Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Tallula

M ara wears a certain kind of smirk like whatever news there is to tell I'll find out soon enough.

I clutch Moink, not liking the sense of foreboding that makes my pulse knock out a staccato rhythm.

"For now, get to know your niece." She brushes her nose against the baby's. "Mommy's little Julip, this is your auntie." She's an uncanny mixture of my sister and her husband Jake.

Mara, two years older than me and as tough as nails, most resembles our mother with dark hair, eyes, and a complexion that tans marvelously when she's in the sun—Mother blames it on the French blood and wears sunblock like body armor. I'd give anything not to require spray tans every two weeks so my skin doesn't look translucent.

I inherited our father's genes with big light brown eyes, pale skin that freckles even under cloud cover, and an inclination toward curves, whereas Mara has sharp angles. My only hope is that I don't get his jowls. Also, my natural hair color is a mousy brown. Mother took me to the city to start getting it dyed when I went from being a towhead to looking like I'd taken a swim in the swamp. Those were her words.

It's accurate to say that Mara got her shrewd, no-nonsense personality from our mother. Whether it's a product of biology or Sandrine's cool character, I've never been sure. Father is best described as bellicose in business and moribund about everything else—I learned those two words from an acting coach. In other words, he acts as if Swan's Syrups is constantly on the verge of collapse—it's a thriving molasses supplier. Mother also once said he's been preparing to die since the day he was born, which has always been interesting to me because he doesn't live like he only has twenty-four hours remaining except when it comes to his dining choices—he loves food and feasts like a king.

I tilt my head, wondering what I would do if I only had a day left to live.

"Earth to Tallula. Still daydreaming, I see?"

The fact stands. I am a daydreamer. Always have been.

Mara is clever, smart, and strong.

I'm pretty and that's about all.

Giving my head a shake, I try to recall what she was saying about our living arrangements.

"Set down the thing you call a dog and hold the baby for a second. "

"I can't—" I was going to say I can't risk him getting trampled in the construction zone . Moink is all I have left. He's good and loyal and gives the best snuggles unless he's snoring.

"You know the rules. Those two words are off-limits. You can and you will. Now take Julip and listen to me good. I get it, you've been busy. Too busy for family. But you're here now. That means a lot to me."

I set Moink by my feet. Julip is heavier than I expected. Burbling her lips, Julip takes her chubby little finger and pokes my mouth, drawing outside the lines with my lipstick.

Mara laughs.

I do not.

"If you want more time, spend less of it on social media. I hope this marriage break and time unplugged from the Hollywood rat race gives you perspective. I don't like Peter, but if you two can patch things up?—"

"A break?" I shake my head slowly. "More like broke. It's over. Stick a fork in it. Done."

"Good. It's about time. He was slick like a swamp rat."

"I've already gained plenty of perspective. For my entire life, my brand has been the good, sweet, innocent girl. Sure, some might say I'm a bit spoiled?—"

Mara chuckles. "And occasionally obliviously condescending. You often take yourself too seriously, but go on. I'm interested to see where you're going with this."

Puckering my lips, I give my sister a narrow-eyed wag of my head. "The same could be said about you. Anyway, as I was saying, if nothing else, Peter showed me that my people-pleasing tendencies can easily be taken advantage of. Yes, I snapped and perhaps went too far live streaming my breakup vengeance bender like a bad reality TV show gone off script, but I'd argue that the late-stage rebellion was good for me."

"I don't disagree." Mara leans in as if mesmerized by these out-of-character declarations.

"Most importantly, I'm tired of living an artificial sweetener packet life."

Ridges form across my sister's brow. "You're going to have to explain that one."

"Being fake and not saying how I really feel. Being a disposable friend or wife. Like how people grab a bunch of those pastel fake sugar packets because they're free and good, but then when they've been in your purse a while they kind of fall apart."

My sister nods like she's playing along with my analogy. But it makes sense to me.

"Oh, and men are off the menu for the foreseeable future. I will not be hypnotized by a guy's charms on the first date, kiss him on the second, and elope on the third. That's a whole lotta nope."

"Totally," my sister says as if not convinced.

"Mara, seriously." My voice is almost a plea. "I'm like a fish out of water, only I'm back in the same small pond where I started. Unwelcome, uncertain, unwanted," I mutter the last part.

Her gaze meets mine with something like understanding .

"Alright. Alright. Don't have a cow. Have you ever heard the saying life is what you make of it?"

I tilt my head at an Of course angle.

Finger outstretched, my sister spins her hand in a circle, gesturing to the room. "Tally, let's make the most of this. Get out your notebook, pen, and highlighters. I'll give you a tour and then we can go over how this is going to work."

"No one calls me Tally."

"Okay, Tally."

"It's Llula. L-l-u-l-a."

"I'm not calling you that. Sounds too much like Llama." She laughs.

I wince at the reminder of the llama incident.

"Why on earth did you go with Llula?"

Chin lifted, I respond, "I had to set myself apart from the millions of other actresses."

"You mean wanna-be starlets." My sister is a master at giving thumbs-down icons on social media posts. It dims inside me now.

"I was Jennifer Buellton-Klinger. You can ask Betsy and Thelma, I'm not small potatoes."

"What does this have to do with tubers and don't tell me you already visited the salon? I'll tell you what, if you're going to work here, you'd better get used to the taste of humble pie."

"Mara, I came here to help you out."

"When I prayed for help and you called me sobbing, then I suggested you come help me and you agreed, I thought God was playing a joke on me. Let's be real, you came here because your life exploded."

I flinch as if the director said an invisible piece of shrapnel struck me and that the CGI team would add it in post-production.

Mara's expression softens. "But I'm glad you're here."

I'd like to say the same, but the words don't come. What am I going to do? It's like I never left.

Likely having made me look like a clown. Julip pats my cheeks with her pudgy hands.

Mara takes the baby back and passes me a Wet Wipe. "Sis, you're a hot mess heroine."

Peering at my reflection in the chrome edge of the display case, I fix my makeup. "Do you think I had a glow down?"

"As opposed to a glow-up?" She looks me over carefully but doesn't answer.

I smooth my hand down my hair. "What do you mean? I just got a blowout."

"I didn't say anything. You're the one who thinks you had a negative transformation. All I can see is something good coming from this."

Baby Julip reaches for my hair and gets her sticky little fingers tangled in it. Thankfully, I've spent enough time in hair and makeup to be able to tolerate stylists with heavy hands.

Mara pries her daughter's fingers loose and smooths my hair behind my back. "You've looked better rested. But it's less about how you look and more about how you feel. Tally, you're a walking disaster, but I think while you're here, you'll find your special gift."

"I already did. Duh. Acting."

Ignoring me, she says, "During your shifts, you'll have to wear your hair up. Health codes."

"And what's your thing? Serving coffee?"

"Being a mom, taking my family out of the city and bringing us home here to Hogwash, and helping build a community. Raising my kids with an understanding of what hard work is—not having everything served to them on a silver platter. The Coffee Loft isn't just a coffee shop."

This is interesting because Mara isn't exactly the warm, cuddly, sing-around-the-campfire type, and she and I each had silver platters, spoons, and an extensive set of cutlery. She got a top education resulting in a law degree. Mine has afforded ten years of luxury living in Hollywood.

But something she said filters through those thoughts. "What do you mean my shifts?"

"We open in a few days."

"I'm thrilled for you." Moink oinks in agreement.

"For us. It's a family affair." Mara tickles her baby's belly who squirms toward her mom.

"I just came here to help out, to bring a little star power to your grand opening."

Mara takes Julip and then thrusts an apron at me. "No, you came here to work like a normal person."

"Acting is hard work. "

"But it's not a normal job. Waiting tables or serving coffee is like a rite of passage."

Unlike so many aspiring actors in Hollywood, I skipped working at restaurants while waiting for my big break because I used my trust fund to support myself, a necessity during those early days out west.

"I don't know the first thing about serving coffee."

"But you've been to loads of coffee joints. You'll make a great barista. Just pretend you're playing a role." Her gaze is absolute. There is no argument. Plus, she has a point.

I nod. "Yeah. Okay." I also remind myself that this is just temporary. "Do you think my salary will cover the skin hydration and clarifying sauna suit I've been wanting to buy?"

"I'm not even going to ask what that is."

I describe the infrared device.

My sister cackles. "You can stop there. Do you think I'm paying you?"

"This is a job, right? Isn't a paycheck customarily part of the gig?"

"Do you need one?"

Gazing toward my Chanel slingback pumps, I nod. "When Peter and I got married, our financial advisor made all our accounts joint holdings. After, the, um, incident, Peter froze them all."

For full transparency: while I have my own funds, my parents cut me off when Peter and I eloped. If only I'd listened to my father's financial advice, especially about the prenuptial agreement.

Then I realize something. "If Peter and I weren't legally married, by law—Mara, you're a lawyer, can you?—?"

As if triggered by the mention of her mom's profession, Julip fusses. My sister's dark eyes soften as she bounces her baby on her hip. "We can talk about that later, but remember this: everything with him is behind you. Trust me, you'll manage just fine, and don't forget you'll also get tips."

I should thank her for the reassurance and the job, but I'm not used to being in this position. Mara and I are both too proud to ask our parents for help.

"You can even get creative and label the tip jar with something punny or attention-grabbing like Tips, Thanks A Latte or Tips Keep Me From A Life Of Crime ."

I give her a sharp look.

"Too soon? How about Funds for Moink's Favorite Treats? "

"You hardly think he's a dog."

"That's not true."

I anchor my hand to my hip. "Five minutes ago, you called him a bug-eyed wanna-be baby with stick legs who looks like he ran into a plate-glass window, and whose breath smells like codfish."

My sister's mouth guppies open and closed. "I was just being honest."

For the record, she's minty fresh. "Moink chews dental bones." However, I should brush her teeth twice a day instead of only one time, but I digress.

Another truth I'd like to avoid is that Peter will eventually catch up with me—not face to face. We'll leave it to the lawyers. Even so, I'm not looking forward to that day, especially if he presses charges after what I did and it's not like I can deny my actions since I broadcasted my wrongdoing for the world to see.

Aside from the credit card, all I have is Moink and what's packed in my Lexus. I can sell my shoe and handbag collections, but to whom? I don't expect a yard sale here in Hogwash will be particularly lucrative.

With Julip in her arms, Mara gives me a side hug. I lean into it, absorbing it like a thumbs up until she pulls away and slides right back into business mode. "I'd like to say something about how the mighty have fallen, but?—"

"Mighty? More like the good girl. For the record, I'm innocent of most charges." If we're defining crimes, where does tricking someone into giving them your heart and trust, only to have them lie, cheat, and steal with it fit into the code of law?

"I've always said that all good girls want bad boys," Mara singsongs.

"That's not entirely true, but if you're talking about Peter, on paper he was a good boy, er, guy. As for me, I've mostly been a good girl."

"You're right except that one time you ended up in detention." Mara shakes her head and flashes me the faintest look of knowing—in a film, it would be a brief moment of chiaroscuro with the set lighting and camera zooming in on me for a brief moment.

A distant memory wheels back to me as Mara's gaze fixes on the front door. The corner of her lip twitches again.

A deputy sheriff in a tan uniform enters, eyes scanning the room before landing on me. He's exactly who'd be cast as a sheriff in a swoony small-town movie. Strong, square jaw. Dark, soulful eyes. Freshly shaved in the morning and tasteful stubble toward the end of the day. Kissable lips.

"Can we help you, Deputy?" Mara asks.

"Good afternoon." He tips his hat.

My heart bounces, sending warmth to my cheeks.

"I'm investigating a petty theft, witnessed on Main Street at approximately two o'clock this afternoon."

"Whatever it was, I didn't do it," I blurt. "Probably."

"Miss, unless I'm mistaken, I believe you were the victim."

"You might say that." I clear my throat, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself.

And yet unable to avoid my unbound attraction to this man in uniform.