Mama Dearest by E. Lynn Harris Page B

looked at the anxious mob with disdain.
    “Let me see if I can get someone to help you,” Mrs. Sutton said, and then hurried away, zigzagging through the maze of adoring Madison B. fans.
    A few minutes later, a nattily dressed young man approached Ava. She took one look at him and said to herself, this poor child is gay as a goose.
    “Hello, Mrs. Middlebrooks. I’m Thurston Rogers, Madison B.’s publicist. May I help you with something?” His voice is lilting, and rises up a note at the end of each word, as if everything is about the dramatics.
    “Yes, you can, young man. I need to speak with Madison before this little shindig gets started.”
    “May I ask why?”
    “You may. I’m related to Madison B.”
    He gave her a probing look. “That’s funny. Madison B. was telling me on the flight here that this was her first trip to New York. She didn’t mention any relatives. Can I just take your number and give it to Madison B.’s father? I’m sure when he gets some time, they will give you a call.”
    “Well, that won’t do,” Ava said, taking offense. “You might lose your job if you keep me away from my kinfolks.”
    He struck a bored pose. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about. What did you say your name was again?” he asked, eyeing Ava with suspicion. Thurston tapped an index finger, painted with a shiny clear polish, against his chin, looking as though he was in deep thought.
    “Ava Middlebrooks. Maybe you know me from some of my stage and cabaret appearances.”
    A light went on in his eyes. “Were you in one of Stanley Bennett Clay’s productions more than a decade ago?”
    “Yes, I was. How nice of you to remember.”
    “I remember now,” he gushed, coming to life. “It was one of the first musicals I saw at the Apollo.”
    “Those were the days.”
    “Girlfriend, you were fierce. You had me singing and hummin’ for days after the show was over. Can I get a hug?”
    “Of course you can, love,” Ava said, thinking this might be easier than she thought.
    Thurston held her tight, patted a number of times and then after the embrace said, “I have to run. It was so nice meeting you.”
    “But what about Madison B.?”
    His eyebrows twinkled in concern. “Oh Ava, write your number down and I’ll pass it on.”
    “I need to see her now,” Ava demanded. She usually loved the gays but realized at times they needed to be put in their place.
    “Well, that’s not going to happen today. Write your number down on my clipboard and I’ll pass it on,” he said while checking his expensive watch. Ava wondered if her granddaughter paid for that.
    Ava looks at him, obviously disturbed, and said, “Mister Thing, you must know that a diva like me just doesn’t go around writing her number on clipboards. That’s way too common. Good day.”
    Ava headed toward the door, pushing through the thousands of fans waiting to meet her granddaughter.

CHAPTER 11
    I was watching
Paula Dean’s Party
on the Food Network and the doorbell rang just as Paula was getting ready to pull a casserole out of the oven. I found myself watching a lot of cooking shows just in case that was the reality show route I had to take. I was an actress, so surely I could pretend I knew how to cook. A part of me wanted to see how the casserole looked and then another part wondered who was ringing my bell unannounced. Perfect solution to the problem; I put Paula on pause and went to answer the door.
    “Yancey, it’s me.”
    “Dalton, what are you doing here and how did you get my address?” I asked.
    “Danni, remember; we’re friends,” Dalton said as he walked into my living area uninvited. He had a sling on his arm but it didn’t seem to slow down the pace of his walk.
    “Danni, what happened to your arm?”
    “Can you believe that I fell on it trying to learn a new dance in this musical I’m working on? I might be a dancer slash actor but I’m stillvery clumsy. Wow, Yancey B., this sofa is nice. I guess you’ve