Page 62 of Red Hot Harmony

“Thank God that ridiculous wind stopped,” my mother said as she emerged from the house, dressed in a pair of slacks and a white shirt. It was still too early for her to start getting ready for the festivities and she was overseeing the preparations, mainly the seating chart and the canopies that were a last-minute addition because of the fires.

“It looked really bad from the freeway,” I told her, stuffing my face with food like a three-year-old who didn’t care about manners. “You could hardly see the sun.”

She reached for a wisp of hair stuck to my cheek and moved it aside. “Dad and I are looking forward to meeting this man of yours.” A pause. “I might have looked him up.”

That had my heart missing a few beats. Unfortunately, Dante Martinez was well-known for his debauched ways and one of the first things that came up in Google search after his name was the meltdown video and the articles on his overdose. I was hoping my parents’ long-standing disregard of all things celebrity and pop culture would discourage from doing extensive research on who the man I was dating really was, but apparently, my mother was too curious.

“Camille, are you sure he’s a good influence on Ally?” The softness in her gaze disappeared.

“Oh my gosh, Mom!” I countered, a piece of croissant escaping my mouth and falling across my shirt. “Have you even met your granddaughter?”

“What kind of question is that?” She looked offended.

“I’m asking because you don’t seem to know her at all.” Years of repressed hurt I thought I’d buried was suddenly launching out of me like a rocket trying to leave Earth's orbit. “Just like you never knew me.”

Grim silence ensued between us. I set the rest of the croissant on the plate, my appetite taking a back seat.

There was a rattle somewhere in the back yard. Voices—in Spanish—reached me as a gust of wind rushed across the rolling California landscape, worrying the white tablecloths, the chiffon curtains, and the net of string lights hanging from the trees. Surprisingly, the sky was mostly clean except for a small dark patch rising from the northwest, and the air smelled of dry leaves and vanilla and coffee.

I shifted and spotted Juan. He’d been helping my dad with running the property for years now, since I’d been a teen living here.

I gave him a wave and he returned the gesture.

“Where’s this coming from, Camille?” my mother asked, ignoring my previous words.

I picked up a napkin and wiped my fingers. “Why won’t you trust me in choosing the right person?”

She made an ambiguous sound that could have been interpreted as anything really. Displeasure came to mind first, though, since it was Eloise Rockwell. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, honey. I think you’re a perfectly capable young woman, but you’re too naive when it comes to men. Look at what happened to Greg.”

“Please don’t bring him up. He’s not a part of my life.” I paused to catch my breath. “I really like Dante, and I want you to be happy for me, not judge me because my tastes differ from yours.”

“But Camille…” she relented, her voice becoming a defensive whisper. “I mean...he’s an addict.”

“Not everyone is perfect. So he’s an addict, but he’s clean now and he’s actually amazing with Ally. At least I’m guaranteed she’ll be home two evenings a week and not running off somewhere with boys I don’t know.”

Oops. I realized my mistake too late. My mother wasn’t privy to my tension with my kid and I liked keeping it that way. Otherwise, I’d never hear the end of it about how bad of a role model I was due to my lack of a husband.

“Sometimes, I just don’t understand you, Camille.”

“Maybe you’re just not meant to.” I tossed the napkin into the nearest trash can and disappeared inside the house to message Dante about the changes in our plans.

Thirty minutes later he responded with a heart emoji.

I tried to heart the heart emoji, but doing it from the yard proved to be a challenge because of the poor reception and I wasn’t sure my reaction went through.

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed smoothly, mainly because I chose not to speak to my mother and, instead, occupied myself with small tasks until Ally’s arrival.

We dressed and had our hair done in the room that used to be mine. It was strange to be here again, in a vanilla-scented space filled with the relics of my previous life. A massive armoire strewn with photos of me in pastels and magentas. A four-poster bed with a white comforter. A vanity with various porcelain figurines, something I forgot I used to collect as a teenager.

It was startling to watch people I hardly knew prowl through the decorated back yard, snatching glasses of champagne and silver cocktail picks with olives and cheese cubes.

“I’m only doing this because it’ll save grandma and grandpa from years of gossip that their only grandchild is a Satan worshipper,” Ally said from behind the bathroom door after warning me not to walk in.

A few moments later, she was on the threshold, pulling at the skirt of her draped tulle dress, looking a little uncomfortable since jeans were her go-to. The fabric was soft, deep burgundy and made her tan-free skin stand out.

“You look very lovely, Bug,” I told her, fixing her side down do over her shoulder.

“Don’t call me that, Mom.” She bared her teeth, obviously not happy with the fact she had to wear a dress that wasn’t black and revealed her knees.

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