Page 20 of Shine For Me

June

There are plenty of things I don’t love about living in LA—the traffic, the smog, the paparazzi. But this is something I could never complain about: driving up the Pacific Coast Highway with all the windows open, music blasting from my stereo, looking out over the sparkling blue of the ocean while the sun shines down.

Life just doesn’t get much better.

I need to soak up as much of this perfect weather as possible, because in just a few days I’ll be leaving town again. I’m sure North Carolina has its own share of beautiful days—and I’m looking forward to spending some time on the other coast—but I find it hard to believe any other place could match the sheer perfection of this Southern California day.

My phone rings through the speakers when I’m about ten minutes from home, and my smile grows as I see the name on my car’s touchscreen. “Hey, Momma,” I say. “I miss you.”

“Juniper-girl.” Her voice is warmer than the sun overhead, and a sharp pang of missing her mixes with my happiness. “When are you going to come see me?”

I chew my bottom lip. “I’m leaving to go on location Thursday.”

She makes a little humming noise. To anyone else, it would be a nondescript sound of interest. But I know her well enough to hear the disapproval in it. The disappointment.

Those emotions are absent when she speaks, though, and I wonder how much effort she’s putting into her words. “What’s the film? I don’t believe you told me about it.”

I probably hadn’t. My mother has never once behaved as if she was anything other than engaged with and supportive of my career. But that doesn’t change the fact that I know how she feels about this industry. I know what Hollywood did to her, the pain it caused. So it’s easier to just avoid the topic as much as possible. I don’t want her getting upset just because she wants to be a supportive mom who asks about my work.

“It should be pretty fun,” I tell her. “A romance.”

“Comedy or tragedy?”

“A big old tearjerker.”

She laughs softly. “My favorite kind. Who’s directing?”

My stomach sinks at the question but I make my voice bright. “Gabe, actually.”

There’s that same humming noise. The one that tells me she hasthoughts, but doesn’t want to share them. It doesn’t matter—she doesn’t need to say a word for me to know that she isn’t pleased that I’m filming a movie my older cousin is directing. Just like she isn’t pleased I’m working on another project for Cain Productions, Grandpa’s studio. My mom has a lot of opinions about the family business.

And this is why it’s easier to just avoid talking about it.

“Fox Ransome is playing opposite,” I say, eager to get off the subject of family involvement. “Which will be nice. We get along well, and he’s about ninety-five percent less full of himself than most leading men.”

She chuckles. “I suppose five percent full of himself is an acceptable amount.” There’s a slight pause and I wonder what she’s doing right now. Probably sitting out on her patio, her feet bare against the sun-warmed mosaic tiles, a glass of cabernet from the vineyard in her hand. Or maybe she’s in her kitchen, getting dinner started.

That pang in my chest grows sharper—God, I miss my mother. I wonder if I could make time to get up to Napa before leaving on Thursday. Or maybe I could postpone my departure a few days.

“This is your third project with him, yes?” There’s a note of something unidentifiable in her tone that has my guard up.

“Fourth, actually.”

“I keep seeing the two of you in photographs together. Press seems to like writing articles about Mr. Ransome and Miss Cain.”

I force a laugh. “That’s just part of the job, I guess.”

Another pause. I wonder if she’s debating whether or not to continue. “You seem quite fond of him. In all these pictures.”

“Momma.”

“You know I’m not going to interfere,” she says quickly. “I just…I want you to be careful, Juniper.”

“I’m always careful,” I snap, my voice sharper than intended.

“A man like that—”

“You don’t know him.”