Shannon did her best not to recoil. Thankfully the rock of guilt in her stomach helped anchor her in place.
“Yeah,” she said with a faint laugh. “That would be so... Wow.”
“I know, right?” Cindy linked arms with her. “Oh, baby girl, this is the best time of our lives.”
3
Ava parked in her daughter’s assigned space, telling herself she was being foolish. Milton had teased her about stopping by, but she simply couldn’t let it go. Victoria had sworn she’d been kidding about having a cat, but Ava had to be certain.
She took the elevator to the top floor of the building. The condo—a pretty, open, one-bedroom with a den—was on the corner, giving the unit extra light from all the windows. When Victoria had turned twenty-one, Milton had suggested they buy her a condo. Ava had understood the impulse. He wanted to know his beloved daughter was safe and always had something of her own. She wanted that, as well. She wasn’t concerned about making Victoriaearnthe money herself. Victoria not doing the work had never been the problem. Whenever something had captured her interest, Victoria had thrown herself into the project with abandon. Whether it was taking classes five days a week when she’d been competing in gymnastics or spending an entire summer at an elite but tough all-star cheerleading camp, Victoria showed up and gave her best.
No, Ava’s problem with the condo was that she’d had to smile and say that while it was a wonderful idea, Milton should be the one to discuss it with their daughter. Because if the suggestion came from her, it wouldn’t be well received.
She stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind herself, just in case. Feeling foolish, she called, “Here, kitty, kitty. Come on, honey. Are you hungry?”
She waited, but there was only silence. No cat came running.
She walked briskly through the unit, taking in the unmade bed, the clothes scattered. Her fingers itched to straighten up the place, to start a load of laundry and perhaps check the contents of the refrigerator, but she held back. Despite Ava being well-meaning, her daughter would only see her as interfering and invading her privacy.
She checked under the bed and in both bathrooms, then walked into the den Victoria used as a writing space. There were pages of her screenplay on the desk and the floor. Several of them were marked up, while a couple had been ripped in two. Ava resisted the urge to pick up the pages and read. She was here on a welfare check, not to snoop.
Oh, but it was difficult not to sit on the small sofa and discover what her daughter had to say. Only Victoria had never discussed the project with her. Victoria had mentioned it to her father several times because they talked about everything. She’d even given him an early draft to read.
A familiar tightness wrapped around her chest. She ignored it and the subsequent pain. Victoria’s relationship with her father was easy—something Ava had always envied and been helplessly unable to duplicate. It seemed no matter how she tried to get close to her daughter, they were destined to butt heads and misunderstand each other. She didn’t know the reason, but she’d grown to accept the uncomfortable truth. She loved her daughter with all her heart, and on her good days she thought Victoria loved her back. But she wasn’t sure her daughter liked her very much.
For one brief moment she allowed herself to remember the other child—the daughter she hadn’t been able to adopt—and wonder if that relationship would have been different. Wouldthat child have liked her a little bit more than Victoria did? A flash of longing gripped her—a wish for what could have been. She pushed the emotion away and returned to the present. She had a wonderful life, and she needed to remember that.
She completed her tour and found no evidence of a pet of any kind. After carefully locking the door behind her, she went back to her car and dealt with traffic on her way to work.
Given that it was a weekday morning in Los Angeles, it took Ava nearly forty minutes to drive less than ten miles from her daughter’s condo to the office. Not only did she hit every light, but she narrowly avoided being sideswiped by a teen driving and texting. By the time she pulled into her parking space, her shoulders were tight and her lower back ached.
The foundation occupied a small residential building in Westwood. Over the years, families moved out as houses were torn down, replaced by businesses. Now trendy restaurants and medi-spas dominated. There was a lovely coffee bar across the street and a Pilates studio on the corner.
She went inside, passing through the elegant foyer with comfortable chairs and the reception desk. A major remodel had allowed the house to be reconfigured as working office space with half a dozen offices, a small kitchenette with seating and a conference room. Her office was in the back, facing the patio and garden.
As always, walking through the door and surveying the familiar furniture and artwork made her relax. It was as if being in the building allowed her to fully exhale. The foundation wasn’t so much her kingdom as it was her refuge. Here she knew what was expected, what she was supposed to do and say. Here she was well-liked and respected. Here she did work that mattered.
The rest of her life could be confusing. Oh, not the part with Milton, but her relationship with her daughter. Despite the books on child-rearing she’d read and the hours spent with a child psychologist as Ava tried to understand her daughter, shewas forever second-guessing herself and wishing for some kind of inspired guidance. But at the foundation, she understood the rules—mostly because she had made them.
She put away her handbag and went to make herself coffee. She greeted her assistant and the other staff, asking about families and boyfriends, and made her lunch selection from the restaurant of the day.
Ava had been born into money. Both her parents had been wealthy, and she’d known from an early age that she would be inheriting a significant fortune. At first she’d been overwhelmed and unsure, but when the family lawyer had mentioned that she could start a foundation, Ava realized she had found her calling.
The rules for a private foundation were simple—a predetermined amount of money had to be given away every year. Ava had decided to focus on assisting teenagers with their lives and ways to make their circumstances better. They funded programs that helped young people stay in high school until graduation and offered scholarships to vocational and technical schools. They’d recently started giving money to a group called OAR—Objection, Achievement, Repeat—that supported teens when they aged out of the foster care system. And because it made her happy, every year the foundation gave a million or so to animal welfare causes.
Coffee in hand, she returned to her office and carefully closed the door. After setting down her mug, she crossed to the chairs making up a conversation group in the corner. She touched her phone to start the meditation app she liked and began her day as she always did—with a gratitude meditation on her many blessings.
For these few minutes she didn’t think about all she hadn’t gotten done or worry about her daughter or their lack of connection. She thought only of the joys in her life: her family, her ability to help others, the satisfaction of her work. When she was done, she walked to her desk and began her day.
A little after eleven, her phone beeped to tell her she had an incoming text. She smiled as she read the loving message from Milton. He was always reaching out during the day, letting her know he was thinking of her.
She understood how the world saw her. They assumed she was the powerhouse in her marriage, much as she was everywhere else. People talked about how she’d been the one to take Milton from a small studio owner to a senior executive at a major motion picture conglomerate. But the rest of the world got it wrong. She hadn’t rescued Milton—he’d rescued her. He been the first person who’d shown her it was safe to love, and without him she would be forever lost. He was her rock, her heart, her everything. And he always would be.
Victoria stared at the screen of her laptop and waited for inspiration. When none arrived, she swore under her breath, glanced at the clock on her nightstand, then sighed heavily as she saved the meager work she’d accomplished that afternoon.
She was in her fourth draft of her screenplay. This time through she was working on character emotions. Giving them more or—according to her critique group—any.
“Emotions suck,” she muttered as she turned off her computer, then slid gingerly to the edge of the bed.
