Over Her Dead Body(44)
“I can’t marry him,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I don’t have those kind of feelings for him.” I didn’t add that I’d just met someone I did have “those feelings” for, because that someone had just dissed me and I was already struggling to keep it together.
“Well, you can’t force it,” she said. “Jordan deserves someone who is head over heels for him. If that’s not you, then you were right to let him go.”
“I can’t let someone go who was never mine to begin with!” OK, I was definitely getting defensive now. Because of course he could have been mine, if I had said yes.
“Ashley, honey,” Mom said, in that voice she used when I did something stupid, like dented the car or forgot to report my credit card stolen, “maybe it’s time we talk about you coming home.”
And there it was. My number one cheerleader and the one person in my life who had always believed in me, telling me it was time to throw in the towel.
My heart broke wide open, like it had been impaled by a sword. I muted the phone so she wouldn’t hear me sobbing. Because of course she was right. I’d had seven years to make something of myself—seven whole years!—and all I had to show for it was a few lousy day player credits and a wrinkle between my brows.
“Ashley? Are you still there?”
I forced myself to stop crying, then unmuted the phone. “I’m here,” I squeaked.
“I know you’re upset,” my mom said. “We can talk about it later. I just want you to know that you always have a home here in Wisconsin. Your brothers and I would be thrilled to have you back. We love you.”
And she hung up. A second later the phone rang again. I thought for a second it was Mom calling me back to tell me my old room was ready or to give me a list of moving companies, but the caller ID said “Unknown Caller.” There really wasn’t any worse news I could get, so I kept the car in park and answered.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ashley Brooks?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“Please hold for Simon Redding.” Who?
I heard a few seconds of hold music—“The Blue Danube” waltz, I think? And then a man picked up the line.
“Ashley Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“This is Simon Redding. I’m the trust attorney for Louisa Lake George.” His voice was polished marble, with a highbrow British accent, like you hear on The Crown. “I presume you know Ms. George has passed?”
“Yes, I just heard.”
“Sorry for your loss,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. “The reason I’m calling is because you’re named in Ms. George’s will.” Say what?
“I’m sorry, but I think there must be a mistake; I only just met her,” I said, because why on earth would Louisa name me in her will?
He ignored my comment. “The family has requested the reading be tomorrow. Are you available at eleven o’clock?”
“No, I can’t make it at eleven,” I said. I had to work the day shift—again. I would have loved to blow it off, but with my entire life in shambles, I couldn’t risk adding “getting fired” to my list of catastrophes.
“Is there a better time for you?”
“Not really. I have to work all day.” And his response was as rude as it was intriguing.
“Not after tomorrow you won’t.”
And so, to continue my trend of self-destructive behavior, I blew off work to be there. Maybe subconsciously I wanted to go back to Wisconsin and was trying to force the issue. Because without a day job or a dream job, I would have no other choice.
As I drove to Beverly Hills the next morning in the pissing-down rain, I tried to imagine how I came to be named in Louisa’s will. Despite the lawyer’s cryptic comment, I didn’t for a second think she had left me anything significant. My best guess was that she had bequeathed me some memorabilia—probably that photo of her with Barbra Streisand, since I’d shamelessly coveted it. As for how I wound up in her will two days after meeting her, I rationalized that she was just one of those people who, when they decide to do something, do it right away. My dad was like that. Whenever my mom said, “We really should (clean the gutters, pay off the mortgage, trim that beard),” he’d do it immediately. He wasn’t a list guy. He was a pick-up-the-phone-and-take-care-of-it-now guy. I figured Louisa was, too. I imagined Louisa calling or emailing her lawyer right after we met to do this one quick thing before she forgot. That was the only scenario that made sense—certainly more sense than what actually happened.
I tried to look respectable in my tweed suit (OK, my only suit) with my hair in a high bun. I knew Nathan was going to be there, so I put on lipstick and a tiny dab of perfume to try to expedite the clearing of that smoke. As I fought back nervous anticipation about seeing him again, I couldn’t help but wonder: If I hadn’t met Nathan, would I have said yes to Jordan? Did my guardian angels put him in my path so I would let Jordan go? Or did the devil conjure him to keep me unhappy forever? One thing was for certain: Mom was right. Jordan deserved someone who was head over heels for him, and that wasn’t me. Jordan was a great guy, but in my heart I knew his appeal was that he was stable, predictable, someone who could keep me safe. As I’ve said, and for better and for worse, I’ve never been one to play it safe. I wanted the exhilaration that comes from taking great big risks both in life and in love, even if that meant being the only one of my friends who turned thirty broke and alone.