New Year’s Day
Even though we were closed on New Year’s Day, I worked in the store doing various tasks to take my mind off my sadness. Tears pricked my eyes. The stress of my situation weighed heavy on my heart, and if I were perfectly honest, I fiercely missed Jordan. I’d called and even stopped by his house in the past week, but he’d said he needed time to come to terms with my deception.
And, when I wasn’t thinking about Jordan, I was consumed with the fear of when my past would come knocking and I’d have to face the mess I’d left behind in Hollywood.
I turned when I heard the lock on the front door click. Annabelle strode in carrying two coffees from Cup of Go. “Good morning!” she chirped as she approached.
“Good morning,” I replied. “What are you doing here? We aren’t open today.”
Her thick, sparkly blue eyeliner outlined her eyes while her crimped hair cascaded around her face.
“Oh, I know,” she said, shucking her floor-length pink parka. “I just figured you’d, like, want some company.”
I sighed with relief that I wasn’t alone any longer, but at the same time, I was pretty deep in my own pity party and wanted to be left alone to continue.
“So what did you end up doing last night?” Annabelle asked, her dozens of bracelets clinking up and down her arm as she handed me my latte. “Anything exciting?”
I shook my head and took the cup from her. I wouldn’t admit I’d had too much wine and shed a few tears. “Thank you for this,” I said, taking a long sip. So good. “What about you? Did you end up going out?”
“Oh, heck yes,” she replied, shucking her coat. “Gina and I hit the party at On The River. Sally really knows how to throw a fiesta!”
“Tell me about it.” Anything to take my mind off my own problems for a bit.
“Well, we had a couple tequila shots, ate some food, danced, and then I sang karaoke.”
“Gina didn’t join you?” I asked, then took a sip of my latte to hide my smile.
“No. She’s, like, a total chicken. I mean, I’d carry us. She just had to be backup.”
“What song?”
“You Give Love a Bad Name by Bon Jovi.”
Recalling the song and knowing Annabelle, I couldn’t hide my grin any longer. She took her eighties music quite seriously.
“Do you want to see it?” she asked, pulling her phone from her pocket. “Someone filmed it and put it on TikTok. I have over two thousand views so far.”
I stayed far away from social media except for the odd video or post Annabelle shared with me. “Sure. Let’s take a look at your performance.”
After she pulled up the video, she turned on the sound. I was witnessing a female Bon Jovi singing her heart out, on tune. “You’re really good,” I said at the end. To my horror, the next video served up showed my face.
“I-I did well,” Annabelle stuttered, quickly pulling the phone from my view. Her cheeks reddened and she wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“What was that?” I asked. Did I really want to know?
“Oh, nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing, Annabelle. Let me see the video.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Sam, it’s probably better if you don’t.”
The sickening dread that had consumed me all week only grew. Perhaps she was right. Maybe I shouldn’t watch the video. Yet, if I didn’t, I’d worry about it and only make my anxiety worse.
“Is it bad?” I asked.
She nodded and wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Did… did you put it up there?”
“Oh, my gosh!” she shouted, stepping away while her brow furrowed in anger. “Of course not!”
“Let me see it,” I said, waving her back. “Please.”
She groaned, but held up her phone. A few taps later, my face appeared again.
The picture was from a few years ago. I stood on stage at the Emmy’s wearing a stunning purple sequined gown. As I held up the trophy, I beamed with pride, my smile wide, my eyes glistening with tears. Along the bottom, writing appeared. This is…
The second photo was from my fall at the Emmy’s where I’d toppled backward and flashed everyone my red thong. I cringed as I recalled the horror of that night and how thrilled I’d been when I learned my hideous moment hadn’t been televised. Now, it was out on TikTok for everyone to see—and it included the red thong and my butt cheeks.
How to…
The final picture flashed—Jordan and me dressed in Santa suits trying to prevent Mary from killing her lover, Terry, that had been plastered on the front of the L.A. Times.
Fail at life. Don’t be like Samantha Rathbone!
Laugh emojis ran across the screen.
I’d forgotten about social media. People didn’t even need to show up at my door to mock and ridicule me. A larger reach could be found on the internet.
Annabelle shoved the phone back in her pocket. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Who put it up?” I asked, trying to steel my spine so the video didn’t cut too close.
“Your former co-star, Bradley Bass.”
Ah, yes. Good old Bradley—the highly functioning drunk I used to work with who always smelled of whisky. It didn’t surprise me he’d stoop so low.
I sighed and twisted a curl around my finger, determined not to let all this get to me. There was nothing I could do about a stupid video placed on social media by a stupid man who only wanted to demean me. I had my life directly in front of me that needed my attention.
“Thanks for showing that to me,” I said.
“He’s just a big idiot,” Annabelle said. “You shouldn’t think about it.”
I nodded and wished I could do that, but unfortunately, that video would eat away at me until I became exhausted and could no longer give the energy to care anymore. That was the way I handled most embarrassing events.
“Anyway,” Annabelle continued, “I was wondering if you wanted to go to On The River and get something to eat?”
“Is Sally open today? Even after the party last night?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s got a huge buffet going.”
“Sure. That sounds good. I’d like to get—”
“Did you just hear that?” Annabelle interrupted.
Both of us remained quiet, then a scream sounded from outside. Annabelle’s eyes widened, then we rushed out onto the deck just as Mrs. Mason came stumbling out her back door. She cried out again.
“Mrs. Mason!” I yelled, hurrying over to her, Annabelle right behind me. “What’s wrong?”
She pointed to her store as she covered her hand with her mouth. Slowly, Annabelle and I walked inside. The back room was lined with shelves stocked with yarn. The front of the store had display tables showcasing some sweaters, mittens and blankets.
“I don’t see anything,” Annabelle whispered.
My gaze darted all around. “Do you think she saw a mouse or something?”
“In the small alcove off the back room!” Mrs. Mason yelled.
We retraced our steps and rounded the corner to find a man in a pool of blood.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure that’s Russell Mason,” Annabelle whispered.
With a gasp, I placed my hand over my mouth. Who in the world would kill Mrs. Mason’s husband?
Will Jordan ever forgive Sam for her deception? And just how bad will Sam’s life become with her anonymity now gone? Also find out who killed Mr. Mason in Thyme and Trouble.