. For Alexandria, it was a life of solitude and boredom, of watching her beauty wither under the stretching and sagging realities of motherhood. Aaron was constantly busy, working at the hospital, giving speeches, teaching at Stanford Medicine, or appearing on television as an expert in traumatic injuries of the rich and famous, from the likes of Tom Cruise or Keanu Reeves who broke bones performing their own stunts on set, to NBA and NFL players with names even she was familiar with. Meanwhile, she took to college, but college wasn’t the least bit fun for an expectant mother. One semester later, she’d put everything on hold until she’d have more time and she’d regain the physical appearance of a college girl.
It didn’t happen for years. Eventually, she went back and finished her degree in business with lackluster performance and increasing disinterest. She never worked in her chosen field; in fact, the only time she used any of the knowledge acquired in college was when she negotiated her divorce settlement. It came swiftly after she caught Aaron sexting with a second-year resident, a freckled red-haired stunner with long legs and big, round blue eyes, by the name of Rachelle.
Alexandria had cried herself to sleep for exactly one night after seeing evidence of Aaron’s betrayal. The insult of being cheated on faded quickly when she realized she was being offered the opportunity to be free again. Unlike she remembered freedom from her days in beauty pageants as an impoverished girl from Wyoming, she would have money. And that was real freedom.
Alexandria had a lot to be grateful for to Rachelle. The comfortable house in Mount Chester, a sizeable alimony for herself until she remarried and for Alana until she turned twenty-five, and two million dollars in cash were the terms of the divorce settlement. Aaron got to keep the San Francisco apartment and most of his money, and their divorce never turned ugly.
Of course, Alana stayed with her. In the rapidly growing blonde angel, a cutting streak of her father’s stubbornness surfaced on every occasion mother and daughter disagreed. That happened mostly every day, about almost everything.
Then Alana bloomed into a teenager with looks that reminded Alexandria of whom she used to be. But not in a way that made her feel proud; rather, in bouts of painful realization that she was growing old, a used-to-be, while the defiant blonde rebel was slowly replacing her, taking all the limelight.
The future was hers; Alexandria was the past.
It took Alana’s entire first year of college for her mother to come to terms with what was going on. Alexandria struggled to find new purpose; she even went to therapy for a few months, but eventually, she did. Zeroing in on her daughter with the precision and inescapability of a laser-guided missile, she decided she was going to give Alana everything she wished she had when she was young. Perfect looks, access to all the right circles, a Stanford education. (Stanford, just because the assholes at Harvard wouldn’t know what was good for them if it hit them in the head, and they had rejected Alana’s application.)
Alexandria was getting another shot at stardom through her daughter, but still. She was back in the game. With renewed fervor, she orchestrated the perfect life path for her daughter.
Then she’d met The Stud—as she liked to call him—and had rediscovered carnal passion in the arms of a rather self-centered, younger man with gorgeous eyes and a level of skill between the sheets she hadn’t dreamed of. Within weeks, she’d become addicted to him, waiting for his messages like a teenager, hoping she’d see him every day. But her new lover was a slippery bastard, keeping Alexandria on tenterhooks, probably part of the heady game he played.
Every day she got dressed, she hoped he’d be the one to undress her. New Fleur du Mal satin bodysuits, Cosabella sleep rompers, and La Perla lace lingerie had recently occupied her dresser drawers, raising Alana’s eyebrows occasionally.
This morning was no different. A skin-colored demi bra and panties set from Fleur du Mal with luscious, embroidered accents made her slender body look like a lingerie model walking the runway. A white, low-high maxi skirt in shimmering satin that hugged her long, toned legs and a bright yellow top gave her a buoyant, youthful look, a perfect fit for the serene summer day she had planned for her daughter and herself.
But Alana wasn’t ready; she was never ready on time unless she was going out for a date. They were running late for her appointment, and Alexandria was running out of patience. She was taking her daughter to the dentist, the best one north of the Golden Gate, to be re-evaluated after she’d stayed the Invisalign course for a year. Her smile still needed a little work.
“Are you coming already?” Alexandria called, stomping her right heel rhythmically, her hands propped firmly on her hips. Her voice carried over the large, open-concept living room, followed by silence. “Alana?” she called, her voice starting to sound threatening.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” Alana finally replied, rushing across the floor in a white, off-shoulder top, ridiculously short Daisy Dukes, and bedazzled flip-flops. “You’d say the house is on freakin’ fire.”
“You’re not going to the dentist dressed like that,” Alexandria said, steeling her voice as much as she could.
“You got that right, ’cause I’m not going to the dentist.” She tied her long hair in a ponytail with quick, precise movements. The blue scrunchie she’d chosen was covered in sequins. Long strands of silver beads stemmed from it, clinking gently with every move she made.
“Yes, you are.” Alexandria cut into her path. “And you know why?” Her question was a dare Alana should choose to not answer.
