“Mom, isn’t there some neighborhood covenant against bright colors?”
“Certainly not,” Penelope said. “Or if there is, no one’s ever told me about it.”
Kim entered the house. The dizzying kaleidoscope of colors was not limited to the outside. The walls of the entryway, and the curved stairway sweeping up through the center of the house, were all as crayon bright as the outside.
Her mother hung her coat in the hall closet. “The colors are a bit over the top, don’t you think?”
“A bit.”
“I simply thought, if I’m going to go crazy with color, I should go big.”
Kim summoned up a smile. “Words to live by.”
“To be perfectly honest, it was a matter of economics,” her mother said. “These are discontinued colors, so the paint cost me next to nothing. I simply used a little of this, a little of that…and I encouraged the painters to be creative.”
There were probably worse color schemes than those created by baseball players, but at the moment, Kim couldn’t think of any.
“Speaking of going big, are you sure you’re done with Lloyd?” her mother asked.
That, of course, was Kim’s chief function—to make Lloyd and all her clients seem nice. Personable. Worthy of their insanely huge salaries. Sometimes she did her job so well, it became impossible to separate the media-trained persona from the real man. Maybe that was why she hadn’t seen the incident with Lloyd coming. She’d started to believe the hype she herself had created.
“Kimberly?” Her mother’s voice startled her.
“Absolutely,” she said. “This is for good.” In that instant, she felt a dull blow of shock, an echo of last night, and she began to tremble.
“You’re as white as a ghost.” Her mother took her arm, making her sit on the hall bench. “Do you need something?”
The words sounded as though they’d been shouted down a tube. Kim reminded herself that the humiliating, horrifying, confusing incident was behind her now. She often told clients with injuries to move past the pain, focus on the healing. Time to take her own advice.
“I’ll be all right,” she told her mother in a voice that was soft, but firm. Then she gingerly removed her dark glasses, set them aside and used the corner of her shawl to gently wipe off the makeup.
Her mother stared, cycling fast from horror to fury. Penelope van Dorn was not the sort to anger easily, but when she did, it was as swift as a sudden fire. “Dear God. How long has this been going on?”
Kim hung her head. “Mom. I’m an idiot, but not that big an idiot. I had no idea he was capable of hitting anyone. Then last night, we had this terrible fight about something stupid, and it escalated.” She swallowed a wave of nausea, remembering the gawking crowd at the reception, and her walking out, Lloyd following her to the parking lot. His fist didn’t seem like a human appendage at all, but a weapon of blunt trauma. It had come out of nowhere, powered by anger.
There was one thing about Kim. She was a quick study. She was gone before he even remembered to straighten his tie.
Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Kimberly, I’m so sorry.”
“I know, Mom. Don’t worry. He’s history,” Kim said firmly.
“You must press charges.”
“I thought about that. But I won’t do it. Given who he is, I’d never stand a chance. I’d have to relive the whole thing and for what? Nothing would happen to him.”
“But—”
“Please, Mom, don’t pity me or call the authorities. I want to pretend Lloyd Johnson never happened. This is the best way—coming here. Starting over.”
Then her mother’s arms were around her, at once soft and sturdy, and Kim was engulfed by a faint, ineffable element she hadn’t realized she’d been missing so much. It was the mom smell, and when she shut her eyes and inhaled, an old, sweet sense of security bloomed inside her. Yet it was a piercing sweetness, breaking ever so gently through her pain and shock. Sobs came from deep within her, erupting against the pillowy shoulder of her mother. They sat together, her mother stroking her hair and making soothing sounds until Kim felt empty—and cleansed.
Her mother gave her a wad of Kleenex to wipe her face. Kim blotted at her eyes. “I’ll be all right. I’ve had worse injuries playing sports.”
“But being hurt by someone you love and trust strikes deeper than any injury.” Her mother spoke softly, with a conviction that worried Kim.
“Mom?”
“Let’s get you settled,” her mother said, her manner suddenly brisk.
Kim followed her mother past the front parlor—apple green—to the main vestibule—pumpkin.
“You’ll be in the same room where you used to stay when you visited your grandparents as a little girl. Won’t that be nice? I’ve kept it virtually the same. You’ve even got a few things to wear, in the closet, so you can get comfortable. You don’t look as if you’ve gained a pound since high school.”
Living in L.A., Kim hadn’t dared gain an ounce. And still, as a size six, she had felt like a linebacker next to most other women out there. She liked how comfortable her mother seemed in her own skin here.
In this huge, quiet house filled with so many childhood memories, Kim entered the world of her past. The second-story hallway made a T in the center; to the right lay Kimberly’s domain. As the only grandchild, she’d had the wing all to herself.
“What’s that face?” her mother asked.
“I’m not making a face.”
“Yes, you are. You’re making the defeated face,” her mother insisted.
“Well, look at me. I’m supposed to have a fabulous life. Instead, I’m moving back in with my mother.” She
