Love Tango

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Portia jumped up to kiss Donna Deveraux on the cheek. Like Portia, Donna was small and compact with gray hair cut tight to her head and expressive brown eyes. Her voice still held a hint of Southern cadence from her Mississippi childhood. Her eyes lit up at the sight of her granddaughters.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you, Portia. Are you staying for dinner?” Donna asked as she set grocery bags on the counter.

“Sure.” Portia said. “I was hoping we could have a slumber party tonight.”

Roxanne kissed her grandmother on the cheek and set about unpacking the groceries and putting them away.

“We can do that,” Donna said.

If not for her grandmother, Roxanne might have gone insane as a child. Donna had cared for her, homeschooled her, acted as guardian when Roxanne was on the set and generally kept her grounded in the real world. Donna had always been around when Roxanne needed her and once she’d graduated college and bought this house, she’d moved her grandmother in with her. She’d set up a modest trust fund that generously supplemented her grandmother’s social security because somewhere down through the years, her parents had forgotten to pay her for her services. When Roxanne had found out, she’d been livid.

“Grams,” Roxanne said, “What are you cooking tonight?”

Donna grinned at her granddaughters. “Chicken and dumplings, child.” She reached into one of the plastic bags. “And a bottle of your favorite pinot grigio.”

“Maybe not,” Portia said. “I’m being considered as the lead in a series of commercials for some car ads.”

Roxanne countered, hating to see her sister deprive herself. The industry was merciless on women who weren’t a size two. “One decadent meal isn’t going to kill your figure.”

Portia looked thoughtful. “I can always spend a little more time working out tomorrow.”

Roxanne took the wine bottle and put it in the refrigerator to chill.

“Are we celebrating something?” Portia asked.

“I just felt like doing something special.” Donna opened a cabinet and pulled out a large pan. “How did your first rehearsal go?”

“My feet hurt,” Roxanne said. “I want to soak my abused toes and everything else in between that and my ears. I stepped on Nick’s toes so many times, I’m surprised they aren’t broken, and tripped over my own feet. I lost count after five.”

“That bad, was it?” Donna said.

“And that wasn’t the worst part. Mommy and Daddy showed up.”

Donna’s eyes narrowed. “And they wanted what?”

“They want me to read that script Portia brought a couple weeks ago.” Roxanne sat down at the table and cupped her chin in the palm of one hand.

Donna poured herself a glass of iced tea and sat down at the table with them. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Roxanne replied.

“Don’t you want to help them?” Donna asked.

“No.”

Donna grinned and walked over to the table. Putting an arm around her granddaughter’s neck, she said, “Just testing you.”

Roxanne hugged her grandmother.

“Forget the wine, we need the hard stuff.” Donna straightened, opened the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of tequila.

Roxanne burst out laughing. “Is that your answer to everything?”

“It is. Especially since you girls are both over the age of twenty-one. Margaritas, anyone?” Donna then opened the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of margarita mix and limes. “I made myself a solemn promise. If I exercise every day, I can drink margaritas.”

“Didn’t you spend an hour at the gym this morning doing Pilates?”

“Just so I can have a cocktail,” she said to Roxanne.

Portia shook her head. “Grandma, you’re my hero.”

Roxanne hugged her grandmother. “Mine, too.”

“Then we’re going to sit down, put our heads together and figure out what we can do to foil my DNA’s contribution to the future.” Donna pulled out the blender.

“Grams,” Roxanne said, “At some point you have stop blaming yourself for Mom and Dad’s decisions. Life is a crapshoot.”

Portia jumped to her feet to retrieve ice from the freezer. She filled a bowl and handed it to Donna who dumped it into the blender, then added tequila and margarita mix. Roxanne stood and opened a cabinet and brought out the margarita glasses.

“What are our options?” Portia asked.

Donna thought hard for a moment. “Just ignore them. That irritates them the worst.”

“Having my parents back in my life would bring up all the old anger, resentment and distrust. I don’t need them.”

“Then option two would be figuring out a way to get them to back off,” Donna continued.

“Maybe if I accused them of stalking...” She doubted an accusation would stop them. They were too determined. “Is there an option three?”

“Pack up and move to Norway,” Portia said.

“Paris,” Donna said, “and you’d have a deal.”

“London,” Portia said. “I don’t speak French.”

“There’s an island right in the middle of the Channel,” Roxanne said with a laugh. “We could go there.”

“What would you do?” Roxanne asked. She trusted her grandmother implicitly.

Donna pursed her lips. “Let your parents initiate all the drama. I think in the long run, it reflects badly on them and not you, no matter how hard they try to spin it otherwise.”

Roxanne spun all the information through her mind. Maybe she needed to stop worrying that bad stuff was going to happen. After all, the endgame was building her business and making Nancy happy, not diving headfirst back into show business. Her bit parts were enough, and even those were becoming less and less appealing as they pulled her away from her true passion of genealogy.

Her grandmother took her hand. “What happens, happens. You have no control over your parents and what they think or do. All you have to do is act in the gracious manner you’ve cultivated all these years. Be classy. Be above the madness.”

Roxanne closed her eyes. She would try, but with her parents on her back, it was hard to rise above it.

She just hoped her parents didn’t interfere too much. She needed her head in the game so she didn’t let everyone at Celebrity Dance down.

Chapter 3 (#ub6e1d781-2f46-50f3-b32b-818cac7169fc)

Tristan Deveraux was tall and thin. He shared the same facial structure as Roxanne, but his mouth was tight and his eyes held an angry, challenging gleam as though daring the world to cross him. Though he wore a business suit and all his tattoos were covered except for the snake curling up the side of his neck, Nick knew he ordinarily dressed like a thug with gold chains around his neck, no shirt and lots of leather.

Nick had seen Tristan in his parents’ restaurant in the past, but tonight Tristan had a look about him as he approached Nick, a small, pudgy man in tow.

“Nick Torres,” Tristan said, keeping his voice low and pleasant. “Can I have a minute?”

“What can I help you with?” Nick said, annoyed at being approached. Both of the men reeked of whiskey fumes.

Tristan said, “My sister is going to be working with you on Celebrity Dance. She’s a bit of a klutz, so I hope she doesn’t embarrass you too much.”

Nick was almost too surprised to answer. “I have no complaints.” He had no intention of telling this man, even though he acted as though he were still in high school, about anything that happened between him and Roxanne.

Tristan gave him a slight smile. “I hear you and your business partner are planning a revival of Timbuktu. I was hoping we could talk.”

“I make it a policy to not talk business in my parents’ restaurant. This is family time.” He considered calling security and having them eject Tristan, but the man was Roxanne’s brother. Her family was already a huge mess—he didn’t want to add more to the chaos. He said, “Make an appointment with my assistant.”

“I can do that.” Tristan touched an eyebrow in a mock salute. He turned and left, the pudgy man following close behind.

Nick took out his phone and called Mike. “Prepare yourself. Tristan Deveraux is planning to make an appointment to talk to us.”

Mike sighed. “What the hell did you agree to that for?”

“Roxanne. Not that she asked me to.”

The explanation seemed to appease Mike. “That doesn’t sound like fun. Any idea what the man wants?”

“He wants to talk about Timbuktu.”

“That’s still in the planning stages. If he wants a part, we’re a long way from casting.”

“I can’t say. We’ll just have to wait and find out.”

“I’ve been doing some digging into the Deveraux family. They are a hot mess, especially with the IRS breathing down their backs.”

And gossip like that got around. Image was everything in the industry. And his sister Nina was an expert at publicity and could certainly handle any bad press that came his way.

He didn’t want to need her for that, though. Roxanne deserved to be in the spotlight for her own right—not because of her parents’ bad business decisions.

“I’ll let you know when Tristan calls,” Mike said and then disconnected.

Manny Torres made his way through the restaurant toward Nick. He stopped at a few tables to chat briefly with the occupants. Luna el Sol had been a hangout for the Hollywood crowd for decades.

Manny finally reached his son and sat down. “Is that yahoo giving you trouble? He and his parents are loud, obnoxious and lousy tippers.”

“How do you know they’re lousy tippers?” Nick asked.

“I had two waitresses out sick with the flu. I pitched in and waited on his table. He stiffed me on a tip, and I’m a better waiter than a chef and I’m a great chef. And I own the restaurant. I found out from everybody, he and his parents tip lousy anyway, and complain about the service and the food.” Manny pulled out a chair and sat down.

“You don’t need tip money,” Nick said.

“I don’t keep my tips—I put them in the emergency slush fund for the staff. Terry Logan, one of the A-listers, was so happy with my service, he tipped me five large. Told me to buy your mother something pretty. I handed the money back to him and said, ‘Sold.’ Called your mother over and said, ‘Hey, Grace, look what I bought for you.’”