Red. Erica Spindler
any semblance of a normal—”
“I don’t have any friends at school.”
“Because you’re not there enough.”
“No, because they bore me. I’ve been all over the world, a lot of those kids haven’t been farther than their grandmother’s house.”
“Jack, try to understand. I want what’s best for you. And this isn’t it. This anger you have isn’t it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about making this change for a long time. Since you were eight and Giovanni…” She shook her head again. “But I didn’t know what I could do. How I would support us. Now I know.”
She paused, as if giving him a chance to question her. He folded his arms across his chest and refused to look at her.
She made a sound of frustration and crossed once more to the window. “I’m going to open my own shop. Hair, makeup and make-overs. The kind of shop—”
“A beauty parlor?” he said, disbelieving. “Great, Mom. You’re going to go from working on the most beautiful women in the world to doing little old ladies with blue hair.”
She stiffened. “My shop is not going to cater to ‘little old ladies with blue hair.’ It’s going to cater to people of fashion. People from the industry, and people with the money to follow, and make, trends. The work we do is going to be trendsetting, it’s going to be fashion.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Besides, as you very well know, I don’t do hair.”
He didn’t reply, just glared stonily at her, and she went on. “The money will be better. Steadier. Won’t that be nice? After all, you might want to go to college someday. How would I afford that?”
“I don’t care about college. I’m going to be a fashion photographer. You know that.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“It’s not what you think.” He hiked up his chin. “It’s not because of Giovanni.”
“No?”
“No.” He squared his shoulders, determined. “I don’t want to be like him. I’m going to be better than him.”
She clasped her hands together and met his gaze evenly. “He’s financing the shop for me.”
“What?” Jack fisted his fingers, rage and impotence roiling inside him. Unable to stay still, he strode across the room, then back, stopping in front of his mother, shaking with fury. “I can’t believe that after everything, you would do this. I can’t believe you would get in bed with him again.”
She stared at him a moment, shocked silent. When she spoke, her voice quivered with both hurt and anger. “This is a good thing for me. For us. I’m getting too old to travel the circuit, and whether you realize it or not, you need a normal life. I’m grateful to Giovanni for this. He’s not doing it because he slept with me years ago… Lord knows, he’s slept with everybody. He’s doing it because he believes it will be a successful business venture. And because he believes in my abilities, as a makeup artist and a businesswoman. Something you obviously don’t.”
She stalked to the door, turning to face him once more when she reached it. “If you don’t see that, well, it’s too damn bad. Because it’s my life and my career, and I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”
“I do believe in you,” Jack retorted, flexing his fingers. “More than he does.”
“It’s not a competition, Jack.”
“No? Then why does it feel like one?”
Her expression softened. “That’s a good question, son. It’s one I suggest you think about.”
His eyes burned, and he lifted his chin again, stubbornly, defiantly. He cleared his throat. “When’s this…this thing going to happen?”
“I’m going to start working on it right away. The first thing I’ve got to do is find the right space. Will you help me?”
He let out his breath in an angry snort. “No way.”
“Fine. I would have liked to have you with me on this, but I can do it without you.”
“Go for it.” He refused to look at her. “Have a ball.”
“Do you want to know what I’m going to call it?”
“Not particularly.”
She didn’t take no for an answer but then, he hadn’t really expected her to. “The Image Shop. What do you think?”
“The Image Shop,” he repeated softly, liking the sound of it, hating that he did.
“Well?”
He swung toward her, and met her gaze evenly. A dozen different emotions barreled through him, not the least of which was frustration. “I think it sucks, Mom. I think this whole thing sucks.”
11
Los Angeles, California
1984
Becky Lynn stood in the center of the biggest, busiest bus terminal she had ever seen, frozen to the spot in terror. She didn’t know which way to go or what to do next. People, strange-looking people of all colors and in all kinds of dress, wove their way around her. All with purpose, all seeming to have someone to meet or someplace to go. Many shot her angry glances for blocking the way, a few bumped into her as they passed, then continued on their way without a murmur of apology or regret.
She clutched her duffel bag to her chest, afraid someone might try to snatch it. A woman on the last bus had warned her of that possibility and to be careful.
Becky Lynn drew in a deep, fortifying breath. This wasn’t what she had expected but then, so far, nothing about her journey had been—from the one hundred and forty-five dollars the one-way ticket had cost her to the alternating fear and relief she had felt during the course of the two-day trip. With a shudder of apprehension, she wondered what other surprises awaited her.
Taking another deep breath, she started blindly forward, moving with the crowd. She couldn’t stand in one spot forever, no matter how reassuring it felt.
She caught sight of an information counter and angled toward it. She stopped in front of the counter and waited. The woman on the other side didn’t look up from her magazine. Becky Lynn cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”
The woman lifted her gaze. Her eyes widened a bit, as if in horror, then her expression melted back into one of jaded disinterest. “Yeah? Can I help you?”
“Could you please tell me how I get to…” Becky Lynn’s voice trailed off. Where did she want to go? She couldn’t point at the woman’s magazine, opened to a sunny ad and say, “How do I get there?”
“Can I help you?” the woman said again, impatiently.
“Hollywood,” Becky Lynn said. “How do I get to Hollywood?”
The woman narrowed her eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, and moved them over Becky Lynn. “Honey, you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman shook her head, as if in resignation. “Your best bet is a city bus.” She reached under the counter and produced a map and schedule. She slid it across to Becky Lynn, circling a place on the map with a red pencil. “Catch it here. It’s a dollar-ten, exact fare.”
“Thank you.” Becky Lynn scooped up the map. “Oh, and which way is the ladies’ room?”
Attention already shifted back to her magazine, the woman indicated the general direction without looking up. Becky Lynn followed and within moments stood before the bathroom mirror.
She gazed at her reflection, her stomach