Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (30 page)

Struggling to arrest familiar white-hot feelings, Shannen said, “I’m sorry to hear that, but you look like you’re on the upswing now.” Discreetly eyeing her old flame, Shannen noticed he wasn’t at full strength, but his swarthy mug and football-toned body were just as she remembered, picture perfect.

“Yeah, actually this place has been pretty good for me. Detox was brutal but I’m starting to feel human again.”

“That’s good,” she murmured, gazing up through long lashes.

He thoughtfully said, “Time’s been good to you, Shan-Shan. You’re even more beautiful than I remember. Took me the longest to get over you.” He chuckled, sweeping her into a bone-crushing hug.

“I was head over heels in love with you too when I was young-
er.
”

Pushing a curl behind her ear, he said, “You’re still young, honey.”

“Hi, baby!” A woman’s bubbly voice interrupted the reminiscing pair. Startled, Shannen stepped back.

“Oh hey, there you are,” he said, giving the woman a nuzzle. “Honey, I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Shannen Lassiter. Shan, this is my wife, Jewel.” Immediately disappointed, Shannen forced a smile. Like everyone else in the universe, she had never
really
let go of her first true love no matter how much time had passed. And no matter how sweet and kind his current in-your-face significant other was, she would always be the
enemy
.

The trophy wife was friendly but watchful as she extended a UES handshake, an enormous diamond flashing. “Hello, Shannen, it’s nice to meet you. Are you in recovery too?”

“No! I mean, no, I’m here visiting a friend. In fact, I should go, she’s waiting for me. Take care,” she said, awkwardly waving good-bye at the couple.

“Bye, Shan-Shan,” Jerome called after her as she made a speedy retreat, smacking into Toby Gorman in her haste.

“Shannen? No way! This is too cool! When did you check in? This is like one of those
R&R
BBQs where the whole cast is in one place. We’re gonna have a blast! I’m stoked—”

“Toby, Toby, it’s not what you think. I’m here to see Calysta.”

“Oh yeah, she’s here too. Dude, can you believe they have a cotton candy machine here? And the Jump O’Rama’s the
bomb
!”

“Yeah, nice. Well, I should get over to Calysta. Take care, Toby.”

“You look
hot
, Shannen, even walking away. Can’t believe you came out here to visit Calysta and me! Anyone else from the show with you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, tell everyone I said hi, and look for my featured interview on the ‘Quitters’ page of
Cliffhanger Weekly
, ‘A Day in the Life of Rehab with Toby Gorman.’ It’s kinda weird ’cause I didn’t really quit but whatever.”

“I’ll do that. Bye!” Shannen trotted away to find Calysta before she could run into any more familiar faces.

With the Pacific marine layer burning off, I stood on the veranda facing the flower-dotted mountainside, reflecting while Ivy and Grandma Jones got their lunch. The contrast of singed peaks in the distance, evidence of arson, was ever the reminder that evil was standin’ right next to you watchin’ the fire burn.

“Guess who?” a familiar voice asked, as two soft hands covered my eyes.

“Shannen!” I exclaimed, quickly turning around, embracing her.

“Calysta!”

After an exuberant love-fest, Shannen said, “Before I forget, here’s your mail,” pulling a small stack out of her shoulder bag. “And your Bleeding Heart’s just fine.”

“Thank you, Shan—”

“About the fan mail . . .”

“What about it?”

“There wasn’t one piece. Fern swore me to secrecy, before spilling that Randall hired an intern to relabel it all for Alison’s bin. Can you believe?”

“Actually, I can.”

“And Ethan’s having a conniption. He’s so bummed the show’s phasing him out. Working him like every two months. Put him on recurring.”

“Mmm-mm.”

“He’s been asking for your number.”

“Pff . . .”

“Wants to talk to you about—”

“No. Tried tellin’ his Tomin’ ass a long time ago. Even
Toby
got paid more than that brown-noser. Damn shame. All that tap-dancin’ for nothin’ and here I was tryin’ to set it up for the next generation. What a joke.”

Thumbing through bills and junk mail, I noticed an envelope addressed from Zylissa Pippin. “Zylissa? You mind?”

“Go ’head.”

I ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter. A check fell out.

Hey girl,

Know you haven’t heard from me in a minute and probably thought I ran off with your cash. But I booked the Valtrex, and honey, I’m makin’ beaucoup bucks. Here’s ½. You’ll get the rest when my resid comes in. Peace out.

XOZ

I smiled.

“Good news?”

“Yeah.”

“So, how are you doing?”

“Girl, you know me. Doin’ what I got to do to get by. Readin’ more. Can you believe they won’t let me watch Nancy Grace? What’s goin’ on with that crazy case?”

“Sorry, I’m a Cooper fan. But never mind all that,” she said, noshing on a carrot stick. “I’d be having major panic attacks by now if I were locked up in this Taj Mahal. Want one?” she offered, extending the crudités.

“No thanks. Actually I feel like I’m on an imposed vacation. I’ve calmed down considerably having spent quality time ‘becoming one with a horse,’” I said, making fun of the much-hyped equine therapy.

“That sounds
so
kinky.”

“Trust me, it’s not that exciting and has nothing to do with Catherine the Great.”

Shannen’s laughter was replaced with a pall of melancholy.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied, biting her quivering bottom lip.

“Stop lying.” Glancing to see that Ivy and Grandma Jones were settling in at a nearby table, I called out, “You-all start without us.”

“But Mom—”

“Be right there, we both will.”

As Grandma Jones began blessing the food I steered Shannen into a quiet corner. “Okay, we have a few minutes, talk to me.”

Wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, she quickly confessed, “I’m such a terrible friend. Here you’re the one going through all this traumatic stuff and I’m the one crying like a big baby.”

“Never mind all that.”

“Roger’s gone nuts. Felicia keeps giving me gratuitous sex scenes with Javier and I swear she’s doing it on purpose. And to top it all off, I just ran into my first love and he’s
married
.”

“Oh honey,” I comforted. “Not to be nosy, but who’d you run into?”

“Jerome McDonald. We were engaged and I called it off like an idiot, I think I told you.”

“
That
Jerome? The football player you ’bout ran off with? I had no idea. Damn, girl, he’s definitely the one who got away and
fine
as all get out. I heard his wife flew in on their private jet, they are load-
ed
.”

Shannen sighed. “His wife has a rock the size of a baby’s fist and all I have left from that relationship is a jersey and an autographed football. No glass slipper for this Cinderella, just mice.”

“So Roger’s still trippin’, huh?”

“Things are so bad, Calysta. I mean, when ‘At Home with a Soap Star’ aired, Roger went ballistic! They’d featured me talking about my ‘fabulous soap star lifestyle’ but edited out every shot of him. And then
I
got all the criticism on Facebook, being compared to that Robin Givens and Mike Tyson interview with Barbara Walters. It was hell at home. We were sleeping in separate rooms and everything. I
told
Roger he should have taken that game-show host job when he had the chance but he stupidly said it was beneath him.”

“Wow, I had no idea.”

“Yeah, and I’ve barely been able to pay our mortgage. If I miss one more payment the house is going into foreclosure. Fans think soap stars are all rich and happy, leading lives right out of some Danielle Steel novel; if they only knew. Don’t get me wrong, I feel grateful for the money I make, but by the time I pay the agent, the manager, the publicist, Roger’s anger management therapist, the entertainment attorney, my personal trainer, and my psychic . . . heck, there’s nothing left.” She hyperventilated, beginning to hiccup.

“Okay, now now, take a deep breath and hold it while you count to twenty, then exhale; it always works.”

Inhaling deeply, Shannen began, “I made a last-ditch effort to fix things at our
hiccup
cabin but it went horribly wrong I actually told Roger
hiccup
it was over but he keeps
hiccup
trying to reconcile.” She went on, turning beet red, “I don’t think it’s going to happen but I agreed to talk to him tomorrow I blame Felicia for all this.” She finally exhaled.

“See, it worked. Your hiccups are gone.”

“Oh yeah,” she acknowledged, continuing, “You know Felicia and Roger were friends in college.”

I nodded.

“Well, when things started to go
really
south she came over all the time, insinuating herself into our lives like she was Sue Johanson. When Roger wouldn’t confide in me anymore but could somehow express his feelings to
her
, I was
so
humiliated, knowing Felicia knew more about my life than I did.”

“You think Miss ‘Best Pal from College’ wants to move into the ‘More Than Friends’ category?”

“I know it! Felicia sees Roger as ‘the one that got away.’ He told me once how she used to joke that if they weren’t married by the time they turned forty she wanted the two of them to get hitched. You can just imagine how she felt when I came along and snagged him six months before his fortieth birthday. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had a little blond voodoo doll that she pokes the hell out of every night.”

Seeing where this was going, I said, “Felicia doesn’t need a doll. All she has to do is poke her word processor.”

“Exactly. Hence all the love scenes with Javier, which didn’t even make sense. One minute I was with Wolfe and the next I was falling into a compost pile with Fink’s gardener Pepe. It made my character look so slutty to fans and drove Roger straight over the edge. You should see all the hate mail I’m getting. Went from being Top Five in the Soap Polls to number one on
Cliffhanger Weekly
’s Losers List.”

“Damn, I knew Felicia was vicious but to risk ratings? Does Roger know?”

“He didn’t believe me, said I was being paranoid. He’s one to talk. Anyway, I guess it doesn’t really matter. I broke it off with Roger and broke down with Javier. He was so tender and attentive, and only too eager to blur the lines between real life and reel life.”

“I’m glad
someone’s
giving you some TLC,” I said, walking toward the picnic table. “Now listen, promise as soon as I’m outta here we’re
going to fix some things and jet off to Jamaica for some much-needed R&R.”

“Mom, is everything okay?” Ivy asked as we approached.

“Yeah, baby, just catchin’ up. Sorry it’s taken me so long.”

“It’s okay. Do you mind if I walk down to the stables with Shannen and let you and Mother Jones have some time together, alone?”

“But
we
haven’t—”

“Mom.” After a beat. “We have forever.”

S
tomping into a rustic Big Bear pawnshop that same afternoon, Roger Cabott startled the sleepy proprietor seated behind the counter. The name Shell was stitched above his shirt pocket, stuffed with leaky pens and eyeglasses.

“I need a
piece
,” Roger growled.

“Uh, if you mean a gun what kind are you lookin’ for?” Shell asked carefully, removing the pipe from his mouth.

“I don’t know, something that shoots bullets I imagine,” Roger said sarcastically. “Something I can get for
this
.” Unballing his fist, he slammed his platinum and diamond ring down on the glass counter.

“Ohh-kay.” Shell didn’t want to ask his next question but felt he should. “What do you want to do with a firearm?”

“I might wanna go
hunting
, and I definitely need to protect myself and my honor.”

“Protection for the home. NRA member I bet. Good. Town Hall meeting tomorrow night if you’re interested. All right, let’s see what we got. Rifles are over here.”

“I didn’t say anything about a rifle. I’m looking for a handgun.”

Not saying a word, the storekeeper nodded, leading Roger past the enormous knife display, fishing equipment, and a Confederate flag collection. Roger pointed. “Gimme that one, yeah, that’ll do the trick.”

“Good choice. Colt .45 automatic, but you do understand this firearm isn’t for hunting?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll need some ammo too. Can you throw it in?”

“Sure. Need to see some ID though.”

Roger slid his wallet across the counter and fifteen minutes later emerged with a gun and a box of Remingtons. Revving the engine, he peeled out heading due south, back to L.A. to pay his Internet “It Girl” wife a visit.

U
nder the shade of trellised wisteria blossoms, we sat wondering how to start a conversation we’d avoided having for more than two decades.

“You sure they feedin’ you enough here, Beulah? Look like a string bean.”

“I’ve already gained three pounds, Grandma.”

“Where—your earlobes?”

An awkward silence stood between us before Grandma Jones said, “Sure is high cotton. Real uppity. Wish I could’ve afforded a
breakdown
. Shoot, in my day us women never hearda’ such a thing, and those that
did
we ain’t never seen since.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Couldn’t afford a breakdown?”

“Had kids to raise, mouths to feed, and jobs to get to, a lot of ’em
in the field. We prayed for mercy and salvation and kept right on goin’. Had your mamma to care for, plus my job cleanin’ at the Country Club, then you come along. God gave me the strength to raise you even though—”

“But Grandma, sounds like you’re sayin’ bein’ in rehab’s a luxury.”

“Ain’t it? Seems like an awful lotta money to be spendin’ on self-control. ’Specially in these times.”