The Sunshine Sisters - Softcover

A Few Weeks Ago

Prologue

All those years when Ronni thought she was sick, all those years convinced that every mole was melanoma, every cough was lung cancer, every case of heartburn was an oncoming heart attack, after all those years, when the gods finally stopped taking care of her she wasn’t scared.

What a pity, she thought after the doctor first diagnosed her. Then, when she refused to believe it, after the second, and the third, agreed, she thought again, what a pity I wasted all those years worrying about the worst. Somehow now that the worst was upon her, it was peaceful, calming, as if this was what she had always been waiting for. Now that it was here, it wasn’t scary at all.

She had gotten her life in order. There were many, many amends she wasn’t able to make, would never be able to make. If she hadn’t completely healed her relationship with her daughters, at least she had brought them back together; at least they would now have each other.

Ronni stirs in bed and blinks at the sunlight pouring in through the window, dust circling in the glow. There is a thick layer of dust on the top of the chest of drawers at the bottom of her bed. A few months ago she would have been furious, calling for Lily, the housekeeper, to come and clean. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Her legs don’t work anymore, and it’s getting increasingly hard to hold her head up. The choking when she ate made it simpler not to eat, and she no longer has the energy for the liquid smoothies Lizzy has been making. She turns her head slightly to see a full smoothie Lizzy brought up earlier today, packed with spinach for iron, almond butter for protein, coconut milk because Lizzy swears coconut is the ultimate cure-all for everything these days.

Not for Ronni. There is no cure for Ronni, no anti-inflammatory that will stop the burning and muscle jumping, not enough iron, minerals, or vitamins in the world that will bring sensation back to her body, allow her to lead a life comparable to the one she has led all these years.

It has been a good life, she thinks. Sixty-five years. She would have wanted longer, and before this disease took hold of her body, she passed for much younger, presumed she would go on forever. She reaches for the handheld mirror she keeps on the bedcovers, aware that she is slowly losing this hand as well. Slowly she holds it up, just for a few seconds, to examine her face. She hasn’t had Botox for over a year. Nor fillers, nor any of the treatments that kept her looking young and firm. She had her eyes done in her forties, but now they are sunken in what is left of her face, her cheeks gaunt, her skin graying. She stares, fascinated at how different she looks, at what she has become.

It is not the way she would have chosen to go, but nor would Ronni ever have wanted to grow old. The makeup, the treatments, the wigs, the working out, the gracious, charming persona she was known for, all kept her looking young, even if she didn’t get the acting parts she once got.

Three years ago she was offered the part of a grandmother in an edgy new series on HBO. She turned it down, horrified. They told her she would be a “glamorous granny”; they wanted to portray aging in a sexy, vibrant way. Ronni flounced out of the office, not saying a word, her displeasure clear. The show went on to win numerous awards. The grandmother was played by Betty White. Ronni refused to watch until last year, when season two won every award it was possible to win, then she binge-watched it. Everyone else who had seen it raved, saw instantly why it was such a hit—the clever dialogue; the edgy, astute observations; the horrible, self-absorbed, selfish characters you wanted to hate but couldn’t help but love because they were so vulnerable, their hearts so needy, and bleeding, and real. Ronni did not see any of that. What Ronni saw was a woman much older than her playing a role they had offered to her. Which meant they saw her as the same age, the same type. And she was devastated.

She booked a Thermage treatment for the next day, and a chemical peel. She made an appointment with her plastic surgeon in New York to discuss a face-lift. How dare they see her as perfect for the part of the old lady. How dare they see her as an old lady. Wasn’t sixty the new forty? She would reverse time, would ensure she continued to play evil mothers-in-law rather than eccentric elderly ladies.

The day of the appointment, she had a bad dizzy spell and spent the day in bed. She never got around to another appointment. None of which matters, she thinks now. All those years of beauty, of a wonderful figure, and all I could think was that I was never pretty enough, never slim enough, never quite good enough. What I would give to have those years back, to appreciate them more, to appreciate the life I had while I was living it.

All those years when I could have been a better wife, a better mother, a better friend. She sighs. It’s too late now. She did the best she could. And now she is ready. It isn’t quite how she wanted to do it. She had a vision of looking beautiful again, of being dressed, made-up, of falling back against the pillow with a mane of hair from one of her famous wigs.

She had envisaged her daughters sitting around the bed, perhaps clasping her hands, smiling beatifically as Bach played on the iPhone speaker, as she quietly swallowed the pills she has been stockpiling before drifting seamlessly into a sleep that would last forever.

Gathering the pills was challenging. Her housekeeper removed the bottles of OxyContin and kept them downstairs. She learned to ask visitors to bring her the pills, pretending to take them, or announcing she would take them later, before hiding them away with her growing mound.

She had hoped there would be a camera in the corner, capturing this final scene in a documentary that would be made about her life, as she drifted from this one into the next.

She has left plans for her funeral, which will also be filmed. The biggest stars of stage and screen will be speaking, certainly. She has left instructions as to who she wants to eulogize her and what poems they might read. She has imagined the obituaries, the retrospectives, the huge picture of her on the screen at the Oscars, the sadness and tears from all who have known her, or loved her, or admired her movies for years.

The first part of the plan has not come together. None of her daughters will cooperate. Nell won’t speak about it, other than to say there is absolutely no way she will help her mother take her own life, then have to live with that on her conscience for the rest of hers. It is unconscionable that she would ask, says Nell. Meredith keeps bursting into tears. And Lizzy, Lizzy who is most like her, Lizzy, her darling baby girl, has refused to believe that there isn’t something that can be done. How typical of Lizzy, to believe that sheer force of will can make anything happen, including miracles.

Lizzy, who has been making her liquid smoothies packed with nutrition, who is researching cutting-edge stem cell treatments, certain that there will soon be a cure. Her daughters have demanded more time. Give them six months, they say, to try to find something that will help. They will not let her go now.

But Ronni has reached the end. With her one good hand she reaches under the pillow where she has been quietly storing the pills.

She has enough now, to ensure she won’t wake up, throw up, swim back to consciousness. There is a small wave of regret that she isn’t going the way she had planned, surrounded by family, drifting off in a wave of forgiveness and love, but they will not let her go.

And it is time to go.

1981

Chapter One

The director jumps out of his chair and strides over to Ronni Sunshine, clasping her arms as he gives her an extravagantly European air kiss, his lips pursing on either side of her perfectly made-up face as he kisses once, twice, three times.

“Darling! You look more beautiful than ever!” Andras Marko’s Eastern European accent now has an American twang, picked up in Hollywood over the last ten years. He steps back, admiring her short, tight skirt and beautifully fitted red jacket with large shoulder pads. Her hair is immaculately flicked, the black eyeliner on her striking green eyes slanting up ever so slightly at the corners, her lips full, glistening with red lip gloss, and pouty, a small smile playing on them, as her face fills with a flush of pleasure at the compliment.

“Darling! It’s good to see you!” Once upon a time, he had a crush on her. She knew this, used it to her advantage, even though nothing had ever happened, for she was so young, barely out of her teens; he couldn’t have taken advantage of her in that way. Instead, he was sweet to her, took her under his wing. If anyone dared to flirt with her, or try to take advantage, he was the first to jump in and set them straight.

“It’s better to see you.” He smiles. “You have grown into your beauty.”

“Thank you, Pappy.”

The people who loved Andras called him Pappy. Ronni made sure she called him that from the beginning. It made him feel loved, helped him take even better care of her.

Her voice is still the throaty purr that she developed for her first film role, at eighteen, a voice that has subsequently become her trademark. That first film role, as Michael Caine’s fifth love interest, led to a series of B-movie roles, which led to her moving to Hollywood two years later.

Andras Marko directed the first movie she made after landing in her little studio bungalow in Silver Lake. He was relatively new to the game back then, but over the years produced a number of huge hits. Now he is a hot Hollywood director, with a penchant for dark, exotic actresses in their twenties.

“It’s been a long time,” says Andras, admiring her from head to toe. “What is it, ten years? Twelve, since we made that movie?”

Ronni tips her head back with a peal of laughter. “No, darling! It’s only been six or seven years. Time in Hollywood just feels longer.”

She has to say that. She is thirty now, but her résumé says twenty-six. Andras would know she is not twenty-six, knew her age when they made that movie together all those years ago, but he is willing to play the game they both know they are expected to play.

“And you’re married now! With babies! I can’t believe how things change in such a short time.”

There is a quick flicker of discontent in Ronni’s eyes. It’s not that she doesn’t like being married, doesn’t appreciate her children, but this role is not the role of a young mother, but an ingénue. Reminding Andras of her role outside of the movie set is not something she wants to do.

“Come, come.” He takes her hand, dipping his head with a smile as he leads her through the people who have been watching her screen test, all of whom applaud as she passes. A warm glow seeps through her. This film could be huge. The rumor is that Robert Redford is up for the part. Winning this role would catapult her onto the A-list in a way she has always dreamed. “Tell me,” he says. “Tell me about the babies.”

“The babies are adorable,” she says, even though Nell is seven and Meredith is three. “How are your children? How old are they now? And Diana? Is she well?”

“Pfft.” He waves with his free hand, as they leave the room and head across the lot to his office. “They are all well. All driving me crazy! Come! Come! There is much we have to talk about!”

He turns to her, his eyes crinkling as he laughs, Ronni laughing with him, her excitement threatening to bubble up and spill out. It looks like she’s done it! She’s really, really done it! This time it looks like she’s landed the role of her dreams.

They walk into his office, Andras gesturing her to sit down. “Your test was wonderful,” he says then, smiling a beneficent smile at her. “You have grown and matured as an actress, but you still have the glow of youth. I think you would be perfect for the role of Jacqueline. What do you think? Are you ready to take on something like this?”

“Really?” Ronni can hardly sit still, wriggling with delight as she looks into his eyes. “Are you saying I’ve got the part?”

“Do you want the part?”

“Oh, Pappy! This is the part I’ve been dreaming of all my life! This is wonderful!”

“So you do want the part?” He is smiling at her with a smile she doesn’t recognize from all those years ago, a smile she wouldn’t have been able to read, even if she weren’t wriggling with an excitement that failed to prepare her for what was about to happen.

“I do.”

“If you really want the part,” he says, leaning back on the sofa, his voice low as he moves his legs apart, “all you have to do is be nice to me. Be very nice to me.”

Usually, a massage is enough to calm Ronni down. The studio sends a masseuse once a week to the house. Usually it’s on a Thursday, but Ronni calls her agent as soon as she gets home, and requests—no, demands—the masseuse come today. She drove home gritting her teeth, replaying her audition over and over.

Be nice to me. She knows, as every young actress in Hollywood knows, what that particular euphemism means. She has never done it, and she will never do it. Andras Marko can go fuck himself.

Oh, but she would have been perfect for the role. And she was certain she had gotten it. The screen test went as well as any screen test in her career. She could see the people in the room rapt as they watched her. She was naïve, and innocent, and inhabiting the character so well, she forgot that she was Ronni Sunshine, actress and B-movie star, and thought she was a young mother whose daughter had been kidnapped. She had them. When it ended, there was that split second where she blinked, had to come back to herself, and she looked around that room, at the faces of all those people sitting in there, and she knew she had them. They believed her too.

That sleazeball Andras. When had he become a sleazeball? How had that sweet, nurturing man she worked with all those years ago become the gross, presumptuous, sleazy director who spread his legs for her today and expected her to acquiesce? Had fame and fortune corrupted him that much? Well. Clearly, it had. Ronni could name ten actresses in ten seconds who’d built their careers on the casting couch. She had never been one of them. She had never needed to be one of them.

She wasn’t about to start now. No matter how badly she wanted the part.

As she drove home, she could feel the tension building in her neck and shoulders, a headache already starting to pound. Stress. Disappointment. Fury. How dare he.

A wave of nausea hit her as she walked into the house. She ran to the bathroom, disgusted with herself for throwing up, at having such an extreme reaction to what had just happened. But she was more disgusted with him. That was when she picked up the phone and called her agent.

The massage table is set up, as it always is, in her bedroom. As soon as she lies down, she’s hopeful she will get some relief. But a...