After the Climb Page 16

  Which meant I was laughing when Chloe came in.

  She was carrying two large, handled paper bags, both that had a simple design of a river with some rocks through which were the words RIVER RAIN.

  And she was not feeling in the mood to keep us guessing.

  She started this with, “Where’s my martini, Bowie?”

  “Honey, I got a rule. Before the liquor comes out, food goes in the stomach. So tell me what sandwich to make you. You eat it, I’ll pull out the vodka,” Bowie replied.

  “What’s happening, Chloe?” I asked.

  She dumped the bags and stomped to the island.

  “I’ll tell you what’s happening, and prepare, Bowie,” she said to Duncan. “You’ll be needing to fire somebody.”

  Uh-oh.

  I let Killer down (she wanted to greet Chloe anyway) because Duncan had had experience with Chloe. And he was a mature man and father of two sons. So he’d been trained to be aware and assessing of children, their moods and their words, no matter their age.

  But Chloe was not yet a mother, nor had she had a long-term boyfriend, though she was an adult, but barely.

  So she had not quite taken in all that made Duncan.

  And therefore, intimating that she’d been done wrong by one of his employees was not the way to handle whatever bee was buzzing her bonnet.

  Before I could intervene, she found out.

  “Who?” Duncan barked, and Chloe jumped. “And what did they do?”

  “Uh, Judge,” she said uncertainly.

  Duncan’s head twitched in confusion.

  “Judge was uncool with you?”

  Whoever this Judge was, apparently, this was out of character.

  “Okay, before this—” I tried.

  “He made fun of me,” Chloe shared.

  “Judge? Judge Oakley?” Duncan queried.

  Definitely out of character.

  “I don’t know his last name. I think he’s kind of a higher up.”

  “Yeah, Chloe, he doesn’t even work in the store. He’s in charge of our Kids and Trails program.”

  “What?” Chloe asked.

  “It’s a nationwide thing we do. Along with some fundraising Judge does to build the program, River Rain pays for field trips, mostly for inner city kids in low-income areas. We bus them out to national parks and take them on hikes.”

  Oh wow.

  I didn’t know he had that program.

  How lovely.

  My daughter sniffed. “Well, I got the sense it wasn’t his department when he butted into me buying boots.”

  “Corporate offices are attached to our Prescott store,” Duncan explained.

  “Oh,” Chloe mumbled.

  “And he was a dick to you?” Duncan asked.

  “He made fun of my booties.”

  I sighed.

  Duncan stared at her.

  “They’re Jennifer Chamandi,” she stated, as if that meant anything to Duncan.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t teasing you or maybe flirting with you?” Duncan suggested.

  “Well, yes, considering we got into an argument that I’m afraid to say was somewhat heated, on both our parts, and loud, on just my part, about how the cost of my booties would feed an entire village in Africa for a year, which they would not. I’m very aware they’re not exactly inexpensive, but they aren’t covered in diamonds. Though I don’t need some guy making me feel shitty because I’m privileged. I’m not unaware that I am and just because I don’t take inner city school kids on hikes for a living, and instead, make women feel pretty for a living, I shouldn’t be made to feel like crap.”

  Duncan was opening the bread, muttering, “I’ll have a word with him.”

  “No, you won’t,” I said.

  Duncan looked to me.

  Chloe, who had picked up Killer and was cuddling her, looked to me.

  “Mother,” Chloe said.

  I kept my eyes to Duncan. “She can fight her own battles.”

  “I don’t pay my staff to have opinions about my customers’ lifestyles,” Duncan returned.

  “Huh,” Chloe huffed to Killer, then cooed, “So true, what your daddy is saying, googoo.”

  “Duncan,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  I gave him a look.

  His eyes moved over my face.

  It took him a few moments, then he nodded.

  “Motherrrrrrr,” Chloe whined.

  I looked to her. “Is my daughter honestly standing beside me, after having an argument she should not have participated in at all, but who, let’s face it, Chloe, you probably did something to set it off, and now you’re all right with this young man’s employer having a word with him because you’re in a snit?”

  “He was a jerk,” she snapped.

  “Rise above,” I ordered.

  “I try very hard not to rise above. It takes too much energy.” She sniffed.

  I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.

  Deeply.

  “You’re very annoying, and thus tonight, I’m not inviting you to my luxurious log cabin suite and opening a bottle of wine for us to make mother-daughter memories.”

  “That would be opening a bottle of Duncan’s wine,” I corrected. “Seeing as you’re mooching off him.”

  “I am not a mooch,” she bit out.

  “Darling,” I said softly.

  She rolled her eyes, her indication it was a point she could not argue, and then stated, “Fine. You don’t get the riding boots I bought you so you can ride because I know because I gave Mary very explicit instructions about the apparel she was supposed to bring that you don’t have any suitable footwear to wear riding. And I also know you love riding, so you’ll have to go yourself to get something or not ride at all.”

  “My beautiful daughter, you’re acting about eight,” I warned her good-naturedly.

  “Ma mère chérie, please hear this and get it through your beautiful, well-coifed, but thick head, I am not ever going to act older than maybe…twelve. I will be a girl with a girl’s delights and a girl’s tantrums exercising a girl’s prerogative to change her mind and be whatever she wants to be until the day I die.”

  Duncan chuckled low, which gave indication of his approval of my daughter’s declaration.

  Yes, he liked her.

  And he might be a bit insane.

  Chloe turned to him.

  “And for the record, Bowie, I actually don’t want you to talk to Judge because Mom’s right. He’s beneath my notice.”

  I had not said that.

  I did not get the chance to correct her.

  “But I will notice a turkey and swiss sandwich with a hint of mayo and some Bugles.”

  Duncan’s “Coming right up,” vibrated with humor.

  He then got on making my girl’s sandwich.

  When he was done and passing her the plate, she declared, “Now, Killer and I are retiring to my balcony. Mother, you may attend me in thirty minutes whereupon you’ll give me a detailed minute by minute breakdown of why I walked in on you and Bowie in what is apparently lovely domesticity with a romantic fire crackling in the background.”

  “That won’t be happening, daughter mine, since Bowie and I are having lunch then we’re going into town so I can introduce him to Cookie.”

  “Huh,” she huffed.

  Then she, and her plate, with Killer, walked out of the room.

  And just to say, both Rocco and Shasta weren’t far behind.

  “Babe. Sandwich?” Duncan called my attention to him.

  I gave him my order. He made it. He then got on making his own while I got on eating mine.

  He did not skimp on meat or cheese.

  It was fabulous.

  We were both munching when his phone skidded across the island.

  “Pic of Judge,” he grunted, and then took a huge bite.

  I picked up the phone, and on it saw a man wearing a River Rain tee, standing next to and laughing with a child, his hand curled a
round the back of the kid’s neck.

  Ash blond hair. High forehead. Brown eyes. Manly nose. Firm jaw. Great chin. Excellent stubble. Broad shoulders. Slim hips. Tall frame. Fantastic smile.

  “Oh, dear Lord, it’s Ryan Reynolds,” I whispered in horror.

  “She is absolutely not his type,” Duncan declared.

  With even more horror, my gaze shot to his.

  He kept talking.

  “Which means, when he got a load of her, and fell, he went up to her and picked a fight to prove to himself she was not the woman who was going to keep him from sleeping until he puts a ring on it. Even though this effort failed because every other woman he meets trips all over herself to do his bidding and he’s not a fan of that. He didn’t hike Machu Pichu to come home and find a woman who would fawn all over him.”

  “He hiked Machu Pichu?”

  “Twice.”

  Oh boy.

  “Chloe’s has an exceptional education, but there is a good possibility she doesn’t know what Machu Pichu is,” I shared.

  “She’s gonna find out.”

  Oh boy.

  “Is she going to chew him up and spit him out?”

  “He’ll hold his own.”

  I got to the harder part.

  “Puts a ring on it?”

  “He’ll deny it but he’s probably right now trying to figure out where he can run into her again, if only to have another fight.”

  “Oh my,” I murmured. “She will, of course, have dropped your name.”

  “Which means we’re going out to dinner since he’s coming over tonight and I’m enjoying my day too much. I don’t want to have ‘the talk’ with a man I respect about how he better treat Chloe right or I’ll break his neck.”

  And again…

  I was giggling.

  “Eat up, Gen,” he ordered, jerking his chin to my plate. “I wanna meet your cat.”

  He was going to love Cookie.

  So I obliged.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Cell

  Imogen

  The next morning, I lay on my side in bed, Cookie curved into the crook of my body, and although I had a view across the room to the charming square, I wasn’t looking at it.

  Instead, I was scrolling up and down on my phone, reading the same thing over and over again.

  Duncan: You up, baby?

  Me: Yes.

  Duncan: Morning.

  Me: Good morning.

  Duncan: You going riding with Coco?

  Me: If she gives me my boots.

  Duncan: [smiley face] You girls ride Caramel or Streak. Don’t get on Pistol. Gage’s stallion only likes Gage on his back. You gotta be strong to control him.

  Me: OK

  Duncan: See you at lunch.

  Me: You bet.

  And that was it.

  When we were together before, cell phones had not yet been invented.

  Why having a text string with Duncan meant so much to me, made me feel girlie and young and giddy, I didn’t know.

  And I didn’t question it.

  I just lay in bed, with what I knew had to be a silly grin on my face, going back and forth over the words.

  There was a knock on the door and Cookie immediately moved to investigate.

  I looked at the clock.

  Apparently, I was so involved in that text string, I lost track of the time.

  I had a standing order for breakfast delivery at nine o’clock.

  And it was nine o’clock.

  On the dot.

  I pulled myself out of bed quickly, shrugged on my robe, tied it tight and went to the door.

  “Good morning, Patrick,” I greeted.

  “Ms. Swan,” the staffer replied. “Breakfast.”

  I stepped aside to let him in. “Thank you.”

  He rolled the food to the bistro table.

  I went to my wallet.

  I had his tip out before he was finished setting out my breakfast, and I took that moment, watching him, to remember that Duncan and I had spent the entire afternoon, and evening, in that room the day before.

  In our Corey-free, ex-free, trouble-free zone, we still managed to talk about everything.

  At least everything important.

  His boys. What they were into. The girls they’d loved and left, and how much that had pained Duncan because he had liked them all (the man really needed a daughter…or two step ones). How River Rain came about. His work on his causes. The Kids and Trails program. My children. My work. The movies I was proud of. The ones that didn’t turn out all that great. My semi-retirement where I might take a meaningful, but small part in a film, or an amusing cameo.

  With years to catch up on, we were not wanting for topics of conversation.

  Though, this was mingled with lots of touching, cuddling and kissing on the couch, then after dinner, more of that, but hotter and heavier on the bed.

  And, of course, in the midst of that, Duncan fell for Cookie.

  Then again, Cookie was a flirt.

  And we called for room service and ate dinner right there at that table.

  Honestly, at the end of the evening, I didn’t want him to go home. I wanted him to spend the night with me.

  But Duncan wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I know it might not seem like it,” he said, “but this has happened fast. And I wanna leave like I wanna cut off a limb, but I think it’s smart, at least for a while, we take it slow.”

  He was right, of course. Although it took twenty-eight years to get to that place, it had only taken a couple of days to get back to us.

  “And anyway, I need to get my ass home to make sure Coco hasn’t covered my den in florals and chintz,” he finished.

  This meant our goodbye kiss was through me laughing.

  Now, Patrick had finished with my breakfast, and he was rolling out.

  I gave him his tip and went to the bed to retrieve my phone.

  I’d already fed Cookie (she was a love, but she didn’t put up with delayed breakfast), brushed my teeth and washed my face.

  Then, I’d gone back to bed.

  Now, I was very ready for coffee.

  So I grabbed my phone, and then settled in at the table with Cookie in what she’d decided was her place when I ate (and Duncan wasn’t there).

  Sitting on the seat next to me, peering over the table, watching me.

  Sienna Sinclair definitely had it together. Not only was her staff professional, obviously discrete, and friendly, and every inch of her hotel that I had seen was amazing, the layout of my breakfast honest to God reminded me of the times I’d spent at the Ritz in Paris.

  The butter was molded into flower shapes. The bowls of jam and little pitchers of cream were crystal. The coffee pot was silver. The china was, well…china. They covered the table with a fresh, crisp linen before placing the food, and they always included a little vase with a flower.

  Today’s was a cluster of pink sweetheart roses.

  And the croissants were perfection. The jam homemade. And the bowl of Greek yogurt and blackberries, sprinkled with granola and striped with local honey was rich and delicious.

  I tucked in and was through my first croissant, half the yogurt and pouring my second cup of coffee when my phone rang.

  I looked to it and saw it was Stephanie. Stephanie Giron. My friend.

  And agent.

  Even if I rarely worked, we spoke often. Because now was the time when work was less, so after the fifteen years we’d been together, we could concentrate on being friends.

  I picked up the phone. “Hey, Steph.”

  “You…will not…believe this.”

  I tensed, thinking it might have to do with Duncan and me.

  As far as I knew, no one had gotten another picture of us since El Gato, and I was no longer the hot topic I used to be, so I would assume that had died.

  But you never knew.

  “Teddy is putting together a new series. He’s been shopping it around, and unsurprisingly wi
th one of Teddy’s vehicles, two networks and three streaming services are very interested. But they want to know what name is attached. And he wants it to be yours.”

  Frozen, I stared unseeing out the window.

  Teddy was Theodore Mankowitz, the creator of Rita’s Way.

  He had, since then, done another long-lasting, popular, acclaimed series. And as such, now his name was synonymous with sensitive, thoughtful, high-quality television that tackled real-life, real-people issues.

  Back in the day, we’d hit on unplanned pregnancies and cancer, but also homosexuality, including the ravages of AIDs through that community, mixed race relationships, addiction, and my favorite storyline, when Rita met a younger man.

  Rita, whose character was only a few years older than the age I was now, met a man in his early forties. They fell in love. It was beautiful and so well portrayed by Maggie Mae, the actress who played Rita, and Gordon Fuller, the man who played her love interest, Troy.

  However, it was unpopular.

  So much so, it was the first time Teddy caved.

  He’d intended them to mix families (Rita with full-grown children, Troy with early teenagers) and marry them off so Rita could finally have some happy.

  In the end, Teddy broke them up because the public saw Rita as a cougar and was turning on this beloved matriarch who, by that time, for eight seasons had the adoration of our viewers.

  It had infuriated me, and Maggie, not to mention Gordon, who was then written off the show.

  But even though Rita’s ex, Kenny, had married a woman in her freaking thirties (before he’d died in that terrible car accident), and they were okay with that, Rita could not have her man.

  I always thought we’d all reacted poorly to that and it was one of the reasons the show wound down. Teddy felt like a failure that arc didn’t work. And the rest of us were disappointed at the reaction of the fans.

  “And before you start in,” Steph said in my ear, “he sent me the pilot script, and Gen, it’s phenomenal. Think Thirtysomething but with a fifty-somethings cast and Sex and the City.”

  Not a chance.

  “That doesn’t sound phenomenal, Steph. Sex and the City?”

  “I know. But remember. This is Teddy.”

  I took a sip of coffee, because that was something to consider.

  “I read the script, Gen, and would I honestly come to you with this if I didn’t think you’d like it?” Steph asked. “It’s funnier than his normal stuff, but just as deep. There isn’t a character, male or female, under the age of forty-eight who is not ancillary. It’s a female-driven show. It’s sexy. It’s smart. These characters are vital and real. And he told me, outside the networks he’s pushing it to, he hasn’t shown it to anyone, because he wants you.”