Ain't She Sweet (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers #2) - Whitney Dineen Page 0,93
their wedding cake.”
“Holy crap,” my mom says. “Remind me to never make you mad.”
“Right?” I’m practically giddy. “I’ve decided I’m going to make their cake for them after all.”
“Are you using a sardine butter cream or something?”
I shrug my shoulders before answering, “Probably not, but you better believe Cash will be afraid to eat it wondering what I’m going to do to it.”
“That girl never knew when to let things go, did she?”
I think back to my history with Cash of how she’d bad-mouth me to photographers and clients alike. Luckily, most of them saw it for the sour grapes it was, but I still didn’t appreciate her smack talk.
I tell my mom, “I’m going to head to the kitchen and get to work. Plan on meeting us in the dining room at five for our Thanksgiving celebration, okay?”
She nods her head. “I was going to have breakfast in the dining room, but maybe I should steer clear.”
“Don’t!” I assure her. “Go on in and say hi to Romaine. Tell him how excited you are to be invited to his wedding.”
“You’re not really planning to go, are you?”
“You bet I am,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Oh my god, Tara, why would you put yourself through that?”
“I’m totally over Romaine, Mom. In fact, James and I are officially dating now. I need to show up so no one can speculate that I’m heartbroken, which I’m not. Showing them that I’ve moved on is the only way they’re going to believe it.”
“You’re enjoying this,” she guesses.
“You bet I am.” I release a shiver of pure joy before giving her a quick hug. Then I hurry into the restroom to splash some cold water on my face.
Two other women are washing their hands when I walk in. They both turn to look at me with clear recognition in their eyes. How could they not know who I am after this morning’s spectacle in the dining room.
One woman says, “You were way better for Romaine than Cash will ever be.”
“Nonsense,” I tell her. “Romaine and Cash are birds of a feather. I’m happy to be away from that life. I love living here in Oregon.”
The other woman reapplies her lipstick before saying, “Happiness is the best revenge.”
I smile at them both before going into a stall to hide. I don’t want to have to keep making small talk with them. After they leave, more people come in, so I decide to wait it out. I hear one woman say, “You were supposed to dig up some dirt.”
Rachel, of all people, replies, “There’s no dirt to be had, Monique. I wrote about the real Tara.”
“For a hundred grand, you should have made something up,” comes the heated response.
“That’s not how I roll, and you know it,” Rachel tells her.
“Then you’d better look for another job. Tabloids don’t make the money they do by printing the saccharine sweet drivel you turned in.”
“Are you firing me?” Rachel demands.
“You bet your sweet ass I am. I’m not going to keep you on the payroll unless you’re willing to do the job you were hired for.”
“Making stuff up?” Rachel clarifies.
“Writing what the public wants to read about. Sometimes that means being creative with the truth.” Poor Rachel. While I’m not glad she lost her job, I am glad that she has some ethics. The door to the bathroom opens and closes again. I assume they’ve both left.
But when I walk out, I see Rachel leaning against the sink. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “I suppose you heard that,” she says.
“I did.” With sincerity, I tell her, “I’m sorry you got fired on my account, but I’m not sorry you won’t be working at the Tattler anymore. You’re too good for them.”
“I agree, but now I live in one of the most expensive places in the world and I don’t have a job.”
“Can’t you get work at a newspaper other than the LA Times?”
She shakes her head. “Newspapers are dinosaurs. All but the top dogs are cutting their staff back to next to nothing.”
“Most people do everything online these days,” I agree. Then an idea hits me. “Why don’t you leave LA and move someplace a lot cheaper and get a job writing online?”
“Yeah, but where?” she asks, sounding like she might consider such a suggestion.
“You told me how beautiful you think Oregon is. You could move here.” The words are out of my mouth before I really think about what I’m suggesting. A