“I’m glad she and Romaine aren’t together anymore,” Gwen confesses.

  “Why?”

  “My daughter wants to see what it’s like to live a normal life. She’d never have that opportunity with someone who’s always in the spotlight.”

  Ruby worries out loud, “What if she tries living a normal life and realizes it’s not for her?”

  “Then she moves back to LA, I guess.” Gwen finds a vase for the flowers in a kitchen cabinet and gets busy trimming their stems.

  Ruby confides, “I just successfully set my older son up with my best friend from college’s daughter. I wanted to do the same for James.”

  “But now you’re questioning your choice,” Gwen says.

  “It’s just so much more complicated than I thought it would be.”

  “Complicated is an understatement, Ruby. I think in the case of Tara and James, we can only take a supportive role. Trust me when I say the press ruins relationships. It’s like they take sadistic pleasure in it.”

  Tara

  Holy heck. Kissing James is nothing like I thought it would be. I assumed it would be a pleasant experience but not the toe-curling lip-lock it was. Even though I suggested it as a tool to help us better sell our lies to Rachel Perry, in the back of my mind I really wanted to do it. And it was amazing!

  What made it better was there was nothing that suggested it was a means to an end for James, a.k.a. getting me into bed. He was fully present in the moment which made it all the sweeter. We could have been kissing for five minutes or five hours, it’s hard to tell as time lost all relevancy.

  As my recent weight gain suggests, I’m no longer one to pass up the sweet things in life. Move over tiramisu, I’m craving James Cavanaugh now.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” James says with me still in his arms.

  Flames of embarrassment flicker at my cheeks. “I wasn’t thinking anything,” I lie.

  “Well, I was thinking with kisses like that, we’re going to have a pretty easy time selling our story of being a couple.”

  “It was nice,” I answer shyly, which is totally weird because I’m not a shy person.

  “It was.” James lets me go but still hangs on to my hands.

  I worry my palms are going to get all sweaty, so I gently pull them back. “Do you want to have dinner again tonight? We can try to come up with more questions.”

  “I’ll bring it up at six. Do you want to keep Penny with you for company?”

  “That would be nice, thank you. I’m starting to go a little stir crazy not being able to leave my room.”

  “I’ll keep the adjoining door open. That way you can go hang out in my room to mix it up a bit.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I could watch one television show in your living room and then come back and watch one in mine. This is going to be quite an exciting day.”

  His smile melts me to the core. “Call my mom when Penny needs to go out.”

  I’m not sure what to do with myself after James leaves. There are only so many baths I can take and so many episodes of Schitt’s Creek I can watch. What I want to do is bake something.

  I decided to re-watch the first season of The Great British Bake Off and let Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood work their magic on me. That show was exquisite torture to watch when I was still modeling because I knew I could never eat confections like the kinds they made. I still watched though.

  Bread week was always my favorite. I was hypnotized as the contestants kneaded and slapped their dough into submission, I was delighted when they hammered cold butter into their puff pastry for perfect lamination, and I drooled when enriched dough was turned into savory and sweet delicacies fit for a queen.

  Five episodes later, it’s all I can do not to run down to the kitchen and turn on my mixer. Instead, I play with Penny. I wish I could at least take her out for walks, but Ruby comes every couple of hours to do that.

  I rehearse my lines for tomorrow’s interview all the while worrying I won’t be able to sell the reporter on my transformation. I think part of the reason people are still fascinated with me is that I left a life most only dream about having. Fame, wealth, rock star fiancés—it’s elusive stuff. I just wish I could tell people they don’t know how good they have it without all of those things.

  Fame brings constant pressure to be something bigger and better, to live up to an impossibly inhuman level of perfection. I went to great lengths to uphold that ridiculous standard. I was always hungry, I exercised extensively, I was forever having my hair trimmed and highlighted, and I had weekly facials in hopes of keeping the hands of time from affecting my complexion.

  One of the dreams I had the night of Cash’s dinner party was that the whole party died—probably poisoned from eating the food she served.

  We were all standing at the gates of heaven—there were two. Saint Peter sat at a scroll-top desk between them and was hammering away on a computer.

  He asked the first person in line, “What is your greatest accomplishment?” After they answered, he told them which line to stand in.

  I overheard snippets like, “I directed three Oscar winning films,” and “I played Mary Queen of Scots so perfectly people wept.” One after another he asked them. One after another they all lined up at the same gate.

  When it was my turn and St. Peter asked his question, I hemmed and hawed and really thought about what to say. I was sure he didn’t give a wit how many boats, houses, or awards the people before me had. He was after something more fundamental.

  I finally answered, “I haven’t accomplished nearly enough. I need to go back.”

  I heard Romaine yell, “Tell him about all the magazine covers! Tell him how you were the toast of fashion week when you were only fifteen!”

  St. Peter looked up from his screen and asked, “Do you want to tell me about those things?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. I want to go back and accomplish real things. I need to live a different life.” I was bone-tired of trying to live up to people’s unrealistic image of me and I was suddenly awash with the feeling that none of that stuff mattered.

  “Go stand at that gate,” he told me, pointing to the entrance with no line.

  “Where is everyone else going?” I asked, nervous for the people who accompanied me to this place.

  “They’re going back to school.” I’m not sure what he meant, but I got the feeling they were going to be reminded of the things that really mattered in life. I was certain none of their possessions were going to be on that list.

  “Where am I going?” I asked, equally anxious for my own destiny.

  “You’re going to go back to make those changes you claim to want to make.” Then poof, like a magician making a rabbit disappear into his hat, my consciousness transported back into my bed.

  My eyes immediately popped open and I had the strangest feeling I was being given a second chance. The first thing I did was sign up for culinary school. Then I went out and bought the biggest chocolate-filled croissant I’d ever seen. I may have gone back for another, but that’s beside the point. I was a changed woman.

  While I ate, I made a list of charities that I believed in, some that I had actively supported and some that I hadn’t. Afterwards, I started writing checks. From that moment on, I decided my looks would not be the first thing I was remembered for.

  The revenge fantasies I’d cultivated against the mean girls from my childhood evaporated into nothing. The only person I felt any anger toward was myself. I wasn’t going to waste any more of my life caring what other people thought of me. I was going to let my heart lead me, and somehow I was going to make a real difference in this world.

  The only thing that is currently standing in my way is the press’s unwillingness to leave me alone. I’m more convinced than ever that I have to quit hiding and tell the world once and for all that I’m done modeling, I’m done with Hollywood, and I’m done with Romaine Choate.

  As long as James plays his part, everything will be smooth sailing. I know he’s nervous about our ruse, but he’ll do okay. He has to.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ruby

  Not bothering to open the menu sitting next to her, Ruby lets her thoughts drift to Tara and James. Her pastry chef might not be the right woman for son after all and, while disappointing, there’s not a darn thing she can do about it.

  Helena, one of the servers, brings her a cup of coffee just the way she likes it, one packet of raw sugar and a just a touch of half-and-half.

  “Can I bring you anything else, Mrs. Cavanaugh?” she asks.

  “No, thank you, dear, I’m good.” Then she asks, “How are your folks doing?” Helena moved back to Spartan to lend assistance after her dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. If that isn’t the sign of a quality person, Ruby doesn’t know what is. She briefly wonders if Helena might be the right girl for her to set up with Geoffrey.

  “Some days are tougher than others,” the young woman replies. “I’m just thankful to have such a good job here. It takes a lot of pressure off at home that I’m able to contribute to the household now that my dad can’t work anymore.”

  “You let me know if you need anything,” Ruby tells her. “Do you think your parents might like to join us for Thanksgiving here at the lodge this year?”

  Helena’s eyes brighten. “I think they’d really like that, Mrs. Cavanaugh, thank you.”

  While Thanksgiving will still be so hard without Tom, Ruby knows she has so much to be thankful for.

  James

  Tara and I practiced our lines again last night. She seems happy with them, but I’m not convinced anyone will believe she and I are really a couple. For that reason, I’ve decided to up my game.

  I’m going to wear my suit instead of jeans so I can make a really good first impression. I conclude nothing says fashionable man-about-town like a nice suit.

  Being that we’re meeting down at the stables, I wear my boots instead of loafers, and at the last minute, I add my Stetson cowboy hat to finish off the look. I feel like John Wayne in one of those old-time cowboy movies.

  I already met Rachel Perry at my farm, so she knows how I look on a normal day, but today is no normal day. Today, Tara and I are going to be the subject of photos the whole world is going to see. The thought totally freaks me out.

  I head over to the lodge half an hour early so I can take stock of my surroundings before the charade starts. Jeet, the stable manager, calls out, “You’re looking pretty fancy today, boy. What’s the occasion?”

  I inhale slowly before entering the fray. “My new girlfriend, Tara, and I are meeting someone here.”

  “New girlfriend? Boy howdy, what do you know about that? Who’s this Tara anyway? Is she a local gal?”

  “She’s the new pastry chef here at the lodge. She’s from Los Angeles.”

  Jeet smacks the thigh of his black jeans. “Congratulations, son! I haven’t met your lady yet, but I know what a great baker she is. Her pumpkin muffins are enough to get me to spill government secrets.”

  “You’ve got government secrets?” I joke.

  “Go get me a pumpkin muffin and we’ll see.” He winks conspiratorially.

  I don’t reply because I see Tara coming my way. She’s wearing the jeans and flannel shirt I was supposed to be wearing and damn, she looks good. The jeans are snug, hugging everyone one of her gorgeous curves. The shirt is rolled up at the sleeves and tied at the waist.

  She looks more than a little surprised when she sees me, but she doesn’t have a chance to comment because the reporter drives up and parks next to the barn near where Jeet and I are standing. So much for getting here early.

  Rachel Perry gets out of her car and waves. “What a beautiful morning,” she greets.

  Tara reaches me and answers, “It sure is.” Then she offers her hand to Rachel. “I’m Tara.” Looking at me, she adds, “And I hear you met James the other day out at his farm.” She gives me the side eye leading me to believe she’s not pleased by my choice of wardrobe.

  “I sure did,” Rachel says before asking me, “What are you all dressed up for?”

  I laugh this sort of forced bark that sounds like I’m coughing up something from deep in my lungs. “I’m not dressed up. This is just one of my everyday suits.” I say this like I have more than one and that farmers are known for their standards regarding fashion.

  Rachel jots something down in the notebook she’s carrying before pulling out an envelope from her purse. She hands it to Tara. “Here’s the contract for our interview. It states that I can meet with you three times and take pictures to accompany whatever I write.”

  “Three times?” Tara demands. “I don’t recall that being part of the deal.”

  Rachel nods her head in a placating fashion. “My editor upped the money to a hundred and thirty thousand to compensate you for the additional time.”

  There’s an energy radiating off of Tara that makes me think she could launch herself to the moon without a rocket. “And if I say no to the additional meetings?”

  “Then I continue to follow you around and write whatever story I want to, accompanied by whatever photos I take. You’re public domain, Tara.”

  “I don’t know why I thought you’d be any different from all the other reporters, Rachel, but I have to confess that I’m a bit disappointed.”

  “I told you the truth when I said I wanted to tell your side of the story. You changed the game when you asked for money. To justify the expense, my editor wants more.”

  “What does that mean, more?” I finally join the conversation, feeling a tsunami of nerves wash over me. A sweaty mustache pops up on my upper lip despite the cool day.

  “We’re looking at a three-part series,” she says. Then she turns to Tara and adds, “You’re not really surprised, are you?”

  One look at my new girlfriend has me putting my arm in front of her as a protective barrier to keep her from bodily launching herself at Rachel. We don’t want the first headline to be “Model Murders Reporter!”

  Tara’s body weight pushes against my arm slightly. “And you didn’t tell me this ahead of time so that you would have the opportunity to take pictures of me if I didn’t go for it.”

  Rachel shrugs. “Maybe.” Then she looks at me and asks, “Not to be rude but why are you here, James?”

  “James is my boyfriend,” Tara announces. There’s no going back now. She continues, “I thought you might want to meet him and ask him a few questions for your story.”

  “Your boyfriend?” The reporter seems shocked. “You didn’t say anything about that on the phone.”

  “Surprise!” Tara deadpans.

  There’s so much tension in the air I feel like I should do something to break it. So, I turn to the stable manager and call out, “We’re going to need three mounts, Jeet.”

  “What?” Tara turns to me nervously.

  “I don’t know how to ride,” Rachel interjects.

  “That’s no problem. We’ll make sure to give you Daisy May. She’s as docile as a rocking horse.”

  Jeet helps the ladies onto their mounts while I saddle up my dad’s horse, Thunder. He’s a bit of a challenge but I figure he’ll look great in pictures. I’m envisioning a whole gentleman farmer spread.

  I’m confident nothing can go wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Gwen

  When the doorbell rings, Gwen’s first inclination is to ignore it. She knows Tara has her interview this morning, so it’s probably not Rachel Perry, but that doesn’t mean Syd Byerly isn’t slinking around like the worm he is.

  It rings again and she sneaks over to the peep hole to look out. It’s a young woman holding a basket of flowers. “Can I help you?” she calls out.

  “I have a delivery for Gwen Heinz,” the voice replies.

  Had it been a delivery for Tara, she would have told her to leave it. But her? Who in the world would be sending her flowers? She opens the door and takes the basket, before asking, “Do I need to sign for anything?”

  “No, ma’am, you’re all set. You have a nice day.”

  Gwen puts the arrangement on the counter before opening the card. It says:

  Thank you for the wonderful company the other night. Your friend, Billy

  Touched by the unexpected gesture, Gwen’s heart plummets a little by the platonic nature of the closing.

  After looking in the mirror and applying her lipstick, she grabs her car keys. She’s going to go over to the lodge and thank Billy in person for the flowers and then she’s going to invite him to Tara’s place tomorrow night so she can cook for him.

  Tara

  What in the heck is James doing putting us all on horseback? We didn’t discuss any of this. In fact, we carefully scripted this morning, covering everything from wardrobe to the path we would take to the garden to show off our project. Our preparations were meant to keep us in control of a situation that could easily spiral out of control.

  Yet, here I am, sitting on top of a horse named Oatmeal. James looks like a priest in an old western flick or like Zorro, if only he was wearing a mask—maybe he has one in his pocket and he’s going to pull it out later. All this on top of signing a contract giving Rachel Perry full access to me for multiple interviews.

  Rachel looks about as comfortable as I feel, and we share an awkward smile. Hers seems to say, I hope I don’t fall off of this thing. Mine is more like, what in the hell is happening to my life?

  James is the only one who appears relaxed on horseback despite how ridiculous he looks in his current getup. He announces, “Follow me.” Luckily, he starts out slowly so we’re able keep up with him.

  Sitting tall in his saddle and holding onto both reins with one hand, James starts to sway back and forth in his saddle as he sings some crazy song I’ve never heard before. As near as I can translate, it goes, “Bumbudadumbum bumbudadum BONANZA! Bumbudadum bumbadumbum bumbadadumdumdum!” And, repeat. Over and over again.