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“She does,” Hugh agreed. “It’s why she married into the Sullivans.”

“That’s the pure truth. Oh, Mimi’s fast. Here’s Lil,” she said as she answered the phone. “That’s just perfect. Yes, I’ve got it. You’re the best, Mimi. Kisses.”

She set the phone down. “Gino’s going to come in early—for him—just for you. Be ready at eight-thirty.”

“Mimi’s not the best, you are.” Cate sprang up again, gave Lily a noisy kiss on the cheek, then repeated one for her grandfather. “Both of you. I’m going to make you proud. Gotta go!”

As she raced off, Lily lifted her martini again. “I dimly recall having that kind of energy. You’re going to need to look after her, Hugh.”

“I know. I will.”

It had been years since Cate walked into an L.A. salon, the exclusive type that served its clients spring water or champagne, infused teas or lattes. The sort with private stations and a menu of services as thick as a novel.

When she did, the scents—expensive products, perfume, fragrant candles—melded together and shot her back to childhood.

Back to her mother.

She nearly balked at the door.

“Cate?”

“Sorry.” She pushed herself into a world of black and silver, of techno music pulsing low and bright chandeliers formed with curving silver bands.

A man in a shirt that might have been designed by Jackson Pollock manned a semicircle reception counter. His hair rose up in a wave, like a surfer’s curl, over his forehead.

He had a trio of studs in his left earlobe and a tattoo of a dragonfly on the back of his left hand.

“Luscious Lily!” Popping up, he clapped his hands together. “Gino’s already at his station. This can’t be your granddaughter. You’d have been ten when she was born!”

“Cicero!” Lily exchanged kisses. “Aren’t you the one? Caitlyn, this is Cicero.”

“My sweet girl.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “What a beauty! I’ll take you right back. Now, what can I get you? Your morning latte, Lily, my love?”

“We’ll both have one, Cicero. And how are things with you and Marcus?”

He wiggled his eyebrows as he walked them through the salon. “Heating up. He asked me to move in with him.”

“And?”

“I think … yes.”

There was a sweetness, Cate thought, in the way Lily put her arm around him, hugged. “He’ll be lucky to have you. You know, Cate, Cicero isn’t just another pretty face. He helps Gino run the business, and he makes the best latte in Beverly Hills.”

“But he does have a pretty face,” Cate said, and had Cicero beaming at her.

“Aren’t you a darling!” He whisked a black curtain open.

“Gino, two gorgeous ladies for you.”

“My favorite kind.”

While Cicero was slight and slick, Gino hit big and muscular. He had a shock of black hair tumbling to the collar of his black tunic, big, heavy-lidded brown eyes, and a perfect two-day stubble.

He didn’t exchange kisses with Lily, but picked her an inch off her feet in a bear hug. “ Mi amor . You got me out of bed an hour early.”

“I hope whoever the lucky woman was, she forgives me.”

He offered a toothy smile. Then turned to Cate. “So this is Caitlyn. My Lily flower tells me about all her chicks.” He reached out, took a handful of Cate’s hair.

“Thick and healthy. Sit. Lily, my own, Zoe will give you a mani-pedi.”

“I planned to sit and watch. Quietly,” Lily insisted.

Gino raised both eyebrows, then just flicked a finger toward the curtain. “Close it on your way out.”

Cate sat in the big leather chair in front of the big silver station with its triple mirror and Hollywood lights. “You must be a genius with hair because nobody flicks Lily out of the room.”

“A genius with hair, and discreet as a sphinx. The secrets that whisper in here stay in here.” As he spoke, he ran his hands through her hair, studied her face in the mirror. “You’re a Sullivan through and through. An Irish beauty still in bud. It’s not telling secrets to say Lily loves you with all her heart.”

“It’s mutual.”

“Good. Now, do you know what you want for your hair, or will you be smart and let me tell you?”

“I think I’d be intimidated enough to go with the second, but I need to look a part. For an audition.”

“All right then, that’s an exception I believe in. Tell me.”

“I’ve got a couple pictures.”

As she got out her phone, Cicero brought in her latte, set it down, and whisked out again.

“Um. Hmm.” Gino nodded as he studied the photos, narrowed eyes at her face in the mirror.

“I’m thinking sort of a combination. She’s defiant and quirky and likes making a statement—her own. So if you could—”

He cut her off with another finger flick. “Now you leave it to me. One question. Since you have good, healthy hair you’re giving up, will you donate it?”

“Oh. Sure. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’ll see to it. Drink your latte and relax.”

She tried to, but even though he turned her away from the mirror, she squeezed her eyes shut at that first, burning-bridges snip.

Done now, she thought.

“Now, let out your breath. Take another, let it out. Good. Tell me about your life.”

“Okay. Okay. God. Whew. Well, I’ve been living in Ireland mostly since I was ten.”

“I haven’t been there. Show it to me.”

So she closed her eyes, told him about the cottage, the lake, the people while he worked.

Fully two and a half hours later, he opened the curtain and let Lily come in.

Both hands flew to her mouth as if holding back a scream.

Cate sat in the salon chair, her hair a short wedge with the heavy mop pulled forward from the crown dyed a deep, vivid blue. At Lily’s reaction, Cate’s delight turned to distress.

“Oh God. Oh, G-Lil.”

Lily shook her head, then waved her hands in the air, then turned around. Then turned back. “I love it! I love it,” she repeated, waving her hands again. “Oh, holy heap of smoldering shit, Catey, you’re a bad-ass teenager!”

“Really?”

“I read the script, too. And even without that, it’s fantastic. Be seventeen, sweets. Listen to Mellencamp and hold on to seventeen as long as you can. Gino, look what you did for my girl.”

“Did you doubt me?”

“Not for an instant. Get up, get up, turn around. I love it. Your father’s going to hate it, but he’s supposed to. Don’t worry about that. Plus, it’s Jute, so he’ll swallow it. We’re going to get you some clothes to go with that hair. And some bad-ass teenager boots.”

Two days later, with her statement hair, her lace-up combat boots, ripped jeans, artfully faded Frank Zappa T-shirt, blue nail polish she’d scraped off in strategic places, an armload of leather and cloth bracelets, she clomped into the audition.

Her heart pounded, her stomach churned, and she felt her throat close as the director—a woman she respected—gave her a narrow stare.

“Caitlyn Sullivan, auditioning for Jute.”

She felt the eyes on her, judging, assessing, let herself go.

She cocked her hip, made her own eagerness drain, filled it with Jute’s bored defiance. She spoke with just the faintest hint of Valley Girl.

“So, are we gonna do this or not? ’Cause I’ve got a bunch of better shit I could be doing. You know, like scratching my ass or whatever.”

When she saw just the hint of a smile in the director’s eyes, she knew she’d stepped through the door again.

CHAPTER TEN

In the long gap between Donovan’s Dream and Absolutely Maybe , Cate forgot how much she enjoyed being a part of a project, part of a community. But it all came back.