Page 39 of His Girl Hollywood

But it must’ve always done so and he’d forgotten. He looked at her and took in her face, the small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the scrunch in her nose. She looked relaxed and genuinely happy. He couldn’t think of anything more beautiful.

Chapter 15

Arlene fretted, darting around the kitchen, finding herself in her mother’s way every time she tried to help. “Ach, Lena, go sit down, it will be fine.”

“But, Mama, I want to help.” Arlene smoothed her hands against the green gingham apron her mother had sewn for her. It was faded now and had countless grease spots. But she would wear it until it fell to pieces.

“Okay, fine, you want to help? Set the table.” Her mother grabbed a set of the familiar blue-willow-patterned plates from the cabinet above the sink and thrust them at her. “I’ve been cooking since before you were born. Shoo.”

The smell of the squash on the stove and the chicken-fried steak in the skillet replaced the knot of dread in Arlene’s gut with one of hunger. Her mother had come from Ireland, but her father had grown up in the American South before moving to California as a teenager, and Pauline Morgan hadn’t taken long to learn how to make her husband’s favorite meal.

Why had she invited Don for dinner?She needed to keep her distance from him, keep things strictly professional. But he hadn’t seen her mother in a decade, and the way he talked about her family warmed Arlene’s entire being, as if she’d cuddled under the coziest of blankets.

“Lena,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Make sure you put Don next to me.”

Lena laughed. “Of course, Mama.” This was why she’d invited him. Because she knew her mom wanted to see him. And who was she to deny the woman who’d given her everything? Who she loved most in this world.

She ran back into the kitchen to grab silverware from the drawer, narrowly avoiding her mom who was hunting in the cabinet for salt and pepper. Arlene’s hands shook as she reminded herself thatforkandlefthad the same number of letters. It didn’t matter how old she got; she didn’t think she would ever not need to do that. The table was set before she knew it, and for lack of anything better to do, she started pacing back and forth next to the table. Her mom came to the doorway and leaned against the wooden archway, watching her with a look of bemusement on her face. “Lena, you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

“Sorry.” She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Why are you so nervous? You’ve seen him every day for the last two weeks.”

“Yeah, but that’s work.”

Her mother gave her a knowing look. “And so? This is home. He’s been a part of it since you were a girl.”

“Not for a long time,” Arlene protested.

“You think time matters? You’ll see. The second he’s here, it will be like it always was.”

That was what she was afraid of. Her mom must’ve seen that she was still a ball of nervous energy because she insisted that Arlene help her batter the steaks in the kitchen. Arlene was grateful for it. Doing something with her hands always made her feel better, useful. Gave her somewhere to direct her energy.

She wished she hadn’t been so honest with her mother thenight before production had started. Even telling her that she had invited Don for dinner had sparked a hopeful gleam in her mother’s eye. Pauline Morgan knew perfectly well why her daughter was nervous. She just wanted Arlene to admit it out loud. Well, she wasn’t going to.

Before she knew it, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” Arlene ran to the front door, wiping her hands on her apron. She twisted the top lock and pulled open the door, finding Don standing there, holding a bouquet of yellow roses and wearing a sheepish grin on his face.

“I see we both brought flowers.”

“What?”

He pointed at her face and Arlene reached up to feel the dusting of flour that had settled across her cheeks and her nose. “Oh, gosh, sorry. I was helping Mama in the kitchen.”

She rubbed at her face with her palm, and Don laughed. “Now, you’re making it worse. Here, let me.” He tucked his flowers beneath the crook of his arm, grabbed her chin with one hand to hold her face steady, and gently wiped at her cheek with the handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. She was suddenly very aware that this was the closest he’d been to her since the day they’d kissed on set.

Their eyes met and he held her gaze, looking at her with great care and something else she couldn’t quite place as he gently cleaned the flour from her face. She could lean forward an inch and she’d be kissing him. There was a part of her that wanted to do it to see how he’d react. To feel that zing of electricity she’d felt when he’d held her in his arms on the soundstage. But that had been acting on Don’s part, and now she was doing what she’d always done. Letting herself get carried away by a daydream. Besides, all she wanted was to be able to have a cordial professional relationship on set. Friendship again, maybe, if she could trust herself tostop imagining things like leaning over her mother’s threshold and kissing him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure of what to do with herself.

“Don’t mention it.” He winked. He dropped his hands and the spell was broken. “Now, where’s my favorite girl?” he called out.

Her mother poked her head out from the kitchen. “Don Lazzarini, is that you?”

“It’s Lamont now, Mama,” Arlene reminded her. She knew now how much Don hated his old name. She’d always suspected that’s why he’d changed it, but he’d confirmed it on Friday, and her mother didn’t need to be dredging up the past. But Don hardly seemed fazed by it.

“Aw, I’ll always be Don Lazzarini to you, Mrs. Morgan. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stepped into the house, and Arlene’s mother rushed to greet him, drawing him into a hug. Arlene smiled absentmindedly. She knew that those hugs were the best feeling, a balm for the world’s ills. Don seemed to be soaking in the effect for all it was worth.

At last, they broke apart and he presented the flowers, now slightly crushed from the vigorous hug. “These are for you, Mrs. Morgan.”

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