I take the opportunity to change the subject and ask her about the DNA test and all the other questions piling up.
“So . . . Mom.” I lower my voice and close my computer. The diner is empty, so we have some privacy. “Remember how you said we could talk later—about Grandpa?”
Kaylee approaches with the worst timing ever. She delivers my mom’s meal and asks if she needs anything else. Which, of course, Gracelyn Branson does. After two more trips to the kitchen for the right kind of sweetener and the answer to a question about the kind of salt used on the eggs, Kaylee disappears through the silver double doors after another reminder from Nancy.
“These are processed; I’m sure of it,” my mom says before taking a bite. They look like any old egg whites to me, but I don’t argue.
“As I was saying—can we talk now? About Grandpa?”
“Elise, I’m eating,” she rebukes. As she takes another bite, she mumbles about how I’ve always been a touch nosy.
“I’m nosy?” I say steadily, used to hearing this narrative whenever I bring up something she doesn’t want to talk about. “You’re letting Mac make a movie about this shit.”
She swallows and takes a sip of her iced tea before responding.
“Language!” she scolds as though I’m three and just said the F word in front of her industry friends.
She makes these discussions difficult on purpose—so I’ll stop asking the hard questions. And, you know what? It works. It’s easier to let Gracelyn Branson have what she wants. But this time, I’m not letting go.
“Mom. You can’t keep putting all this off. You said Mac was giving up on the ‘Grandpa’ storyline, but I saw what was in your bag.”
“Elise Toffee Branson.” She uses my full name, trying to pull the Mom card on me. “How dare you go through my things? I wasn’t supposed to show you that book till we were on camera.”
“Show me on camera? What the hell does that mean?” I start to push for other answers but then pull back. She’s trying to distract me. “No. Not the scrapbook. The other thing. The box . . .”
“Lisey!” She slams her fork onto the laminate tabletop. “Let it go for now, won’t you?”
Normally that’d be it. I’d change the subject or excuse myself from the drama. Then I’d dodge her calls for a few days until we both cooled off. But that’s not an option in this scenario. If I turn my back on my concerns, it could mean real damage to my grandmother’s legacy or my mother’s reputation. Damn it—it could even risk my own credibility.
“No, Mom. I’m not going to ‘let it go.’ And,” I continue, “it’s very controlling of Mac to tell you what we can talk about. I’m your daughter.”
“A good director knows how to keep the emotions fresh for a scene. We’ll have a false reaction if we talk about it now. I can’t mess with the artistic integrity of the shoot,” she explains haughtily.
“I don’t expect a script. But I don’t want to be surprised by something outrageous like that whole grave-digging thing . . . ,” I explain calmly, knowing it’s nearly impossible to change my mother’s mind when she’s trying to please a man.
“I told you—that grave thing is not happening.” She’s getting heated, and I know what that means. If I don’t placate her, she’ll storm out in a grand exit even with no cameras trained on her.
“This is real life, and that’s what Mac specializes in—real life,” she says, determined.
I roll my eyes. What I’ve seen Mac doing the last few weeks is nothing like “real life,” but then again—what the hell does my mom even know about ordinary life anymore?
“I swear to God, Mom, if you blindside me, I don’t care what my contract says, I’ll be outta here so fast . . .”
That’s all it takes to set it off—the theatrical exit. She throws her napkin on the table and stands to put on her coat.
“So help me if you embarrass me on this project . . .”
Our statements overlap, and Nancy is doing a good bit of acting herself, pretending not to listen. We’re no longer discreet.
The bell on the door rings, and we both stop midstatement.
Standing in the doorway is Father Patrick because, of course it is. Damn it.
He waves and points to our booth so Nancy knows where he’s headed. My mom looks over her shoulder and then at me.
“Is that him?” she mouths, eyebrows raised, argument forgotten momentarily. I don’t have the emotional energy to respond. Instead, I greet the approaching clergyman.
“Father Patrick,” I say, embarrassed at the scene he walked into but also grateful for the distraction. Mom strips off her coat, slides back into the booth, and puts her official persona on, smooth as her silk pants.
“Hey! Back in the office, I see,” Father Patrick says, referencing the clutter on the table. He’s seen me in here a few times already. His occasional visits aren’t my reason for working at Big Red’s Place, but I do like knowing I might happen to run into a friendly face here.
“Yeah, turns out you gotta work to make money. Go figure,” I kid, and he laughs at my bad joke.
My mom clears her throat and rubs her lips together like she taught me to do when you don’t have lipstick handy but need a fresh look. I see what you’re doing, Mom.
“Oh, sorry. This is my mother—Gracelyn Branson, movie star extraordinaire. Mom, this is Father Patrick, priest extraordinaire. Father, Mom. Mom, Father.”
“So honored to meet you.” Father Patrick seems to find the wordplay entertaining. He shakes my mom’s outstretched hand, and she bats her eyes.
“Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“Not at all. I feel like I already know you a little. Elise is an extraordinary young woman.”
“That she is,” Mom says with a proud though forced glance in my direction. I return her insincere look with a closed-lip smile. She opens another packet of low-calorie sweetener and mixes it into her tea.
“Won’t you join us for a spell? We’ll be heading out as soon as Mac finishes his shot list for the day, which won’t be long. I’d love to get to know you better.” She sips her drink and wrinkles her nose like she’s added too much lemon.
“Gosh, I normally would, but I’m actually grabbing dinner for Mrs. Lee. She’s laid out with a broken arm. I thought some soup might help brighten her spirits.”
“Got your order, Father,” Kaylee says, standing behind the counter with a brown paper bag. I swear my mom tries to check out his ass as he retrieves the order.
“Isn’t that the sweetest thing?” she says to both of us, but I’m the only one to see her wink and wiggle her eyebrows.
“Pre-Cana? Tomorrow?” he asks, riffling through bills in his wallet.
“Put that money away; we got it,” Mom orders him even though she doesn’t carry cash, never has. Usually, she has an assistant or someone nearby who keeps enough cash on hand for these moments. But Mom came without her assistants this time, so I guess that leaves the role of assistant to me.
“Add it to our bill,” I reaffirm Mom’s offer to Kaylee and then address Father Patrick’s question. “Yeah, Pre-Cana tomorrow. Just you, me, and the entire film crew.”