I’m pretty sure I can forgive my mom’s new pastry chef for being a giant pain in my butt as long as she knows how to make a decent donut.
Tara Heinz, aka “Heinzie,” the best butt of our generation, might be gorgeous to look at but she’s headstrong, obstinate, and downright rude. The combination makes it nearly impossible to think of her as the same person whose Sports Illustrated covers used to hang on the walls of my bedroom during my high school years.
Chapter Three
Gwen
After carrying a new container of eggs to the front door, Gwen throws half of them in the direction of her unwanted guests. As far as she knows, there’s no law against egging her own yard. The added bonus of hitting one or two of the annoying paparazzi puts a big smile on her face.
Once she hears a loud, “Damn! I think she’s throwing eggs at us!”, she closes the door and walks through the house to the back patio.
Sitting down on her porch swing, she punches Tara’s number into her phone. As soon as voicemail picks up, she demands, “Did you purposely call when you knew I couldn’t answer? You know I volunteer at the hospital Wednesday mornings.
“I’m going to take you up on the invitation to come to Oregon over Thanksgiving. Your brother and Kelly are bringing the kids home for Christmas, so I won’t be able to travel then. I’m going to stay a full week so be prepared to dazzle me with your new life.
“Also, I know you’re actively avoiding the tabloids and I wouldn’t bring this up, but I’m pretty sure you might want to be prepared in case the rags find you.
“I saw the front page of The Tattler while I was checking out at the grocery store this morning. They’re reporting that Cash and Romaine are quite the item now. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it, but after the troubles you two girls have had over the years, I thought you should know.
“What else? Oh, yeah, I ran into Elderflower Johnson at Whole Foods. She’s started a vegan breakfast cereal line called Gogi. I swear, every time I see that girl she looks like she just sparked a righteous doobie.
“All right, that’s all for now. Call me back when I can actually talk with you.”
Tara
After putting the clafoutis in the oven and pouring spiced rum over a bowl full of raisins to soak for a bread pudding I’m trying out for the Christmas menu, I take a break to listen to my voicemail messages. My mom is the only person in my life who refuses to text.
“Call me back when I can actually talk,” she says. How am I supposed to know when she’ll be available to talk? Mom and I have always been close. We saw the world together. She chaperoned me when I traveled for work before I turned eighteen, but we don’t share a psychic link that I know of.
Of course, it wasn’t just me and Mom. There was Dad and Dillon, too. Dad stayed home with my brother while we were away. I often wondered if I was part of the reason my parents got divorced. It couldn’t have been easy on them to be apart so much. I carry the guilt of my suspicions, but have never come right out and asked. I don’t think I could handle having my fears confirmed.
After putting my phone back in my pocket, I get to work on tonight’s dessert special. While separating yolks to add to the marsala wine and sugar I have simmering over a water bath for the sabayon—there’s nothing like a light custard when you want something sweet without being heavy—I reflect back on the beginning of my modeling career.
My mom and I had been shopping for back-to-school clothes at the Galleria when an agent from Ford Models walked up to us. She handed over her business card and told us she’d only ever approached one other girl like that. Mindy Brayford. I remember thinking that if I could be half as successful as Mindy, I’d finally have revenge for the torture Jennifer Freightman and her catty gang of pubescent clones caused me at school.
Jennifer was tiny, cute, and way higher on the social food chain than I’d ever been. For some reason, she made it her life’s work to bash me every chance she got. I was insecure enough without her constantly holding her popularity over my head. The morning