teetered on the verge of falling apart, right then and there, on the crusty, salt-strewn sidewalk in front of the terminal. At the same time, she gazed at her mother’s soft, kindly, clueless face and made a snap decision. Not now.
“It’s been a long night, that’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” she said. “I didn’t … This was an unplanned trip.”
“Well. This is simply a marvelous surprise.” Her mother wore an expression that seemed determinedly cheerful, yet concern shone in her eyes. “And look at you, in your evening clothes. You’ll catch your death. Where is your luggage? Did the airline lose your bags?”
“Let’s just go home, Mom.” Weariness swamped Kim like a rogue wave she couldn’t escape. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Say no more,” Penelope announced, bustling around to the driver’s seat. Kim got in, the hem of her dress dragging in the dirty slush. She yanked it into the car after her and slammed the door shut.
The tires spun as the car skated away from the curb, reminding Kim that her mother was not the world’s greatest driver. When Kim’s father was alive, they’d lived in the city and Penelope had hardly driven at all, and never in the snow. Now she had moved upstate and was learning to live her life without a husband, and that included driving. Penelope’s adjustment to it was proof that she had reserves of inner strength Kim had never guessed at. Leaning anxiously forward, Penelope nosed the car out of the airport and headed north and west, into the Catskills Wilderness, where the road narrowed to a two-lane salted track.
“I’ve left Lloyd,” Kim said, her voice calm and flat. “I quit my job. I’m—Watch the road, Mom.” A semi came at them, hogging most of the roadway.
“Yes. Of course.” The car drifted to the right. The semi’s tires spat slush across the windshield, but Penelope appeared unperturbed, simply flipping on the wipers. “Leaving Lloyd? Dear, I don’t understand. I had no idea you were having problems.”
As she settled in and buckled her seat belt, Kim realized the story was too long and complicated and her brain too fried with fatigue and trouble to explain everything, so she went with the digest version.
“We had a huge falling-out at a party last night,” she said. “Double whammy—he both dumped me and fired me. It got … kind of loud and ugly, so I went straight to the airport with only the clothes on my back, and this little evening bag.” She touched her sunglasses, but decided to leave them on.
“It’s a lovely bag,” her mother commented, glancing over.
Kim flashed on the wolf-fur guy in the airport, handing it to her. How had he known it was a Judith Leiber? Was he gay? Judging by the way he’d hit on her, no. “Lloyd gave it to me for Christmas,” she told her mother.
“I bet you could sell it on eBay.” Her mother turned up the car’s heater.
Kim savored the hot air blasting from the vents. “Anyway, sorry I didn’t call first. I wasn’t really thinking clearly.”
“And now? Regrets?” her mother asked gently.
“No. Not yet, anyway. So here I am.”
“For good?”
“For the time being.” Kim knew she was in a state of shock. She had suffered a trauma. She’d been the victim of a very public attack. For all she knew, her breakup could be playing on YouTube right this moment.
People did recover from things like this. She’d lived in L.A. long enough to see people suffer career meltdowns, only to rise again. These things happened. People got over them. She would get over this. But she just couldn’t imagine how.
“This move is permanent, Mom,” she heard herself say, and realized the decision had been made somewhere in the sky over the midwest. Maybe she hadn’t even been fully conscious of making it but now spoken aloud, it sounded like the only good decision she’d made in a long time. “The firm will let me go first thing Monday morning.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been the best publicist on the West Coast, and I’m sure everyone at your firm knows that.”
“Mom. It’s Lloyd Johnson. Of the Lakers. Biggest client who ever walked through the doors of the Will Ketcham Group. It’s their business to give him everything he demands. If he wanted the walls of the office painted plaid, it would be done the next day. Firing me is no bigger deal than changing bottled-water vendors.”
“Wouldn’t they opt to keep you on, just not working with Lloyd?”
“Not a chance. If their most important client wants me gone—and believe me, he does—then I’m gone. I’m a good publicist, but I’m not irreplaceable. Not in their eyes, anyway.” Or Lloyd’s.
“Well. In that case, it’s their loss. They’ve done themselves out of an enormously talented publicist.”
Kim attempted a smile. “Thanks, Mom. I wish everyone in my life was as loyal as you.”
“What about all your things?” her mother asked.
“My stuff’s in storage, remember? I told you about that.” Just before Christmas, she had given up her apartment. “Lloyd and I were staying at the Heritage Arms in Century City while he house hunted. The plan was to move in together. I thought everything would be wonderful. Am I terminally stupid?”
“No. Just a romantic at heart.”
Was she? Romantic? Kim pondered the suggestion. She’d always considered herself a savvy businesswoman. Yet there was some truth in her mother’s statement. Because not quite hidden beneath Kim’s facade was a heart that believed in foolish things, like falling in love and staying that way forever, trusting the secrets of your soul to your best friend and lover. Like planning a future based on faith alone rather than expecting promises and guarantees.
So much for her romantic heart.
“Mom,” she said, “I am so done with athletes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ll never be done with athletes. They’re your passion.”
“Ha,” said Kimberly. “They’re not all alike. But it’s been so long since I’ve had a client who wasn’t a complete ass—er, jerk—”
“You can say asshole, dear.”
For the first time since last night’s debacle, Kim felt the stirrings of a smile. “Mom.”
“Sometimes there’s simply no polite way to put it.”
Kim studied her French manicure. “When I first started out, I loved it. I worked with boys who needed me. Lately all I’ve been doing is concocting lies and spin to cover up for clients who can’t behave. I’ve started to hate what I do. I persuade the media and fans that being good at a sport is a free pass for bad behavior. It wasn’t what I signed up for, and I’m tired of it.”
“Oh, now that’s unfortunate.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her mother didn’t answer as she turned onto the street where she lived.
