Failing to get a rise out of me, she sighed, and her shoulders sagged. She was wearing one of her silk caftans, and when her hands flipped up in annoyance, she looked like a small head stuck atop a fluttering orange-and-blue curtain.
I bit back a grin; otherwise, she’d ferret out why I was smiling and would be in a huff for the rest of the day.
“Do you remember Cynthia Maron?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“She is a very dear friend to me. You met her once when you were five.”
It was typical Mamie, ever a social butterfly, to have perfect recall of everyone she met. I didn’t bother pointing out that not everyone had that talent. “All right.”
I also didn’t see where she was going with this, but I knew she’d get there eventually.
“Cynthia has a granddaughter. Emma.” Mamie tutted under her breath. “Poor dear has had a time of it lately and is in need of relaxation.”
“She’s coming here, isn’t she?” This wasn’t my house. Mamie could invite whomever she wanted to visit. But damn it—I’d come here to get away from everything. That included guests.
“But of course,” Mamie huffed. “What else would I be talking about?”
It was petty of me to complain.
Rosemont had always been a haven for those who needed it. The massive Spanish revival estate, complete with multiple guesthouses, lay near the base of the Santa Ynez Mountains in Montecito. Bathed in the golden California sunlight, the extensive grounds, redolent with the heady fragrance of roses and fresh lemons, overlooked the Pacific Ocean. To be at Rosemont was to be surrounded by grace and beauty. For me, it had always been a refuge. A place to heal. Over the years, others, invited by Mamie, found that same healing.
“It was just a question,” I muttered, instantly feeling like the angry fourteen-year-old boy I’d been when I first came to live here.
She made another annoyed tut but then waved my churlishness aside with a swat of her hand. “She’s arriving today. I thought we could have coffee and cakes at around four.”
Instantly, I knew where this was going. But I played ignorant. Partly because dread prickled down my back and partly because it would annoy my grandmother. Ah, the games we played. The realization that it was the only type of game I could play anymore sank my mood faster than a stone plummeting into a cold, dark well.
“All right.” I stepped down from the ladder. “Do you want me to stop working while you have your party?”
A string of muffled French curses followed before a sharp pinch to my side nearly made me yelp.
Mamie’s eyes narrowed to frost-green slits. “Oh, you test me these days, Titou.”
I knew I did. Regret thickened in my throat. I was shit to be around. Mamie was the only one who could stand me anymore. I knew all this. That I couldn’t seem to pull out of it was the problem. My entire life had gone to shit. Most days, it was all I could do not to scream and rage until my voice gave out.
Not talking unless absolutely necessary seemed the best and safest solution.
I couldn’t even give my grandmother an apology. It was stuck there, a big-ass lump at the center of my chest.
Again she sighed. She peered at me with those cool-green eyes that were the exact shade of my own. People often said that looking into them was like gazing into a mirror—they were so reflective. Those eyes could cut a person to shreds with one look. The saying wasn’t exactly wrong; I felt flayed just now.
Her cool knobby fingers caressed my cheek for a brief moment, and I fought the urge to flinch. I didn’t like people touching me now. At all.
Her hand drifted down, and she visibly regrouped. “Now then. I expect you to join us.”
“No.”
Perfectly plucked brows lifted high. “No?”
I felt all of two years old. And just as damn petulant. Rubbing a hand over my face, I tried again. “I’ll only end up accidentally insulting your guest or messing it up in some equally embarrassing way for you.”
This wasn’t a lie. I’d lost all my ability to charm; it had leaked out of me and never returned. Some days I wondered about that, about how I’d changed so much, so quickly that I no longer felt right in my own skin.
“I believe our guest will be able to handle the likes of you,” Mamie said dryly.
Don’t fall for it.
“And why is that?”
I fell for it. Damn it.
Her smile was nothing short of smug and victorious. “She is Emma Maron. You know of her, yes?”
Emma Maron. The name danced around my sorely abused brain. I knew that name. But how? Emma . . . an image of wide-set, big doe eyes the color of indigo ink and a plush, pouty mouth filled my mind’s eye. Oval face surrounded by white hair with electric-blue tips.
Recognition slammed into me like a blindside hit. Princess Anya. Emma Maron was one of the stars on Dark Castle. The delicately beautiful but brutally fierce Princess Anya, who led armies alongside her lover, Arasmus, the Warrior King. Okay, I was a fan. Of the show. In which there were at least four main story lines. Even so, I couldn’t believe it took me so long to place her name. Then again, my brain was crap these days.
“You’ve invited an actress here?”
“I’ve been told famous people prefer to lick their wounds in a private setting,” Mamie deadpanned.
Point to Mamie.
“Why does she need to lick her wounds?” I felt compelled to ask. “She’s a star of the most popular cable show running.”
“Not anymore, the poor dear. Apparently, she’s been cut. Some evil wizard removes her head with an ax at the end of the season.”
“No shit?” Frankly, I was shocked. Anya was insanely popular. The season finale had yet to air, but I was guessing there’d be an uproar about it.
“Language, Titou.”
“Apologies, Mamie.” The woman had a fouler mouth than me when she got pissed off, but she was still my grandmother.
“Hmm.” She eyed me for a second. “I said too much. That bit of information is strictly confidential. She could get into trouble if word got out.”
“Who would I tell?” I made a gesture toward the estate grounds, devoid of people, that currently encompassed my social life.
“Yes, true. And you see now why this is the perfect place for her. We have total privacy here.”
“If she’s in need of privacy, then it’s even more reason for me to stay out of her way.”
The last thing I could handle was interacting with pretty blonde actresses.
“Pish.” She waved a hand.
“Mamie,” I began, tired now. All the time, so fucking tired. “The answer is no. I’m not socializing. I’ll stay out of your hair and lay off the hammering while you’re eating, all right?”
We stared each other down. A bee buzzed past, vibrated in my ear. I didn’t flinch. Whatever Mamie saw in my expression had her relenting with a soft shake of her head. “Very well. I shall host alone. Although what I could possibly say to entertain a young woman, I’m certain I don’t know.”
My grandmother was the most colorful and lively person I’d ever met. And that was saying something, given my profession. Pain lanced my heart. My former profession.
I leaned down and gave Mamie a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”