J. Kenner - Take Me

The truth is, I know that I look good. It’s not possible to have entered and won as many pageants as I have and still hem and haw and pretend not to know how you look. Objectively, I’m pretty. Not movie star gorgeous—that’s Jamie—but I’m pretty, maybe even beautiful, and I know how to hold myself well. Under other circumstances, I’d be standing tall, knowing that I passed the inspection of anyone who took the time to look me over. But these are not ordinary circumstances, and I am suddenly feeling like an awkward teen, desperate for my mother’s approval. And the thing I hate the most? That soft look in her eyes only moments before. She’d knocked me off kilter, and now I don’t know what to expect. My defenses are down, and I’m left hoping for affection, like some lost puppy that followed her home looking for a handout.

It’s not a feeling I like.

“Well,” she finally says, “I suppose if you’re going to wear your hair short, that style is as good as it’s going to get.”

My rigid posture slumps ever so slightly, and I look down so that she can’t see the tears pricking my eyes. I really am that puppy, and she’s just kicked the shit out of me. I can either cower, or I can bare my teeth and fight back. And damn me all to hell, but the cowering almost wins out.

Then I remember that I’m not Elizabeth Fairchild’s pretty little dress-up doll anymore. I’m Nikki Fairchild, the owner of her own software company, and I’m more than capable of defending my own damn haircut. I suck in a breath, lift my head, and almost look my mother in the eyes. “It’s shoulder-length, Mother. It’s not like I’ve been shaved for the Marines. I think it’s flattering.” I flash my perfect pageant smile. “Damien likes it, too.”

She sniffs. “Darling, I wasn’t criticizing. I’m your mother. I’m on your side. I just want you to look your best.”

What I want is to tell her to turn around and go home. But the words don’t come. “I wasn’t expecting you,” I say instead.

“Why would you be?” she asks airily. “After all, it’s not as if you invited me to your wedding.”

Um, hello? Did you really think I would after the things you said? After you made it clear that you don’t like Damien? That you don’t respect me? That you think I’m a slut who’s only interested in his money?

That’s what I want to say, but the words don’t come. Instead, I shrug, feeling all of ten, and say simply, “I didn’t think you’d want to be here.”

I watch, astonished, as my mother’s ramrod straight posture sags a bit. She reaches a hand back, then takes hold of the armrest and lowers herself onto the couch. I peer at her and am astonished at an emotion on her face, one I’m not sure I’ve ever seen there before—my mother actually looks sad.

I move to the chair opposite her and sit, watching and waiting.

“Oh, Nichole, sugar, I just—” She cuts herself off, then digs into her purse for a monogrammed handkerchief, which she uses to dab her eyes. Her Texas twang is more pronounced than usual, and I recognize that as a sign of high drama to follow. But there are no tears, no histrionics. Instead, she says very softly and very simply, “I just wanted to spend some time with you. My baby girl’s getting married. It’s bittersweet.”

She reaches out, as if she intends to take my hand, but draws hers back into her lap. She clasps her hands together and straightens her posture, then takes a deep breath as if steeling herself. “I think about your wedding, and I can’t help but remember your sister’s. I want . . .”

But she doesn’t finish the sentence, and so I do not know what she wants. As for me, I don’t know when, but I’ve risen to my feet, and have turned away so that she can’t see the heavy tears now streaming down my cheeks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, determined not to think of Ashley, and even more determined not to think of the hand that my mother had in her suicide. But these thoughts are hard ones to banish, because they have lived inside me for so long. And now—well, now I can’t help but wonder if this is my mother’s way of showing remorse.

Or am I simply being a fool and wishing, perhaps futilely, that there is a détente to be had between my mother and me.

“Cupcakes.” My mother’s voice is flat, but her smile is perky and falsely polite. She’s speaking to Sally Love, the owner of Love Bites. It’s one of the most popular bakeries in Beverly Hills. Sally has catered dozens of celebrity functions, has been featured in every food and dessert magazine known to man, and is a longtime friend of Damien’s. She’s also an artist with icing and a pleasure to work with.

I am terrified my mother is going to offend her.

Mother’s smile stretches wider. “What a perfectly charming idea. And was that your suggestion?” she asks Sally.

“I believe in working with my clients to figure out exactly what they want, to make their event not only special but uniquely theirs.”

“In other words, you don’t feel bound by tradition or societal expectations?” Her words are venomous, but her tone and manner are so polite that it’s hard to tell if she’s being deliberately offensive or making genuine conversation. I know the answer because I know my mother, and I step in and flash my own perky smile.

“I’m completely in love with the cupcake idea. I saw it in a magazine and it seemed like the perfect way to combine tradition and whimsy.” I turn to Sally, purposefully excluding my mother. “So we’re good to go on the top tier, right?”

Sally grins, displaying rosy cheeks that make me think of Mrs. Claus and Christmas cookies. She’s probably only ten years older than me, but there’s something maternal and soothing about her. I can understand why she does so many wedding cakes. She can calm a nervous bride with nothing more than a look.

“We’re all set,” she assures me. “But we do need to narrow down the choices for the cupcakes.” The plan is to have five different flavors of cupcakes—one for each of the tiers—so the guests can pick their favorite. Additional cupcakes—in case anyone wants seconds—will be scattered artfully on the table, mixed with the fresh wildflowers I have on order from the florist. Daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes that remind me of the incredible arrangement Damien sent me after the night we first met.

Sally nods to the table set up at the back of the storefront, elegantly draped in white linen. It’s topped with a row of ten tiny cakes. “I thought you might want to refresh your memory.”

I laugh. “Even if I’d already decided, you know I’d have to sit down and taste those.” I glance at my mother as I head toward the table. “Do you want to try, too? They’re all amazing.”

Mother’s brows lift sky high, and I wonder when my mother last had a carb that didn’t come from a lettuce leaf or a glass of wine. “I don’t think so.”

I shrug. “Suit yourself,” I say, and see my mother’s lips purse as I settle behind the table. “More for me.”

The first cake is a tiny cheesecake. It’s Damien’s favorite, and I restrain myself from taking a bite because I’m going to ask Sally if I can take it home for him. I can think of all sorts of interesting negotiations we could have if he’s bargaining for cheesecake.

I smile as I taste the next cake, not because I’m a fan of red velvet, but because I’m imagining all those possibilities. The next is a deep, delicious chocolate that I savor with a moan that is almost sexual. Sally laughs. “That cake gets that a lot.”

“It totally stays,” I say, then grin wickedly at her. “In fact, let’s have a dozen packed up to take with us on the honeymoon.”

We’re laughing, and Sally’s asking me about the honeymoon, and I’m telling her that it’s a secret even from me—a Damien Stark surprise—when my mother clicks her way over on her nail-point heels. She stops in front of me, effectively ending my moment of bridal bonding with Sally.

“Chocolate, yellow, white,” she says. “A pound cake. A cheesecake. If you insist on doing cupcakes at least stick with traditional flavors.”

“I don’t know,” I say, taking a second bite of the cupcake I’m working on. “This one—butternut?—is to die for.”

“It’s very popular,” Sally says. “But try the strawberry.”

My mother reaches over and snatches the fork out of my hand. For a moment, I’m fool enough to think that she’s going to get in the spirit and try the cake. But all she does is point the tines at me. “Honestly, Nichole,” she says, in a tone that leaves no doubt that I have committed some heinous sin. “Are you trying to ruin your wedding? Have you thought about your waist? Your hips? Not to mention your skin!”

She turns to Sally, who is clearly struggling to wipe the expression of appalled shock off her face. “Bless her little heart,” my mother says, in a tone that practically drips sugar, “but my Nichole isn’t a girl who can eat cake and then get into something as form-fitting as a wedding gown.”

“Nikki is a lovely young woman,” Sally says firmly. “And I’m sure she’s going to look stunning at her wedding.”

“Of course she will,” my mother says, her voice sounding farther and farther from me. It’s as if I’m sliding back, moving down some tunnel, away from her, away from Sally, away from everything.

“That’s why I’m here,” Mother adds, her tone entirely reasonable. “My daughter knows she has no self-control about things that are bad for her—cakes, candy, men,” she adds in a stage whisper. “I’ve always been there to help her keep her eye on the prize.”

“I see,” Sally says, and I have a feeling she sees more than my mother wants.

As for me, even from the depths of this well into which I’ve fallen, I am seething. I want to leap out of my chair and tell my mother that she’s never helped me, she’s only manipulated me. That she’s not interested in what I want, but only what I look like and how I act and if I’m presenting an image that stands up to the Fairchild name—a name that’s not worth what it used to be since she took over—and decimated—the oil business that she inherited when my grandfather passed away.

I want to say all of that, but I don’t. I just sit there, my plastic smile on my face, hating myself for not moving. For not telling her to get the hell back to Texas.

But what I hate even more is the fact that I’m now clutching the second fork in my hand, and it’s under the table, and the tines are pressing hard into my leg through the thin material of my skirt. I don’t want to—I know I need to stop, to stand up, to simply get the hell out of there if that’s what it takes—but whatever strength has been building in me over the last few months has scattered like dandelion fluff under the assault of a ferocious wind.

“Nikki,” Sally begins, and I can’t tell if the concern in her voice is because of my mother’s speech or if she sees some hint of my struggle on my face. It doesn’t matter, though, because her words are cut off by the electronic door chime.

I look up, then draw in a breath. The tunnel disappears and my vision returns. The fork tumbles from my hand to the floor, and I realize I’ve stood up.

It’s Damien—and he is moving like a bullet toward me.

I head around the table, unconcerned about anything else. He stops in front of me, his face hard, his eyes warm but worried. “Turns out I could work the cake thing into my schedule, after all.”

I try not to smile, but the corners of my mouth twitch, and I feel tears of relief prick my eyes. “I’m glad.”

He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “You okay?”

“I’m perfect,” I say. “At least, I am now.”

The worry fades from his eyes, and I know that he believes me. He takes my hand, then turns to face my mother. “Mrs. Fairchild. What a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the kind of overly polite voice that suggests there’s nothing remotely pleasant about this particular surprise.

“Mr. Stark—Damien—I—” She stops abruptly, and I am amused. My mother is very rarely rendered speechless, but the last time she and Damien met he sent her away, effectively getting rid of her by flying her back to Texas on one of his jets. And that was before she’d said the variety of nasty things she’s since uttered about the two of us. I have to wonder if she doesn’t now fear that her ride out of California this go-round will be significantly less pleasant.

Damien, however, is the picture of cultured politeness. “It was so kind of you to come with Nikki today. I think we both know how valuable your opinion is to her.” My mother’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I can tell that she wants to reply, to lash out with the sweet sting of words that she’d want to cut him as deeply as a blade has cut me, but they clearly don’t come. I’m not surprised. My mother is formidable, but Damien is more so.