Mommy Dearest might be a harsh title of endearment for Emma Fairchild.

She didn’t beat me with a wire hanger, or make me give my toys away, or wake me up in the middle of the night to clear the weeds from the flower beds.

The problem is she didn’t do anything.

I have put off coming to see her for the past eight weeks, but even Brooklyn didn’t have to tell me it was time.

Pulling into a parking space, I hang up my phone and switch the sweet purr of my engine off and then bang my hands against the wheel. “I did it. I fucking did it,” I say to myself and grin like a motherfucker while saying it.

Cam listened to me and has decided to turn the retail locations he’s recently purchased into Simon Warren stores. That means by the next quarter the number of stores will double, by the end of the year they will triple, and by the close of the following fiscal year they will have quadrupled.

You see, whereas Simon Warren store locations themselves are profitable, the entity as a whole is not. Too much overhead to support too little volume. The bottom line, baby, it’s all about the bottom line. And no silk had to suffer, either.

Next up: the Internet segment.

Fuck, I’m on fire.

The fashion industry is better than the stock market by a mile. Not only is the product tangible, but the thrill people get from wearing the product is a high I fucking love.

And believe it or not, I’m not working around the clock.

Sure, I’m putting the hours in. And yes, I took the job permanently. And no, Maggie does not report to me. That was a disaster we both happily avoided, although I rather liked the idea of her having to call me “sir.” No, but really. Anyway, she reports to Jordan, so all is good in my world.

I moved into Katherine’s house right away and Maggie practically did as well, leaving Brooklyn to watch over the beach bungalow. I’m working on getting Katherine to sell me the house, and I think she has finally agreed. The place is just something that calls to me, and screams home. Maybe even our home. So strange for me to be thinking this way. It’s always been just about me, but now everything is us.

Speaking of us, Maggie is in New York this week with Jordan for some fashion convention and I decide to send her a quick text before it gets too late there.

Me: I’m nervous as fuck. Should have waited for you to be able to come with me.

My Little Bedwrecker: Put those big-boy sexy boxer briefs of yours on and go see your mother.

Me: Love all the sympathy I get from you.

My Little Bedwrecker: That’s because I love you.

My Little Bedwrecker: No, wait, I meant that’s because you love it.

Me: Are you sure…my little bedwrecker?

First off, she named herself. Maggie worked fine for me. But she seems to change her name on my phone like the wind changes direction. Let’s see, there’s been Beautiful. Hell on Wheels. Rod’s Girl. And even Sexpot—that one didn’t bother me at all.

Second of all, I’ve gotten no response. Lucky for her I love when I strike her speechless. Hey, she said it, and fuck, I think she might be right. Admittedly, though, I have never been in love before. Still, whatever this is I feel for Maggie is more than just lust. It has my heart pounding, my pulse racing, and my body in overdrive almost every minute of every day.

I can’t stop thinking about her.

You tell me—is that love?

I wish I could know for sure.

Getting out of my car, I’m wearing a smirk that I’m certain can’t be erased, and I know if I asked Cam about it, he’d say you know it when you know it.

And fuck, I guess he would be right.

I do know it.

Saying it, though, is terrifying. I might have said it to my old man, and possibly my brother, and maybe even Cam. Yeah, they’re all men. Never have I said those words to a woman. Not that I can remember, although I’m sure when I was younger, I said them to my mother because back then, I did love her. She was funny and made me laugh. I think that is what I loved about her. That faded, though, as she got busier and I grew older.

Slow and steady are my strides, but way too fast that smirk on my face is gone. With each step I find my nerves resurfacing. I take a deep breath. Fuck, I wipe my palms on my pants and try to calm myself down. She’s my mother, not the queen.

Way too soon I find myself turning the corner and I spot her immediately. She’s standing outside the restaurant, smoking one of those vapor-like cigarettes. It’s blue, a change from the Virginia Slims Menthols she’s smoked ever since I can remember. A habit my little brother picked up years ago, but strangely I just realize I haven’t seen him smoke since arriving in California.

My chest tightens as I try to move forward, and I have to curl my hands into fists as an unsolicited anger threatens to make an appearance.

Enough!

At my age, the disappointment is long over. All the basketball games I waited for her to show up for. To surprise me, even though she told my father she wouldn’t be flying in after all. All the times I sat by the phone on holidays and birthdays, hoping she’d call. Those days are all long gone.

Time to get this over with.

Still unable to move, I watch while her gaze wanders as if looking for me, but she doesn’t notice me across the street. Curious, I study her behavior. It’s as if she’s not certain I’m going to show up. Then again, she didn’t have her personal assistant call to confirm. Without looking too much harder, she extinguishes her tip and drops the rod into her Gucci bag and heads into the restaurant.

Emma Fairchild is a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, and well groomed. Her hair is always the perfect shade of blond. Her nails are never chipped. And her clothes are always meticulous. Today is no different.

Broadway star turned actress turned Hollywood mogul, she has made a name for herself, that’s for sure.

Mother, though, isn’t one she wears with the same pride as the one in lights, nor is wife for that matter. Married twice, divorced twice. Two kids. And endless credits to her name.

Celeb chef Wolfgang Puck’s trendy Beverly Hills restaurant is not where I would have picked to meet after more than two years of not seeing her, but according to Brooklyn, Spago is her favorite place, so I suggested it when I called her yesterday to get on her schedule for dinner.

Actually, she made time for me quicker than I had anticipated. Perhaps because I didn’t have to go through her personal assistant, or perhaps she has more free time these days—who knows, and who cares.

The restaurant is decked out in white. White walls, white linens, off-white floors. The only color comes from the black chairs.

Emma is sitting in a private area near one of the fireplaces and appears to be sipping water with lemon in it. So unlike her to not have a drink in front of her at this hour. She’s always been an early-hour cocktail queen. Normally, happy hour starts at four and ends well past seven.

“Keen.” My mother’s voice, as always, twists my mouth. “You made it,” she says, standing from her seat and holding out her arms.

Never much on hugging, I cautiously step into her embrace and tentatively greet her, but she doesn’t let go of me. Her arms are around me and she’s holding onto me tight. “Mom.” I manage pulling away because I feel a little suffocated.

She steps back and smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “How are you?”

“I’m actually doing pretty well.” I circle around to hold her chair while she sits.

She looks over her shoulder at me. “I am so glad to hear it, Keen.”

And there’s sincerity in her voice that I have to say I don’t recall. My whole life I’ve felt like an inconvenience to her. An appointment she didn’t really want to fit into her schedule, but somehow knew she dutifully should. A child she birthed and left in New York as she followed her dreams to California.

Taking my own seat, I look across the table at her. “What about you? How are you?”

Pressing her napkin to her lap, she raises her blue eyes. The one very noticeable commonality between her, Brooklyn, and me. “I am…very happy to see you.”

Thank God the waiter approaches and takes my drink order. “Scotch,” I tell him, “neat.”

My mother declines anything further.

“No martini?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “No. I have made some changes in my life over the past two years, and one of them is reducing my alcohol consumption.”

“Good for you.”

“It hasn’t been easy, but I feel so much better without all the drinking.”

Okay. She’s never admitted to overindulging, even though we all knew she did.

She takes a sip of her water. “I’ve made other changes too, like reducing my workload, and I started seeing a therapist.”

Taken aback, I’m not sure what to say. “What prompted all this?”

“So much.” Her answer is simple and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it. “So,” she says, “I heard you are staying in California. I was so happy to hear this.”

I sit back in my chair. “Yeah, I took a job that I really like and I’m doing very well.”

My mother folds her hands on the table. “Tell me all about it.”

The waiter arrives with my drink mid-conversation and takes our orders. I resume talking, and the nervousness disappears with each passing word.

By the time our salads come, we’ve moved on to her job, and the films she’s working on. I haven’t seen her since my father’s funeral, which I was surprised she flew to New York for, and haven’t really spoken to her since then, so it’s odd that the conversation flows with such ease right now.

By the time our entrees come, she’s asking me about Maggie, Brooklyn obviously having told her about the two of us.

And then she’s paid the check at her insistence and we’re just finishing our coffee when she reaches across the table and grabs for my hand. “Keen, I don’t know how to say this, so I just am. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for never being there for you. For never giving you the attention you deserved. For assuming your father had it all figured out and you didn’t need me. I’m just so sorry.”

Aggression spikes and heats in my gut. I want to say it’s too fucking late, don’t you think? I want to tell her to go to hell. I want to get up and walk out of this restaurant and throw her the bird. Yeah, I want to do a lot, but instead I sit here dumbfounded. Staring. Feeling way too much as I watch tears spill from her eyes, the same fucking eyes as mine.

Reaching with her free hand, she runs her fingertips over my forehead and pushes the hair from my face. “I owe you more than I can ever give you, but I hope you’ll listen to me, and maybe someday understand that I did what I thought was best for you.”

My features draw together, and I’m having a hard time breathing steadily as I push words from my lips I have wanted to say for so many years. “You did what was best for you, Mother.”

She shakes her head. “I know you think that, but your father is what was best for you.”

I should leave right now. I shouldn’t be talking about this. And yet, she opened the fucking door, so I’ll open it even wider. Here it goes. I’ll put it all out there. “And what, I wasn’t good enough, but Brooklyn was?”

I have never felt an ounce of jealousy toward my brother, yet somewhere deep inside I have hated my mother for not keeping me in her life, but keeping him.

She recoils, her hands going to her lap in a nervous gesture. “Keen, no, that is not true.”

“Then why, Mother? Why?”

She dabs at the tears on her cheeks with her napkin. “Because your father was a good man, better than me. Brooklyn’s father was nothing like your father. He couldn’t keep a job or stay out of jail. And Keen, look at how well you turned out, and then look at Brooklyn, still struggling to find his way, and tell me I was wrong.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “But I needed you.”

There, I said it.

Finally.

And it feels like a big fucking weight has been lifted off my shoulders. “I needed my mother to read me bedtime stories and tell me I was okay after I fell off my bike. To teach me what to say to girls, how to act, to help me understand what love is. And you know what, Mother? I got none of that.”

Emma Fairchild stands, and I swear she’s going to walk out on me. But instead she circles the table and drops to her knees. Taking my hands in my lap, and putting her head there, she whispers, “I know and I’m so sorry, but I hope it’s not too late, Keen. Tell me it’s not too late.”

Years of hostility just melt away and I wonder why. Why now? Perhaps it is me that has changed or her that has changed, or maybe it’s a combination of us both. Who knows? Perhaps it’s even my involvement with Maggie.

Am I softer now?

No.

Never.

Maybe.

Uncharacteristically, I find myself standing up and taking my mother in my arms, and holding her tight.

And when she whispers, “It’s never too late,” I nod.

Maybe it isn’t.