Her Red-Carpet Romance. Marie Ferrarella
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silence on the other end of the line began to stretch out.
“Mother...” Yohanna began insistently.
Elizabeth huffed. “If you must know, I went to the office to surprise you and take you out for lunch today. Imagine my surprise when I walked in and found out that you didn’t work there anymore. Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, sounding as if she had been deeply wounded by this omission of information.
“I didn’t want you to worry—or get upset,” Yohanna answered.
That part was true, although there were many more reasons than that why she had kept the news to herself. Specifically, she didn’t want to have to fend off her mother’s offers for “help,” all of which revolved around getting her to move back home. She’d moved out once, but she had a feeling that next time would be a great deal more difficult.
“You didn’t want me to worry.” Elizabeth practically sneered at the words. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry about you. Now, I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll come over tomorrow morning to help you pack up your things and—”
Her mother was more relentless than a class-five hurricane, Yohanna thought. But she was not about to throw up her hands and surrender.
“I’m not selling the condo, Mother,” she began patiently.
“All right, rent it out, then,” her mother advised, frustrated. “That’ll help you cover the cost of the exorbitant mortgage until you’re about to get back on your feet again—”
“Mother, I am on my feet.”
She heard her mother sigh again. This time, instead of sounding dramatic, there was pity in her mother’s voice.
Irritating pity.
“There’s no need to put up a brave front, Yohanna. Lots of people lose their jobs these days. Of course, if you had married Alicia Connolly’s son, that nice young doctor, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, wondering where your next dollar is coming from.”
Her mother was referring to a setup she’d had her hand in. As Yohanna recalled the entire excruciating event, it had truly been the blind date from hell as well as ultimately being the reason she had vowed to never allow her mother to set her up with a date again.
“For your information, Mother,” she said, enunciating each word so that her mother would absorb them, “I am not wondering where my next dollar is coming from.”
“Well, then, you should be,” Elizabeth told her with more than a touch of indignation in her voice. “The bank isn’t going to let you slide because of your good looks, which, as you know, you’re not going to have forever,” she added, unable, apparently, to keep from twisting the knife a little bit. “Which reminds me. My friend Sheila has this nephew—”
Although she was always somewhat reluctant to keep her mother in the loop—mainly because her mother always found something negative to say about the situation—Yohanna knew that the older woman was not about to stop trying to manipulate her life—big-time—unless she told her mother that she was once again gainfully employed.
“Mother, stop, please,” she pleaded. “I don’t need to move back into my room or to rent out my condo.”
“Oh, then, just what is your brilliant solution to your present problem?” Elizabeth asked.
I’m talking to my present problem, Yohanna thought.
However, she kept that to herself, knowing that if she ever said those words or similar ones out loud, her mother would be beyond hurt. She couldn’t do that to the woman no matter how much her mother drove her up a wall.
“I’ve got a job, Mother,” she told her.
“Honey, I told you that you don’t need to pretend with me.” It was obvious by her tone of voice that her mother simply didn’t believe her.
“I’m not pretending, Mother,” Yohanna answered, struggling to remain calm and clinging to what was left of her dwindling patience.
“All right.” She could all but see her mother crossing her arms in front of her, fully prepared to sit in judgment. “And just what is this ‘job’ you’ve gotten so suddenly?” Before she could tell her, Yohanna heard her mother suddenly suck in her breath. “You’re not doing anything immoral or illegal, are you?”
It was more of an accusation than a question. Among other things, her mother, an avid—bordering on rabid—soap opera fan, had a way of allowing her imagination to run away with her along the same creative lines that many of the soap operas she viewed went.
“No, Mother. Nothing illegal or immoral.” She really hadn’t wanted to tell her mother until her three-month probationary period was up, but, as with so many other things that involved her mother, she found that she had no choice in the matter. “I’m going to be Lukkas Spader’s assistant.”
“And just what does this man want being assisted?” Elizabeth asked suspiciously.
“Lukkas Spader, Mother,” Yohanna repeated, stunned that her mother didn’t recognize the name. “The producer,” she added. But there was apparently still no recognition on her mother’s part. “You know, the man who produced Forever Yours, Molly’s Man, Dangerous.” She rattled off the first movies that she could think of.
“Wait, you’re working for that Lukkas Spader?” her mother asked, sounding somewhat incredulous.
Finally! Yohanna thought. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
Suspicion leeched back into Elizabeth’s voice. “Since when?”
“Since this morning, Mother, when Mr. Spader hired me.”
Elizabeth obviously wasn’t finished being skeptical about this new turn of events. “And what is it that you say you’re going to be doing for him?”
Yohanna silently counted to ten in her mind before answering. “I’m going to be organizing things, Mother. Movie things,” she elaborated, knowing how her mother tended to think the worst about every situation. Given the choice of picking the high road or the low one, her mother always went the low route.
As proved by her mother’s next question. “Are you telling me the truth?”
Yohanna rolled her eyes. This was not a conversation that a thirty-year-old should be having with her mother. Anyone listening in would have thought her mother was talking to someone who was twelve. Maybe younger.
“Of course I’m telling you the truth, Mother.”
To her surprise, instead of continuing to harp on the subject, she heard her mother give a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. Now, remember not to mess anything up, understand?”
“I’m not going to mess anything up, Mother.” And then it hit her. She knew what her mother was thinking. Yohanna nearly groaned. Her mother never gave it a rest. Never. “He’s my boss, Mother,” she said in a sharp warning voice.
“So?” Elizabeth asked defensively. “Bosses don’t get married?”
Enough was enough. She was not having this conversation. “I’ve got to go, Mother. I’ve got some things to take care of before I go in tomorrow.” It was a lie, but it was better than slamming the receiver down in the cradle, which she was very tempted to do.
Rather than attempt to pump her for more information, her mother surprised her by saying, “Go get some new clothes. Sexy ones. These Hollywood types like sexy women.”
There was no point in arguing about this with her mother any longer. She had never known her mother to admit she was wrong or that she had overstepped her boundaries. Not even once.
There was no reason for her to hope that her mother would suddenly come