Wish List

SWEETS TO THE SWEET

“How many jelly doughnuts did you bring?” Ariel asked.
Had he really said sugary lips were sexy
?

“Four.”
Was she flirting with him?

Ariel giggled. “How much sugar do I have on my lips?”

“Not nearly enough,” he said. “It’ll do for starters, though. How much do I have on mine?”

“Just enough.”

He kissed her. Ariel leaned into him, her lips meeting his. Time stood still . . . for the first time in her life.

Then she heard Snookie’s low growl. The big dog’s tail swished back and forth.

“Shall we give her a doughnut?” Lex asked, still holding Ariel tightly.

“Oh, my,” Ariel said as Lex kissed her again.

“Woof,” Snookie barked softly.

“Love me, love my dog,” Ariel whispered into Lex’s ear.

She is flirting with me
. “Forever and ever,” he said.

“Guess that makes us official,” Ariel said, reaching into the bag for another doughnut.

“Guess so,” Lex said, as he smothered her with the most wonderful kiss she’d ever dreamed of . . .

Books by Fern Michaels:

Up Close and Personal
Fool Me Once
Picture Perfect
About Face
The Future Scrolls
Kentucky Sunrise
Kentucky Heat
Kentucky Rich
Plain Jane
Charming Lily
What You Wish For
The Guest List
Listen to Your Heart
Celebration
Yesterday
Finders Keepers
Annie’s Rainbow
Sara’s Song
Vegas Sunrise
Vegas Heat
Vegas Rich
Whitefire
Wish List
Dear Emily

The Sisterhood Novels:

Final Justice
Collateral Damage
Fast Track
Hokus Pokus
Hide
and
Seek
Free
Fall
Sweet Revenge
The Jury
Vendetta
Payback
Weekend Warriors

Anthologies:

Silver Bells
Comfort and Joy
Sugar and Spice
Let It Snow
A Gift of Joy
Five Golden Rings
Deck the Halls
Jingle All the Way

FERN MICHAELS
 

WISH LIST
 

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

I’d like to dedicate this book
to the memory of Ken’s grandfather, Jerry Loyd
1937-1995

One

It was a frosty day, the kind of day to hurry inside, build a fire, snuggle into warm sweats, and curl up with a hot toddy. A cigarette and a hot, new script would complete the make-believe picture. Like it was really going to happen.

Agnes Bixby, better known as Ariel Hart to fans and movie buffs, entered her house and called out to her longtime friend and housekeeper. “I’m home.”

She dropped her briefcase by the front door, sending her high-heeled shoes in two different directions. Her lightweight coat landed on a settee. She reached down to a small foyer table, opened the drawer, withdrew a rubber band, and pulled her thick, blond hair into a ponytail. She closed the drawer with her knee as she struggled with her mane. Long hair was for young people, not women approaching the big Five-0. But, in this perfect place called Hollywood, all the perfect people—and she included herself in that category—tried to appear forever young. Long, flyaway hair was a must along with heavy makeup and outrageous false eyelashes. Don’t even think about the skinny bodies that hungered for mashed potatoes and gravy, she cautioned herself as she fired up her second cigarette of the day.

Ariel felt out of sorts as she stared around at the pleasant room she basically lived in—the family room, rumpus room, great room, or whatever they were calling it these days. It was a perfect room, decorated by herself, for herself, the perfect backdrop when she’d been interviewed, which was often, in the early days of her career. Now, though, the interviews were almost nonexistent and the furniture was beginning to show signs of wear even though Dolly, her housekeeper, was meticulous about caring for everything in the house.

“I love this room, I really do,” Ariel said as she reached out for the drink Dolly held out to her. “It’s so warm with all the earth colors and the soft pastels on the walls. I always thought it was picture-perfect. I hate that word, Dolly. I think I always hated it.”

The perfect couch, so deep and comfortable, welcomed her. Ariel settled herself by propping her feet on the coffee table. She reached for her third cigarette.

“Didn’t get the part, huh?” Dolly said.

“No. A forty-five-year-old got it. Her face-lift was so new I could see the pink scars. Maybe I should get one. I was perfect for the part, too. But . . . You know, Dolly, and I’m sure you’re keeping track, this is the first call I’ve gone on in three months. I knew this day was coming—I just didn’t think it would be this soon. I also thought I was prepared, but I’m not. My agent isn’t very hopeful. There just aren’t any good supporting roles these days. Each day I’m getting older.” She gulped at the drink she usually sipped.

“It sounds to me like you’re full of self-pity,” Dolly snapped. She twisted the cap off a bottle of Budweiser and took a swig. She was a tiny woman with a single, thick, black braid that hung down to her skinny buttocks. She wore jangly hoop earrings—her arrival was always announced by sound. She wore baggy overalls with colorful shirts and no fewer than seven beaded Mexican necklaces. Her feet were bare and thickly calloused. On those occasions when guests were expected, she donned a French maid’s uniform with a prissy white apron and stiletto-heeled shoes.

“I deserve to feel pity,” Ariel snapped back, her blue eyes flashing angrily. “I’m getting so sick and tired of this business I want to quit. The problem is, the business is quitting on me. I’ve been thinking more and more about starting up my own production company. By God, if I do, I’m going to scour this town for scripts that call for older women. Why is it that as men get older they’re distinguished and women are just older? Get me another drink. Please. And another thing, I want mashed potatoes, gravy, and a pot roast for dinner. Make sure you cook an apple in the gravy and mash it up. Make coleslaw, fresh rolls, lots and lots of soft butter, no other vegetable, and I want a peach cobbler with fresh whipped cream for dessert. Then I want real cream in my coffee, and a brandy, too.”

“You’ll make yourself sick if you eat all that. You haven’t eaten food like that in years. Your stomach is used to tuna and salad with lemon juice. I’ll have to go to the market.”

“I don’t care if I get sick. I want it. Will it make you feel better if I have some red beets in vinegar? So, go to the store already. Tomorrow I want steak and french fries and the day after that a leg of lamb. I’ll let you know what I want on Thursday.”

“I’ll do it, but you need to know we’re talking ten pounds here. Can you live with ten more pounds on that skinny body? You’ll have to go on a diet or buy new clothes. I’m going, I’m going. Do you want turnips mashed along with the potatoes?”

Did she? “Of course. With lots of butter and salt and pepper. Don’t forget my drink. Better yet, bring me two. I need to unwind.”

“Three drinks will put you under the table and you’ll sleep till morning. Then who’s going to eat this fancy dinner?”

“Wake me up. Go!”

Her second drink firmly clasped in her left hand, Ariel reached for the portable phone and pressed the memory key. “Sid, it’s Ariel. I didn’t get the part. They gave it to Wynona Dayton. Her face-lift looks real good. I’m batting zip here. This makes twelve calls, that’s an even dozen, that I’ve lost. I think it’s time to sit down and do some serious talking. Today convinced me that I need to . . . do something. Of course, I realize movies have been my life, but there is life after the big screen. There has to be.” She heard the desperation in her voice and hated it. God, what would she
do?
Her eye went to the Oscar she’d won four years ago for best supporting actress. Two good movies after that, and then it was all downhill.

Ariel swallowed the rest of her drink and knew immediately that Dolly had watered it down. Damn. “Of course I’m listening. Don’t I always listen to you, Sid? I have an idea—why don’t you come over for dinner? We’re having real food tonight—pot roast and peach cobbler. No, nobody died. This is how I’m going to eat from now on.” She listened for a moment to the squawking on the other end of the line. “Of course I’m serious. Today convinced me that Hollywood is finished with me and you know what, Sid? I’m finished with it, too. Acting, that is. This seems as good a time as any to do what I said I was going to do when this day came. I want to form my own production company and maybe take a shot at directing. So, are you coming to dinner or not? Fine, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll talk to you. Then again, maybe I won’t.” She listened again to the furious squawking on the other end of the line. “I looked perfect. I acted perfectly professional, the way I always act. I read perfectly, too. Maybe you should call the producer and ask him yourself why he chose Wynona over me. I’d like to know myself.” She forced herself to take a deep breath and exhaled slowly. None of this was Sid’s fault. It was her fault for having the poor judgment to begin the aging process. She gulped at the drink again and wished she had another. “I’m sorry, Sid, it was a bad day. Let’s talk tomorrow when I’m not so testy.”

The silence hammered at her once she replaced the phone. Had she always lived in a silent house? Didn’t she play the stereo? Didn’t Dolly have the kitchen television turned to the afternoon talk shows? Where was the noise she was accustomed to? Maybe she should have told Sid about the new lump on her cheek and the one on her forehead.

“Today I feel fifty!” Ariel shouted to the empty room. “I know it’s two weeks till my birthday, so technically I’m still forty-nine.” She thought about Carla Simmons because she always thought about Carla when things were going bad. Carla Simmons, top model and then Best Actress three years running. And then zip. Nada. Nothing. A face-lift and a boob lift couldn’t help the aging actress, but she was hanging in there because she didn’t have any kind of backup. Money-hungry husbands had cleaned her out a long time ago. Tina Turner wasn’t even a good runner-up where Carla was concerned. Even with all of her cosmetic surgery, Carla
looked
old. How many times Ariel had given the actress money just to help her pay the rent. She’d helped in other ways, too, paying for her health insurance and getting her into a rehab clinic and paying for that, too. Well, if she went through with her plan to form her own production company she might be able to hire Carla for some good character parts. Carla would play any part just to be in front of the cameras.

She’d promised herself a fire. Well, then, by God she was going to have a fire. Just as soon as she changed into her sweats. A shower might not be such a bad idea.

Inside of ten minutes she had a blazing fire with firewood she’d personally lugged from Oregon along with baskets and baskets of pine cones. Just for good measure, and to be sure the fire would still be blazing after her shower, she tossed on an artificial log, something the instructions said not to do.

Before heading upstairs, Ariel picked up her Oscar and stared at it. It was a statue awarded for excellence. She belonged to that select group: the best of the best. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, she mused as she replaced the shiny gold statue on the mantel. She wondered what would happen to it when she died. “Guess I’ll have to will it to someone.” She was still muttering to herself as she made her way up the winding circular staircase.

At the top of the stairs, she turned and looked down over the railing. Years ago, when she’d refurbished the house, she’d had the old stairs ripped out and installed what she privately referred to as her
Tara
staircase. Oh, how she’d played with it, giving lavish dinner parties, descending the stairs after the guests arrived, just so she could show off. Each time she did any kind of interview she made sure she was photographed on the beautiful stairs. A weary sigh escaped her.

Ariel was a quick-change artist. She was also adept at doing two things at once. She undressed as she selected a CD, then turned up the volume so she could hear it in the shower.
Pretty Woman
. Tears burned her eyes. Too much soap.

The after-shower ritual took twenty-five minutes. Body lotion, elbow and knee lotion, special lanolin hand cream, cuticle cream, facial moisturizer, neck cream, eye cream, hair conditioner that wasn’t supposed to be rinsed out, and lastly, foot balm.

Her reflection in the mirror worried her. When was the last time she’d had a facial? About three weeks ago. She was persnickety about her face since she earned her living in front of the camera. She didn’t have these bumps on her face three weeks ago. She looked at the offending blemishes in her magnified makeup mirror. Makeup could cover them. In the great scheme of things, she decided, it simply wasn’t all that important.

Downstairs, the fire was still blazing. She threw on another log just for something to do before she made herself a fresh drink with more liquor than was good for her. She could hear Dolly banging pots and pans in the kitchen. She switched off the CD player and found herself grinning as she listened to Dolly’s soap opera. Two actors grumbled that at least seventeen people knew someone had had a child out of wedlock thirty years ago and the only person who didn’t know was the father. By seven o’clock Dolly would have tomorrow’s episode down to a science.

Now what should she do? Smoke a cigarette, of course. Who cares if I get those deadly little lines over my upper lip?

Was she over-reacting? Was today just a bad hair day, a bad complexion day? No, she decided. If nothing else, she was always honest with herself. Today marked the beginning of the end of her acting career. Better to quit now. Go on to other things. She could still be a name in this town, provided she wanted to stay in Hollywood. Did she? Of course she did—she’d been here for thirty years. It was home.

Once she’d thought another place was home, but she’d been a kid of sixteen then. Living in Chula Vista, outside San Diego, had been the happiest time of her life. Even now, thirty years later, she still remembered it. Of course, there were reasons for that happiness, but she wasn’t going to think about those now. Living with a father who was in the military didn’t allow a child to call any one place home because you were never in that place long enough to put down roots.
I wish
. . .

Ariel never finished her wishes, but her wish list was long, taped to the inside of her closet door. Almost fifty pages of “I wish,” with nothing following. Why, she didn’t know. Maybe she was afraid. She told herself it was better than writing in a diary, better than having some stranger see her private thoughts. She knew what the fifty--page wish list contained: the same wish, over and over and over. Every night before she went to bed she wrote, “I wish . . .”

She could still hear Dolly’s TV. The soap stars were battling each other over DNA testing. Life should be that simple, Ariel thought. Life was never simple. People were simple. Life was goddamn complicated.

“Dolly!”

“What?” the housekeeper bellowed from the kitchen.

“I’m going to get a dog! Maybe a cat, too, so they’ll be company for each other.”

Dolly was breathing like a long distance runner when she skidded over the polished floors to stand over her employer. “Then I quit! I’m not cleaning up after a dog. I have enough to do picking up after you. Dogs chew, cats spray and you never get the smell out of the furniture. I don’t have time to walk a dog. You have to pay attention to animals. You’re too busy. I quit!” she shrieked.

“So quit,” Ariel retaliated. “Who in their right mind would pay you what I pay you, and allow you to watch soap operas all afternoon? Nobody, that’s who. We’re stuck with each other and we both know it. You aren’t getting any younger, you know. Face it, this is one cushy job. I pay your social security, provide a pension plan, give you two days off a week, let you drive my car. I give you smashing Christmas presents. So, quit!”

Ariel and Dolly had discussions like this at least once a week, with one or the other always backing down. Long years of friendship allowed both women to be open, to speak their minds and walk away after these discussions, with head high.
Familiarity does not
always
breed contempt,
Ariel was fond of saying.