And the bits about how “Little CC” and “indie darling Kate Hayes” are having “tense times”—that really bummed her out. How did they know?
On the bright side, at least they hadn’t mentioned anything about her interest in Scientology—something she’d jokingly mentioned to Fawn (who’d been so absorbed in selecting lipsticks at Sephora that she’d probably taken Carmen seriously).
“I’m so glad I have friends like you guys,” Carmen said now. “Let’s hit Maxfield’s and burn off some of these calories with shopping.”
“I thought you were going to your parents’ house,” Lily said.
“Later,” Carmen said. “First, I’m going to spend a month’s rent on shoes.”
When Carmen got to her parents’ front door that evening, she paused and wondered if she should knock. Sure, she had a key—but she didn’t live here anymore.
She rang the doorbell, and a moment later her mother was standing in the doorway, backlit in golden light from the hall chandelier.
Cassandra laughed gaily. “Come in, you goose, and never ring the doorbell again. Doorbells are for canvassers and Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
“Uh, I forgot my key,” Carmen said.
She didn’t want to make her mother feel bad. Now that they’d made up (even if the tabloids were continuing to report otherwise), she was careful not to make things weird between them again. They’d had lunch a couple times since their fight, but tonight was the first time Carmen had been back to her childhood home.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Cassandra said. “I’ve got a giant chicken in the oven.”
Carmen followed her into the spotless white kitchen, fragrant with garlic and rosemary and lemon. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Having a place to call her own was great in a lot of ways, but the kitchen she shared with Kate never smelled like anything but burnt coffee or takeout.
Compared to her Topanga Canyon home, living in her Park Towers apartment felt like living in a hotel. One lacking room service and a maid.
Carmen swiped an olive and a cherry tomato and popped them both in her mouth at the same time, one salty and the other sweet. “Where’s Dad?”
“Stuck in traffic. He’ll be here soon.” Cassandra emptied a container of arugula into a big wooden salad bowl. “So, what’ve you been up to lately?”
“Well, we’re filming the second season, but other than that, I’m sort of taking a break. Figuring out what to do next. What about you?”
Cassandra shrugged. “Not much. A Stevie Nicks tribute concert at Club Nokia. That’ll be nice. I like playing the smaller clubs. Reminds me of when I was starting out.” She slid a baguette toward Carmen. “Would you slice this for me?”
Carmen obeyed, and then whisked a quick vinaigrette for the salad without being asked. Her mother always put too much garlic in her salad dressing.
“How’s Luke?” Cassandra asked as she rummaged through a drawer. “Where is that meat thermometer?” she muttered.
“He’s good. I think.” Carmen paused. “We talked the other day, but what with the time difference and the long shooting hours—”
“Distance can make keeping in touch difficult,” Cassandra said.
Carmen nodded. She missed Luke a lot, actually, and she wished she knew if it was more than she ought to. Things were so . . . unstated between them. Was he thinking about her as much as she was thinking about him? There was no way to know.
Unless, of course, she simply came out and asked him. But she didn’t have the guts. How ironic: In the role of Julia Capsen, Carmen swears her undying love to him. But as herself, she couldn’t ask if she was his girlfriend. “Well, I’m sure things will work out between you two,” her mother said with a smile.
That was Cassandra: always the optimist.
Of course, it was also possible that she simply wanted to change the subject. Because when Carmen made a vague noise of assent, Cassandra launched into some long story about a feud between two of their neighbors that had ended with one of them taking a golf club to the other one’s vintage Corvette.
The chicken was done and resting on the counter, and Carmen had heard more about her neighbors than she ever cared to know, when Philip Curtis burst in through the back door.
“Smells delicious in here,” he said. He gave Cassandra a kiss that lasted a bit too long for Carmen’s taste, and then came over and grabbed Carmen in a bear hug. “I’ve missed you, CC,” he said into her hair.
Carmen hugged her dad back. “I missed you, too,” she said. “You big oaf.”
He put his hands on his ample belly. “I’ll have you know that I’ve lost two and a half pounds in the last month,” he said.
“Careful, Dad, you might waste away,” Carmen teased.
“I know,” he said. “Hurry, let’s sit down and eat.”
At the table, Philip raised his glass in the same toast he’d been making for as long as Carmen could remember. “A toast to my amazing wife and daughter. May they remain forever beautiful and never grow tired of me.”
“Never,” said Cassandra, beaming at him.
“Where’s Drew?” Philip asked, turning to Carmen. “I thought he’d be here.”
Carmen sliced into her chicken. “I believe he’s spending the evening surgically reattaching himself to my roommate,” she said.
“Oh! Well then,” Philip said. He took a sip of wine. “I guess we’re the ones who’ll have all the fun.”
Cassandra smiled gently at her daughter. “Does it bother you?”
“No,” Carmen said breezily. “I’m super happy for him.”
This was about ten percent true. Maybe twenty on a good day. Her mother’s glance suggested that she might understand this. But thankfully, she didn’t press the issue.
Carmen leaned back against the leather cushion of her chair. It was so nice to be home. The rooms were big and beautifully decorated. The couches were soft and draped with cashmere throws. Her bathroom was still stocked with her favorite beauty products, and her childhood bed, with its pale blue quilt and pristine white sheets, was upstairs, practically begging for her to crawl into it.
Oh, and the chicken her mother had made tasted even better than it smelled. Even with all of L.A.’s finest restaurants minutes from her doorstep, Carmen would choose her mother’s cooking every time.
She remembered how Madison had moved in with her father but pretended to still live with Gaby. Could she do that? Live here in Topanga, where the air smelled like lavender and eucalyptus and the refrigerator was always stocked with organic salads? Everything would be so much easier.
“So, you guys,” she said, sparingly buttering a slice of baguette. “I was thinking about my . . . living
