Page 17 of The Cruiser
ChapterSeven
VANDANA
So much for a relaxing Sunday.
I slept poorly, and a three-car pileup turns a no-brainer commute to Laguna Bach into gridlock. Inching along Pacific Coast Highway, multiple espressos churn in my empty stomach. Today isn’t just another torturous visit with my mother. It’s time to drop the Derek bomb. Mom would sooner feed the homeless than find a speck of compassion for the man she warned me not to marry, and I’m depressingly aware this news will be the bright spot of her day.
There’s a reason why I rarely come home.
But I’m overdue, and my father wants a family photo for his campaign—he’s the mayor of Laguna Beach and is running for a second term. The race is tight, and with a few weeks left to go, it’s all about presenting the perfect picture. When Morgan asked if I cared what people thought about me, it hit too close to home. I care because in the Hillman universe, not caring lives in a galaxy, far, far away. To the public, we’re a family of bright smiles and accomplishments. We aren’t a dysfunctional mess including a cheating father, neurotic mother, and an only daughter raised to suck it up no matter what.
In my youth, bearing the weight of perfection was a challenge. As a teenager, I rebelled hard against it. Somewhere down the line it settled on my shoulders, and I’ve accepted it ever since.
Turning off the highway to wind up the hillside slope to Coronado Drive, I detour down a side street and park. With a view of Laguna Beach High’s faded football bleachers, I let a rush of emotions flutter through me. On a windy, moonless night, Stryker Talone and I consummated our teenage lust underneath those bleachers, and shortly thereafter he broke my heart, just like my mother said he would. She tried valiantly to set me up with suitable boyfriends after the fact, but her match-making advice always fell on deaf ears. The only thing I could look forward to on a date night with one of her Republican groaners was drinking myself into a coma. So I blazed off to Stanford, a filly hell-bent on finding another wild cowboy. One pregnancy scare reined me in for a while, but after graduation, I moved back to LA and worked my way through the dating pool, eventually landing on my mother’s worst nightmare—Derek, a man without a trust fund. She went ballistic. The only logical choice was to marry him.
Much has changed since then, but in a way, many things haven’t.
I’m still fighting my mother.
Still attracted to maverick men.
And Morgan’s catnip for my deprived soul. It’s why his contract is still sitting with TQ. It’s why TQ texts me again, the second time today.
TQ: Can I send?
VH: Still thinking about it. Gimme a couple hours
TQ: U gonna last that long???
When it comes to visiting my parents, two hours is the equivalent of a life sentence. TQ’s been there, done the time. The sooner I get there, the sooner it’s over with and minutes later, I pull into the secluded driveway of their mansion. After my dad, Lorne, sold his network of car dealerships and eased into politics, my mother spent buckets of money endlessly renovating. The front door is now an immense pivoting piece of metal and as I slide past the riveted mass, it reminds me of the gates of Alcatraz.
Ironic, since I already escaped once from this place.
“Hey,” I call out from the foyer. “I’m here.”
In the vaulted interior of their glass palace, my voice echoes back to me like I’m in a canyon. An impractical white sectional dominates the living room and looks like it’s never been sat on.
“I’m on the deck,” Mom yells, her voice traveling down from the top floor.
I trudge upstairs into the kitchen, a masterclass in beige minimalism. (Mom’s idea of mixing it up is using colored napkins.) Helping myself to a glass of water, I take a deep breath and step outside. In a Gucci power suit and stilettos, Mom lounges on a sun chair enjoying her usual breakfast of caffeine, nicotine, and high-brow celebrity gossip. Not a hair is out of place on her blonde bob, a shellacked helmet that’s harder to move than her emotions.
Without looking up from her Vanity Fair she asks,“How was the drive, darling?”
“A nightmare. There was an accident. Everyone stopped to rubberneck.”
“Hmm,” she says absently, taking a drag off her Marlboro. “Your father’s still at the campaign office. I told him noon, but you know what he’s like.”
“I can’t stay long today. Lots going on.”
“You sound stressed. There’s a bowl of Ativan in the kitchen if you need one.”
“How many have you taken?”
Behind the bumblebee Prada shades, I can feel her death stare. “I don’t see the purpose in making my life more difficult. You might want to consider doing the same.”
Here we go. The first step in the downward spiral. I wander to the deck railing, taking in a million-dollar vista I can’t even enjoy.Half a mile away, waves break in a frothy mess on the shoreline dotted with families and sun worshipers. We lived closer to the beach until I was ten. I splashed in the surf until dusk every night, coming home happy and red-faced, trailing sand into the house, which drove mom bananas. It feels like a lifetime ago, being that carefree.
“Derek too busy on his time off to join you today?” Mom throws out one of her classic passive-aggressive openers, the kind of needling comment I’d claim on a witness stand was the last straw.
