"You're so independent now. Two years ago you didn't have a clue what was in your financial portfolio, let alone know how to manage it. I can't tell you how much I admire the way you've taken charge."
"I didn't have any choice." Craig's financial planning had left her wealthy enough that she no longer needed work to support herself, only to give her life purpose. In the past year she'd had a small part as the sexy mother of the male star in a halfway decent movie. She'd been able to carry it off because she was a pro, but the whole time they were filming, she'd had to struggle against a sense of the ridiculous. For a woman of her size and age still to be playing sexpots, even aging ones, seemed somehow absurd.
She didn't like having her sense of identity wrapped up in a profession for which she no longer had a passion, but acting was all she knew, and with Craig's death she needed to keep busy or she'd think too much about the mistakes she'd made. If only she could peel away the years and go back in time to that crucial point where she'd lost her way.
The waiter returned with Mallory's drink, the amuse-bouche, and a lengthy explanation of the menu's many courses. After they'd made their selections, Mallory lifted her champagne flute. "To my dearest friend. Happy birthday, and I'll kill you if you don't love your present."
"Gracious as always."
Mallory laughed and pulled a flat, rectangular box from the tote she'd set at the side of her chair. The package was professionally wrapped in paisley paper tied with a burgundy bow. Lilly opened it to find an exquisite antique shawl of gold lace.
Her eyes stung with sentimental tears. "It's beautiful. Where ever did you find it?"
"A friend of a friend who deals in rare textiles. It's Spanish. Late nineteenth century."
The symbolism of the lace made it hard for her to speak, but there was something she needed to say, and she reached across the table to touch her friend's hand. "Have I ever told you how dear you are to me?"
"Ditto, sweetie. I've got a long memory. You held me together through my first divorce, through those awful years with Michael…"
"Don't forget your face-lift."
"Hey! I seem to remember a little eye job you had a few years ago."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
They exchanged smiles. Plastic surgery might seem vain to much of the world, but it was a necessity for actresses who'd built their reputations on sex appeal. Although Lilly wondered why she'd bothered with an eye job when she couldn't manage to lose even twenty pounds.
The waiter set a gold-rimmed Versace plate in front of Lilly with a tiny square of aspic containing slivers of poached lobster surrounded by a trail of saffron sauce that had been whipped into a creamy froth. Mallory's plate held a wafer-thin slice of salmon accented with capers and a few transparent slices of julienned apple. Lilly mentally compared calories.
"Stop obsessing. You worry so much about your weight that you've lost sight of how gorgeous you still are."
Lilly deflected the well-meaning lecture she'd heard before by reaching behind her chair and coming up with the gift bag. The waterfall of French ribbon she'd tied around the handles brushed her wrist as she handed it over.
Mallory's eyes lit up with delight. "It's your birthday, Lilly. Why are you giving me a present?"
"Coincidence. I finished it this morning, and I couldn't wait any longer."
Mallory tore at the ribbons. Lilly sipped her kir as she watched, trying not to show how much Mallory's opinion meant.
Her friend pulled out the quilted pillow. "Oh, sweetie…"
"The design might be too strange," Lilly said quickly. "It's just an experiment."
She'd taken up quilting during Craig's illness, but the traditional patterns hadn't satisfied her for long, and she'd begun to experiment with designs of her own. The pillow she'd made for Mallory had a dozen shades and patterns of blue swirling together in an intricate design, while a trail of delicate gold stars peeped out from unexpected places.
"It's not strange at all." Mallory smiled at her. "I think it's the most beautiful thing you've done so far, and I'll always treasure it."
"Really?"
"You've become an artist."
"Don't be silly. It's just something to do with my hands."
"You keep telling yourself that." Mallory grinned. "Is it coincidence that you used the colors of your favorite football team?"
Lilly hadn't even realized it. Maybe it was a coincidence.
"I've never understood how you turned into such a sports fan," Mallory said. "And not even a West Coast team."
"I like the uniforms."
Lilly managed a shrug and turned the conversation in another direction. Her thoughts, however, remained stuck.
Kevin, what have you done?
Chef Rick Bayless's cutting-edge Mexican cuisine made the Frontera Grill one of Chicago's favorite spots for lunch, and before Molly had given away her money, she'd frequently eaten here. Now she ate at this North Clark Street restaurant only when someone else was picking up the check, in this case Helen Kennedy Schott, her editor at Birdcage Press.
"… we're all very committed to the Daphne books, but we do have some concerns."
Molly knew what was coming. She'd submitted Daphne Takes a Tumble in mid-January, and she should have given Helen at least an idea about her next book by now. But Daphne Finds a Baby Rabbit had gone into the trash, and Molly had a devastating case of writer's block.
In the two months since her miscarriage she hadn't been able to write a word, not even for Chik. Instead, she'd kept busy with school book talks and a local tutoring program for preschoolers, forcing herself to focus on the needs of living children instead of the baby she'd lost. Unlike the adults Molly met, the children didn't care that she was the about-to-be-ex-wife of the city's most famous quarterback.
Just last week the town's favorite gossip column had once again turned the media spotlight on her:
Heiress Molly Somerville, the estranged wife of Stars Quarterback Kevin Tucker, has been keeping a low profile in the Windy City. Has it been boredom or a broken heart over her failed marriage to Mr. Football? No one has seen her at any of the city's nightspots, where Tucker still shows up with his foreign lovelies in tow.
At least the column hadn't said Molly "dabbled at writing children's books." That had stung, although lately she hadn't even been able to dabble. Every morning she told herself this would be the day she'd come up with an idea for a new Daphne book or even an article for Chik, and every morning she'd find herself staring at a blank piece of paper. In the meantime her financial situation was deteriorating. She desperately needed the second part of the advance payment she was due to receive for Daphne Takes a Tumble, but Helen still hadn't approved it.
The restaurant's colorful décor suddenly seemed too bright, and the lively chatter jangled her nerves. She'd told no one about her block, especially not the woman sitting across from her. Now she spoke carefully. "I want this next book to be really special. I've been tossing around a number of ideas, but-"
"No, no." Helen held up her hand. "Take your time. We understand. You've been through a lot lately."
If her editor wasn't concerned about not getting a manuscript, why had she invited her to lunch? Molly rearranged one of the tiny corn masa boats on her plate. She'd always loved them, but she'd been having trouble eating since the miscarriage.
Helen touched the rim of her margarita glass. "You should know that we've had some inquiries from SKIFSA about the Daphne books."
Helen mistook Molly's stunned expression. "Straight Kids for a Straight America. They're an antigay organization."
"I know what SKIFSA is. But why are they interested in the Daphne books?"