At the sound of the voice, Sara jumped, banging her head on the top of the refrigerator. “Then take a hint, Ryan,” she said, rubbing the bump.
“We need to talk.” He stood, one hip hitched up on the counter, wearing a wrinkled polo shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops.
“I don’t think so.” She pointed at his feet. “What kind of help can you be on a ranch wearing those?”
“I had a meeting in Aspen earlier.” He raised a brow. “Besides, I saw you take off with Josh. Looks like I’m not the only one playing hooky today.”
She blew out a breath. “He wanted to take Claire for a ride. It made her more comfortable if I came, too.”
“You’re still as much of an addict as me, Sara.”
“I was in that rehab center for publicity and you know it. I am not an addict.”
“I’m not talking drugs or alcohol. People and their problems. You’re addicted to fixing other people’s issues. Makes it easier to ignore your own.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Tell me why you’re here.”
“Because this house belongs to me now,” she said, holding tight to the refrigerator door handle but unsure why she needed the support. “I can make more money from a successful season than a bust.”
“And what will you do then?”
“Repay April the money that you gambled away. Finally start the yoga center she wants.”
“Her dream. Her problem.”
“She’s my friend, Ryan. The only one who’s stuck with me all these years. And I want to run a business. I want to do something. Something real. Can’t you get that?”
“Read for the part. That’s real. Do you really think you can go back to L.A. and run an exercise studio? Cater to whatever star of the week flounces through the front door looking to use yoga as a front for her latest eating disorder?”
Her eyes narrowed. “It would sure beat waiting tables and clearing up their plates of barely touched food.”
“You’re an actress, Sara. It’s in your blood. You have something to prove still. I know it. Don’t give up on your dream.”
“Acting wasn’t my dream, Ryan. That one belonged to my mother.” It was true, but so was his comment about Sara having something to prove. She hated that her career had fizzled so publicly. If she’d been able to walk away on her own terms, with some of her pride intact...well, maybe that would have made a difference. She didn’t know. What could she do about it now? Read for a part and open herself up to more ridicule? She’d swallowed loads of that in the past and wasn’t sure she could stomach any more.
“Your mother’s here right now.”
Her gaze flicked to Ryan’s face. He looked guilty and sheepish. “Why?” she said on a growl.
“To help you. Sell this place to her boyfriend. He tells me he made you a pretty good offer.”
“It’s not worth what he plans to do to this place. It was my grandmother’s house, Ryan. Her home. I may not have known her well, but I have to respect what she built here. I can’t let it be destroyed without at least trying to save it.”
Her mind strayed to the photo album on the dresser upstairs and the genuine smile on her eight-year-old face sitting on that porch swing. She thought about the pure joy she’d felt racing through the forest earlier, the way the mountain peaks felt like they cradled this valley and the peace it brought her. A feeling she hadn’t known for years, if ever.
Ryan’s voice broke through her reverie. “He wants the property, Sara. He’s going to get it one way or another.”
“Not from me.” Sara didn’t have much to hold on to in her life, but that feeling of peace was worth fighting for. She wouldn’t give it up. She glanced at the doorway to the family room. “Is she waiting?”
“In the office.”
She released her death grip on the refrigerator, flexing her cramped fingers. “Put some decent shoes on and go find April. Whatever she’s doing, I’m sure she can use some help.”
Ryan’s full mouth twisted. “She doesn’t like me.”
“Do you blame her?”
“I’m a cad. That’s my deal. But women still like me. They can’t help themselves. She’s different.”
Sara stifled a laugh. “I can’t believe you just said that line out loud. This isn’t the nineteenth century. I’m a cad. So what? You can’t flirt and charm your way out of what you did to April. This time you may have to actually work at making things better.” She paused. “Trust me, Ryan. It’s worth it.”
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Fine. You deal with your mother. I’ll face the wrath of the hippie princess.”
“You’re so brave.” Sara patted his cheek as she passed him.
He held on to her wrist. “I really am sorry, Sara.”
“I know. Now go make it better.” She slipped from his grasp and walked out of the kitchen, hesitating at the doorway to the office.
Go make it better.
Could she take her own advice? Was it possible to make better all the things that were wrong in her relationship with her mother? Did she even want to try? Since her career had gotten so far off track, Sara hadn’t seen Rose often. She’d quickly tired of the never-ending litany of advice and criticism. Without the spotlight, Sara didn’t have much to offer her mother. Rose was a stage mother in the worst sense of the word—Sara could give Lindsay Lohan or Brooke Shields a definite run for their money in the bad-mama department.
As awful and contentious as their relationship had become, some part of Sara still craved her mother’s approval. That knowledge upset her more than anything. The fact that Rose could still send her into a tailspin with a well-chosen dig or subtle jab ate at her self-confidence before either of them spoke a word.
Laughter rang down to where she stood. Not her mother’s voice. Claire. Sara took the steps two at a time but slowed in the hallway outside Claire’s bedroom.
“That’s right, dear,” she heard her mother say. “Look over your shoulder. Just the hint of a smile. Make them want more of you.”
Sara’s stomach lurched. She’d listened to that same litany of advice for years. Before every Hollywood event, premier or even trip to the mall Rose had coached her on what to wear and how to carry herself. According to Rose, being an actress was a 24/7 occupation. Sara had never been allowed to be truly off. Even now she’d catch herself doing an unconscious hair toss when someone recognized her. Maybe the training had served her well, she thought, as it was the one thing that had made her hold her head high in the face of many moments of ridicule.
But that had nothing to do with Claire.
“What are you doing?” she asked, bracing one hand against the door frame.
Claire beamed at her. “Auntie Rose is giving me lessons on how to be a star.” The girl breathed the word star with such reverence it made Sara’s teeth hurt.
“Auntie Rose?” She flashed a pointed glance at her mother.
“Do you know who Claire’s mother is?” Rose asked by way of an answer.
Sara nodded and tried not to roll her eyes.
“Jennifer Holmes, the supermodel,” she answered anyway. “The girl has an in. You know how much that can help, Sara. How my fame opened doors for you.”
Give me a break, Sara thought to herself. “Claire doesn’t need doors opened for her, Mom. She’s thirteen.”