Ruby's Slippers (21 page)

“Because you wouldn’t have let me have them. You would have wanted them for yourself. But honestly, what would you do with a pair of ruby slippers? Walk to the barn in them? I’m an actress. Theater … movies are my life. So it makes sense for me to have a piece of Hollywood history.”

“You’d just sell them,” I say.

“No, I wouldn’t. Well, not right away. And before I had to bend over backward taking care of you, I had never thought of selling them. Now, I admit, it’d be nice to have the bucks, pay off all the hospital expenses that insurance didn’t cover, the cost of moving you to the West Coast.”

“I found him.”

“Who?” Tiny flecks of gold brighten her green eyes.

“Our father.”

She blinks slowly, staring at me for a solid minute. Her stance is defiant, but her features undergo a slow transformation. Her expressions have always been guarded, calculating. Now they seem slack for a moment, giving her a vulnerable look, like a little girl’s. Her emotions are broadcast across her
face. Not imagined or conjured-up emotions, but the real and raw type.

“Where?” She sounds breathless.

“Here in Seattle.”

Her face blanches. Is it fear I see there? Shock? Or pain?

“He wants to see you.”

She blinks slowly, as if she didn’t hear me correctly. “What do you mean?”

“I went to see him.” I skip the full description. “He asked for you. Asked me to bring you to see him.”

It takes a moment for her to process my words, then her face crumples. Tears pour out of her eyes. She staggers away, one hand on my arm, clutching me, pulling me with her. She bends over and huge, wracking sobs assault her.

“Hey!” one of her friends says. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing.”

Abby clutches her stomach with one hand as she tugs the sleeve of my shirt, her nails clawing at me, stretching the material. Her lit cigarette lies forgotten on the concrete. I step on it, crushing the last spark. “Abby?”

“Go away!” Her voice is broken by sobs. But she doesn’t release me. She holds onto my sleeve, sucking in breath after breath. Suddenly she pushes away from me. She stands defiant, her crying contained. She glares at all of us defiantly, her eyes glittering in the midst of tears. “Leave!” She whirls away. She hugs herself, her hands balled into tight fists of self-control.

I look to her friends, to mine. They give us more distance, moving farther away. Sophia gives me an encouraging nod to go to my sister. Reluctantly I move toward Abby. I reach out to her, but my hand hesitates inches from her shoulder. I feel awkward and uncertain. Will she shrug me
off? Will she reject me too? Finally I touch her, laying a hand flat on her back and noting the ravaging effects of tears on her makeup. Then she turns toward me, falls against me, her tears dampening my shirt. Her snuffles become a part of me. Her shaking rocks something loose inside me.

We cling to each other. I no longer can tell her sobs from mine, her tears from my own. I’ve never understood my sister until this moment. Maybe I didn’t want to understand her. Maybe if I’d looked under the crusty exterior, I might have seen the hurt little girl who just wanted her daddy. The same little girl that I was. That I am.

After several minutes we stumble back toward the steps and Abby searches her bag for a tissue. We each try to blot away the running mascara, but we are forever changed. We look at each other, vulnerable yet still wary.

“I thought he didn’t love me. But he wants to see me? He wants to see me!” Her voice rises higher than normal with a little-girl quality. “He really does?”

I swallow the hurt her question rouses in me. “Yes, Abby.”

I resist warning her about our father. He might, after all, be different with her. She won’t show up uninvited the way I did. I want him to be kind to her, to love her. Even if he can’t love me. Why should both of us be wounded further?

Her watery eyes glow with hope. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing.” At least that’s not a lie.

She measures my answer as if unsure whether to believe me or not. Jealousy has always been a powerful force between us, but her mouth finally relaxes into a hesitant smile that wavers between fear and excitement. “Will you go with me?”

Her question surprises me. “If that’s what you want.”

She nods and reaches for my hand in a trusting way that opens my heart. “Have you always wanted to meet him too?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You always seemed so self-sufficient, Dottie. Like you didn’t need anyone. Momma. Me. Daddy.”

The way she can call him Daddy so easily unsettles me. Have I lost that childlike trust? Have I lost the ability to ever trust anyone? My gaze shifts toward Leo. His brow furrows with concern as he watches us.

“That’s not true,” I say. Pressure builds in my chest. “I needed …” My throat closes over the words.

“We needed each other, didn’t we?”

I nod and squeeze her hand.

* * *

SO UNLIKE THE Abby I know, my sister doesn’t even repair her makeup before returning to rehearsals. I agree to meet her for dinner that night. She seems distracted, confused, and more upset than I have ever seen her. When she arrives late, dressed in a lethal red dress that doesn’t clash with her hair but somehow goes with the wild frenzy of curls, the skies turn stormy. Lightning flashes and an ominous shiver shoots down my spine. I introduce Abby to Sophia and Tim, who is her uncle.

“Our uncle!” Her green eyes widen and sparkle. She hugs Tim, resting her head momentarily on his shoulder. “It feels,” she says, her voice bubbling with excitement, “like that moment at Christmas when you think you’ve unwrapped all the presents and lurking way under the tree is one last gift.”

“Or finding one in the toe of your stocking,” Sophia adds.

“Exactly!” She then turns her attention to Leo, who looks fairly respectable since the spa visit. He’s wearing faded jeans and a polo. Abby’s gaze heats up like Christmas lights left on too long. “And
who
are you?”

“This is my son, Leo.” Sophia reaches out and touches his arm. Admiration and love is clear and shining in her brown eyes. I feel mine narrow with emotions I don’t admire or want to admit.

“Were you going to keep him from me, sis?” Abby grins hungrily at Leo. “Oh, look!” She does a quick sidestep, hooking her arm through Leo’s and cutting out every woman, rival, mother, or sister without hesitation or conscience and with the precision of a trained assassin. It’s a move I’ve witnessed countless times but one I have yet to emulate. “Our table’s ready.” With that come-hither smile she’s perfected over the years, she loops another arm through our uncle’s, then escorts the two men to a table set in the far back corner near the kitchen. Abby’s in her element now, sandwiched between two handsome men, albeit one elderly.

Sophia turns toward me, offers me her arm. As we fall in step behind the trio, she pats my arm. I try to ignore the way my stomach is twisting into a pretzel of a knot. I have no claim on either man. Tim is the type of man I wish my father had turned out to be. And Leo … my hand presses against my lips in a reflexive memory. Heat sears my cheeks. I clear my throat and look away.

What will it be like when I take her to meet our father tomorrow? The same? Worse?

Sophia and I sit beside each other, but I avoid her inquiring gaze. To see the confusion and pain in her eyes would
require me to accept my own. This is my fate. My sister will charm my uncle—and tomorrow, our father—slicing me out of any relationship with the only men in my family. And Leo … will Abby hook him as she has so many others? I remember when she turned her attention on Craig our senior year in high school. He asked her to prom, of course. How could he resist? The pain I felt then returns now with all its razor-like sharpness. Maybe that’s one reason I had a close relationship with Momma—Abby couldn’t charm her. Momma loved us both, of course, but she and I understood one another.

“Abby,” I say loudly enough to demand the attention of everyone at our table and possibly those surrounding us, “Sophia used to work in Hollywood.”

“Really?” Abby gives her a closer look. “Behind the camera?”

“Some of both.” Sophia unrolls the silverware from a paper napkin.

Abby doesn’t usually pay attention to other women, unless they’re competing for the same man. She gives Sophia a sidelong glance and casually tosses out the question, “What movies did you work on?”

When Sophia begins to list several well-known dramas, biblical epics, and westerns, Abby turns her shoulders more toward Sophia. “What parts did you play?”

“Any part I could get. A lot of shots in the crowd.”

“Oh, sure. Anyone can get those.”

“But not anyone does,” Sophia counters.

Abby leans forward, arm on the table. “So did you know Eastwood?”

“We’ve met a few times,” Sophia hedges.

“You said he’d remember you,” I add to give her story more credence.

Sophia smiles secretly. “He might.”

“I’d give anything to work for Clint. Do you know him well enough to call him?”

Now I understand why Sophia wanted to play coy. She knew what my sister wanted. I should have known too.

Sophia shakes her head. “I haven’t been around the industry in a long time.”

“What actors did you love?” I ask to change the subject.

“Oh, Greg Peck, of course. A gentleman if there ever was one. And Cary Grant. My absolute favorite was John.”

“John Ford?”

“He was nice, sure. That is, if he liked
you
. But I meant Wayne.”

“John Wayne?” Tim straightens. “You knew him?”

“Of course. Now
he
knew how to treat a woman.”

“Yeah,” Leo laughs, his gaze swerving toward me. A warmth spreads through my belly.

“Seems to me he liked to spank women a lot.” I jump into the conversation like a novice swimmer in the deep end of the pool.

Three sets of eyes stare at me as if I’ve spoken heresy. But Leo grins.

“It’s true,” I argue, dog paddling for all I’m worth before I sink. My gaze shifts from Abby to Leo. He’s watching me quietly, curiously. A bemused smile curls his lips. “
Th-the
Quiet Man
.
Donovan’s Reef
. And—” I snap my fingers once, twice. “Oh, that western.” I look to Sophia for help. “What was it?”

“
True Grit
?” Leo rubs his jaw.

“No, no.”

“You’re thinking of the one with Maureen O’Hara,” Sophia adds.

“Was she a redhead?” I ask.

“She was!” Sophia smiles.

“Must be something about redheads,” Leo says dryly.

“McLintock!
” Tim grins. “I loved westerns. Especially ones with the Duke. But Elizabeth didn’t care for them too much. Maybe that’s how it is between men and women.”

Sophia pats his shoulder. “Some women like westerns.”

Tim looks surprised. “That’s nice to know.”

“The old stars weren’t really playing parts,” Abby says with an air of authority. “They were playing themselves. The public didn’t want to go see Henry Fonda play some down-and-out loser. They wanted to see Henry Fonda. Or Cary Grant. Or John Wayne. Or Clark Gable. It’s the same now, although there aren’t many big personalities anymore. Mel Gibson came close. Tom Cruise almost made it to that level.”

“Jumping on couches was a little too big,” Sophia says.

Laughter erupts at our table. I give a token chuckle, but as the conversation swirls around the movies and Sophia’s and Abby’s experiences, I grow quieter and quieter. I have nothing to add. Leo is caught up between them, laughing at their stories. A cloud of dread weighs heavily on me. Maybe it’s watching the sister I know so well. As Abby becomes more animated, a part of me contracts and begins to fold up and disappear.

* * *

WATCHING MY SISTER at work, I have to admit she treats our uncle with a gentle kindness that surprises me. She offers him the salt and pepper, picks up his napkin when it falls off his lap, and touches his hand tenderly. I imagine her taking our father’s arm tomorrow, smoothing a hand over his
shoulder, asking if he feels all right, if he needs anything. It’s the way I treated Momma.

When Abby laughs, she reaches out to Leo. She’s always been very physical, very demonstrative. Halfway through our salads, I feel a prickling of irritation skitter along my spine watching her obvious flirtations.

I want Leo to push away her hand when it lingers on his arm, but he doesn’t. Is he enjoying the attention? He smiles right back at her, open and carefree. But I remember that moment, the brief moment he and I shared. It seems like forever ago, the connection now broken, and Abby holds the virtual hammer.

“Pass the salt.” My voice comes out louder than I intended.

My request forces Abby to release her clutches on Leo momentarily and reach for the saltshaker that’s shaped like a lobster. “You should go light on the salt, Dottie. It’s not good for you. Will make you bloat up.”

“Thank you.” I give an extra shake of the salt on my salad but regret it with my next bite. Still, I force myself to eat every last bite. I stab each lettuce leaf with the fork and jab it into my mouth.

“Pepper?” Leo hands the matching lobster pepper shaker to Abby. I watch their fingers brush.

“None for me, thanks.” I grab my water, take a sip. Ice chunks bump my nose and water splashes my shirt. Lovely.

“Are you okay?” Sophia asks.

“Fine.” I dab my face and shirt with my napkin, the ice water nothing compared to the cold hard lump in my belly.

“So tell me all about yourself.” Abby turns her full attention to the most eligible bachelor at the table.

Leo ducks his head, and the tips of his ears redden. “Nothing much to tell.”

“The strong silent type, huh?” Abby’s mouth curves into a seductive smile. “I like that.”

“How long have you been an actress?” he asks.

“Forever,” I say.

Everyone at the table looks at me. Hurt registers in Abby’s green eyes, and I regret my comment. I’m being ridiculous. I thought I understood myself, but lately I don’t seem to know myself at all.

“Why don’t you tell us all about your fiancé?” I suggest, trying to cover my rudeness.

“We broke up,” Abby says, not looking too grief-stricken. More like she’s on the prowl for a substitute. She slides back her chair and clutches her purse. “Think I’ll go touch up my lipstick. Dottie,” she gives me a tight smile that never reaches her eyes, “want to join me?”