The Pearson reunion

Donna's Pov

The words "Mom! What are you doing here?" tumbled out before I could fully process the sight of her. Her usual impeccably tailored pantsuit was replaced by a loose-fitting floral dress that seemed to billow around her. A wide-brimmed sun hat shaded her face, its brown contrasting with the gold glinting on her wrist – a Rolex so big it would have looked gaudy on anyone else, yet somehow seemed perfectly at home on her.

Before she could answer, I couldn't help but notice the way her gaze lingered on my uniform, lingering a little longer on the name tag that proudly displayed 'Donna Pearson' in bold letters. A flicker of something – disappointment? Disdain? – crossed her face before she schooled her features into a tight smile.

"I should be the one asking you that question," she said, her voice laced with a cutting edge. "Is this the film set you said you were on? The one I shouldn't disturb you at?"

The memory of my little white lie washed over me, a hollow feeling settling in my stomach. "Mom," I began, but she cut me off with a shake of her head.

"So this is what you're doing in Los Angeles? Waitressing?" Her voice dripped with disapproval. "Donna, this is beneath you. For crying out loud, you're a Pearson.”

Before I could muster a retort, Gail, our supervisor (who miraculously still held the position after Antonio's firing), materialized beside us. Her usually cheery smile faltered at the sight of my mother.

"I hope everything is OK over here?” she chirped, her voice strained.

“Everything's fine, Gail," I lied, forcing a smile. "Just taking care of this lovely guest."

Gail raised an eyebrow, her gaze flickering between my tense posture and my mother's regal bearing. "But you yelled at the guest," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "And we don't do that here."

My mother's smile turned glacial. "Gail, right?" she said, her voice clipped but polite.

Gail, clearly intimidated, stammered out a confirmation.

"My daughter and I were just having a conversation," my mother continued. "Can you just give us a few minutes?"

Gail's eyes widened. "Wait, really? She's… your daughter?”

My mother's smile turned steely. "Yes," she clipped, the implication hanging heavy in the air. "Did I stutter?"

Gail stammered, her composure thrown. "N-no, ma'am," she mumbled, glancing at me for confirmation.

"Yes, she is," I muttered, feeling trapped in this unexpected family reunion.

Gail, clearly intimidated by my mother's aura, scurried away without another word.

"You didn't have to talk to her like that," I hissed as soon as she was out of earshot.

My mother waved a dismissive hand. "Just sit down and answer a few questions," she commanded, her blue eyes boring into mine with a chilling intensity.

I slumped into the seat opposite her, defeated. Before she could launch into her interrogation, I decided to take back some control. "When did you arrive in Los Angeles, Mom? And where are you staying?”

She let out a sharp laugh, a harsh sound that echoed in the restaurant. "So, the tables have turned, have they? Very well, then. I arrived this morning and booked a suit at this very hotel. I actually saw you and Lorena earlier, but I was too… stressed to approach you."

Without waiting for my response, she continued, her voice laced with an icy urgency. "Now, my turn. Why aren't you on a film set, like you told me?"

Shame gnawed at me. "Mom, I lied," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry.”

"Disappointed" didn't even begin to describe the look on her face. A deep line formed between her brows. "I can't deny that I am incredibly disappointed right now, Donna. But you can fix this. Resign from this… job. Forget this silly dream of yours. You and I both know you're no Meryl Streep. Come back to Napa Valley with me, come and be a part of the family business again."

The controlling tone of her voice sent a surge of anger coursing through me. "Mom, I'm not doing that," I declared, standing up abruptly. "Now, can I take your order?”

She frowned, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. "You're being stubborn, but fine. I'll have the roasted salmon with fries, and a glass of red wine."

I scribbled down her order, a sense of rebellion simmering within me. As I turned to leave, she called out, "And Donna, make sure the salmon is extra dry. Make it two orders, actually. Your brother might want something to eat."

My heart skipped a beat. "Jake's here with you?"

The revelation landed like a second blow, one I hadn't seen coming. It had been months since I'd spoken to my older brother, our last interaction a tense exchange filled with disappointment and thinly veiled condescension. Had they planned this whole trip together? A joint effort to reel me back into the gilded cage of the Pearson life?

"Yes," she confirmed, "he's in his suite right now,” my mother confirmed, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "We thought it would be nice to surprise you.”

Surprise? More like a calculated ambush. A feeling of anger simmered within me, threatening to boil over.

"Then who's minding the vineyard?" I shot back, a hint of defiance creeping into my voice.

A small smile played on her lips. "It seems you have forgotten that this isn't the planting or harvesting season. There's not exactly a crisis happening back at the winery."

Shame washed over me, hot and prickly. Of course, she was right. Lost in my own frustration and surprise, I'd completely forgotten the basic agricultural calendar. But the underlying message was clear – my dreams were frivolous, a childish fantasy compared to the very real responsibilities of running a successful vineyard."

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to step back from the emotional ledge. Right now, I wasn't going to have this conversation with her. Not here, not in the middle of the restaurant during my shift.

"Fine," I said, my voice flat. "I'll get your order now.”

I headed towards the kitchen, the weight of their unexpected arrival settling heavily on my shoulders. Would Jake try to talk me down as well? Would this entire visit be an exercise in manipulation?