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“So they say. Population thirteen thousand, feels more like three-hundred. But hey, none of L.A. is all that big. For example, I ran into Oomfaa at that yarn place the other night. I know her from the boutique.”
And knew that though she was a notorious gossip, she wasn’t always entirely reliable. Last month when she’d been trying on a selection of layered tees, she’d dished a bit about an up-and-coming actress that had turned out to be totally untrue. Which meant Marlys had new questions. Donor siblings? Fathered by a celebrity plastic surgeon? If she was going to do something with the data, she needed more confirmation than Oomfaa’s say-so.
Juliet wasn’t taking the bait and it looked as if her brief moment of sympathy was gone, too. “Marlys, what do you want?”
The end of this pain. She’d been raw for a year, her father’s death having reopened wounds she’d thought had healed over. And then Dean had come and then gone from her life and it was like acid everywhere.
Burn, burn, burn.
That Q & A at the book party hadn’t changed a thing. The resulting talk of it so far had been, frankly, tepid. On a more personal note, sure, Noah had said that her father loved her, but that didn’t alter the fact that Juliet had ruined his reputation. And Marlys still wanted payback.
Daddy issues much? Hell, yeah. But an awareness of them didn’t blunt her resentment or her pain. So she produced her excuse, the cardboard box. “More mail from the Palisades house.”
Grimacing, Juliet took the small box and dumped the contents onto the counter. A dozen or so envelopes dropped out. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”
“No trouble.” Not when she was after information. She watched the other woman reach for a knife to serve as a letter opener.
“You have Thanksgiving plans?” she asked.
Juliet paused, then drew out a sheet and started to unfold it. “I think so.” Her hands slowed again.
Marlys hid her smirk, but she could see the goody-goody’s good-mannered wheels turning. Did she think she was obligated to extend an invitation? Did she think Marlys was so hard up that she’d accept?
God, maybe she was getting soft because she couldn’t stand the stupid tension emanating from the woman. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to ask to bring my famous brussels sprouts in cream sauce to your holiday table.”
Weird, how bitter she sounded. Juliet must have noticed it, too, because she looked up and sighed again. “Marlys, if you want—”
“Of course I don’t want! I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t need anything from you. You’re not my family.”
Something in her voice brought Blackie to her at a run. Sliding to a stop at her feet, he whined. She warmed her hand on the top of her head. “I’m going over to Helen’s. Lots of dad’s friends will be there.”
Lie, lie, lie, but then, what did it matter? She hated turkey and she had a store-bought pumpkin pie in the freezer that she planned on baking and then nibbling on all day. Thanksgiving with Mrs. Smith.
Juliet moved on to the next piece of mail. “All right.”
All was so not right. And Marlys didn’t know how to cope except for in her usual way. It’s other people that you use to take out your pain. You hurt other people so you don’t have to feel a goddamned thing.
She hoped the man was right.
Juliet had opened another piece of correspondence. She unfolded a card, and then her eyes widened as she read. Her hand darted to the envelope and she turned it address-side up. “Speaking of Helen,” she muttered.
Marlys perked up. “Problem?”
“No.” Juliet stuffed the card back in the envelope. “Just that I’ve got an invitation to her party tomorrow night after all.”
“You wouldn’t dare go,” Marlys said, bristling. That damn Helen.
Juliet narrowed her eyes. “Good-bye, Marlys.”
Hell, she’d got the boot before she’d gotten her confirmation. Fingers drumming against her thigh, she was forced to follow her father’s wife toward the front door.
She only needed a teeny, tiny sign. “I’m thinking of having some Botox injections,” she mused aloud.
“You don’t say.” Clearly not caring, Juliet pulled open the front door.
“I’m thinking of seeing Dr. Frank Tucker.”
Juliet jerked around to stare at Marlys. “What?”
Hah. This time Oomfaa had it right.
“I’ll probably chicken out, though,” Marlys continued, breezing by the other woman so that she and Blackie were over the threshold. “I’ve never liked needles.”
Or pain.
Hand on Blackie’s collar, she jogged to her car and tried to remember if she had Pharmaceutical Phil’s brother’s number in her cell phone’s address book. For a moment she saw Dean in her mind’s eye, and then heard his voice in her head. Self-destructive, he’d called her. Fine.
