Choices

by Tessa Vidal

  Did I even like salmon, capers, or caviar? I didn't know.

  But I liked kissing the sweet hollow of Caroline's collarbone. Liked sweeping my tongue in a spiral-y line that went down and around and down some more.

  “One day every day will be like this,” she said. “We'll be rich.”

  And then somebody was pounding on the door, yelling something about police, and my heart was pounding too, and we were grabbing for clothes, and there was more pounding and more yelling, and the sound of the door coming open because of course the hotel would cooperate and they'd have a master key...

  Shit, shit, fuck! All this fucking drama to bust two girls for underage drinking and borrowing their mother's credit card?

  Oh, shit, we're in so much fucking trouble.

  But it wasn't about us.

  “Hands high, let me see your hands,” somebody was shouting, and somebody else was shouting louder, “Ryder Taylor. Come out where we can see you.”

  All this noise and shouting. All these adults crowding into the hot tub suite which had seemed so large only a moment ago. Of course, we were eighteen, we were adults too, but I didn't feel much like it with all these older, armed men crowding around me. Hotel security. Police officers.

  “Ryder's not here,” I kept saying. “Is something wrong? We haven't seen him all night.”

  Phones didn't lock in those days, and one of the police officers was looking at the picture on Caroline's pink phone. “That doesn't tell us anything,” said another officer, the one who was actually wearing a suit instead of a uniform. “We already knew he came in with the girls.”

  “What did your brother tell you about his plans for the evening?”

  That he'd provide fake driver's licenses and gambling money. That we were going to have a real birthday party even though turning eighteen wasn't worth much anymore. “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing. He didn't tell us anything about his plans.”

  Eleven fucking years later, here was my twin brother next to me on this fucking mountain, and he still wasn't telling me sweet fuckall about his plans. Not that I necessarily wanted to know whatever it was he wasn't saying.

  Chili nudged at me, nudged at Ryder, came back and nudged at me again. There was another, higher overlook, and Chili was eager to see it.

  I looked at Ryder, who still pretended to be looking at the view. “Why are you here?”

  “We're twins. We'll always be twins. There'll always be that bond between us.”

  We started walking again. The trail was wider here, and the next overlook was less than a quarter-mile away. The faster I walked, the happier Chili was. Bobbie was happy with any pace we set.

  “You want something, twin of mine,” I said. “And at some point you're going to have to tell me what it is.”

  “Caro lives in Los Feliz now,” Ryder said. “And she's got a new chow. He's a handful. It's the perfect job for you, Rayna.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Bobbie stopped too. “There's no Rayna. And I don't know any Caro. I knew Caroline, and Caroline is dead. Fucking hell, Ryder. Did she send you out here?”

  Because of course I'd seen her calls and messages. Because of course I'd seen the charming little gift basket she sent to my virtual assistant, who was shocked to receive a basket full of wine and chocolate delivered to her door― well, I'd seen a text photo of the basket anyway. My virtual assistant and thus my fake business address were somewhere in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, a place I'd never been.

  “You're famous now,” he said. “The cool new dog whisperer who's probably going to get her own reality TV show. And Caro's famous too. You'd be fucking perfect together.”

  How crazy can crazy get?

  “I haven't seen Caroline in eleven fucking years, Ryder. Your little stunt was the end of that. Caroline's mom packed her up and shipped her out to her aunt in East LA to get her away from bad influences. Do you know how fucking desperate you have to be to ship your daughter to fucking Los Angeles to get her away from bad influences?”

  Chili nudged me to get going again.

  “Look, I screwed up, and so did Caro,” Ryder said. “I never intended to let so many fucking years go by, and neither did she. What can I do about it now, Shell? How do I make this right? That's all I want. To make this right. To fix the things I broke.”

  “What is this really about? What do you get if Caro Ballad gets the hottest new dog whisperer to train her fancy new chow? And how long have the two of you been back in contact? And what about...?”

  All my questions died in my throat as we rounded the next curve in the trail. There was a perky little helicopter taking up most of the cleared space of the overlook.

  Ryder's smile was hard to read. Sheepish? A little proud? Both? My twin had turned into the kind of man who was delivered places in helicopters. “Sorry, Shell, gotta run. But we'll talk again real soon.”

  Left speechless, I gestured to pull the dogs back into the trees, well away from the blades that began to spin after Ryder climbed in on the passenger side.

  I never heard it fly in this morning. He'd got here early, he'd planned it all from the beginning so he wouldn't spook me away from my usual trail.

  He knew a lot about me, considering we hadn't seen each other in eleven years.

  Which meant what? Did Ryder really want to fix the things he broke? Or did he have his own reasons for putting me back together with Caroline?

  Chapter Four

  Caro

  I sat in a dark booth in a dark corner. Eleven years. The picture was the same picture, but it had changed somehow. The photograph was dark and grainy displayed on the long infinity screen of my new phone. At the time, we thought we looked so old― we thought we could pass for twenty-two, maybe even a year or two older― but now the same faces looked painfully young.

  All that pinky-gold glitter. What was I thinking?

  Rayna blinked at just the wrong moment. If only I could gaze into those steely eyes. She was the sensible one, I thought. A dog behaviorist. How did people even know about careers like that? They didn't teach it in school or at least not any school I ever heard of.

  Ryder's eyes were wide open. Despite his size, despite everything he must have known would happen that night, he looked innocent. A boy on his eighteenth birthday.

  He should have told us what he had planned. What those other guys talked him into, we could have talked him out of.

  Or maybe we couldn't. Had he already known how sick his mom was? Was it about getting money to her? Had somebody played on that?

  Around and around I went, but I never figured it out. Not even with eleven years to think about it.

  It wasn't even such a lot of money― one forklift loaded with bags of coins diverted to a parking lot instead of the counting room. The dollars were no good because they used tokens in that joint. So mostly it was bags of quarters with maybe some half dollars tossed in for grins and giggles. Twelve thousand dollars split between three guys who drove away in two trucks that scraped the ground from the weight.

  How did he expect to get away with it? Why did he even think it was worth it?

  The hundreds he gave us to gamble with came from an earlier robbery, or so said the officer who confiscated the cash as proceeds from a crime. Was that even legal? Didn't matter. Two eighteen-year-old girls too young to be drinking wine in a hot tub were in no position to question uniformed police officers about what was and wasn't legal.

  “You're lucky you're not in jail right now.” My mother was furious.

  “It was just wine,” I said. “And I didn't gamble.”

  “They. Have. You. On. Video!”

  They had Rayna on video. All I did at the blackjack table was stand behind her thinking about all the things I could do with eight hundred dollars. Well, seven hundred dollars. Because one of the things I wanted― the thing I wanted most― was time alone with Rayna.

  Shell Tate. That was her name now. There was no more Rayna Taylor.

  When the waiter put a raspberry
martini on the table, I put my phone away. Caro Ballad was a sipper, not a drinker. She maintained control. She wore dark glasses indoors and at night.

  Caro Ballad did not brood about the past. Caro Ballad had no past.

  My publicist arrived at the appointed time, and not a second earlier. Heather Heath was a smooth brunette who wore winged eyeliner and a woodsy men's cologne. “I'm glad you're finally thinking seriously about making some tweaks to your image, Caro.”

  But there's a but.

  I tapped a polished fingernail against the cool glass. “I think seriously about everything you say, Heather.” Not a complete lie. “I think we can compromise here. I'm aspirational, not attainable, and I'm never going to be J-Law tripping on a red carpet, but I do like the idea of adopting a puppy to soften my image.”

  Heather ordered a cucumber martini which appeared to be a thin curl of green peel floating in vodka the color of fine crystal. “Did you really grow up in an antebellum mansion in Natchez?”

  Hiding my trailer park past sometimes involved what we in the south called fibs. You couldn't tell people you were a princess if they knew you were from Tunica County. “We've had this discussion, Heather. I don't talk about my family or where I grew up.”

  “Honestly, if it wasn't so fucking obvious you were a rich kid, I'd think you were in the Witness Protection Program. Even TMZ can't dig up anything on you more than ten years old.”

  “Old money Mississippi thrives better in the dark. Nobody would like me better if they knew more about my family.” I dropped my voice and made my eyes all sad. “Let's just say my daddy is a real fossil.” That was enough to let her imagine all kinds of awful things about my society upbringing back in some historical plantation home.

  “Fine. Moving on. Did the dog have to be a chow?”

  “What's wrong with a chow? Dickens is adorable.”

  “Dickens is an arrogant pain in the ass.”

  “You've never even met him.”

  “I'm making a snap judgment based on his breed. As people do. Image is all in Hollywood. Chows aren't likable.”

  “Heather, can we agree I'm not choosing my dog on the basis of whether or not strangers think he's likable?” How do you explain instant rapport to a woman who made a career of planning out people's whole lives to look good on Instagram?

  “When I suggested you adopt a puppy, I pictured something like a beagle or a terrier. Something whimsical. Friendly. The whole point of the adoption is lost if you adopt a puppy who looks like an entitled rich asshat.”

  “He's entitled to be entitled. These dogs descend from royalty. Did you know chows are the only dogs with a blue-black tongue?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I did not know that. And, even if it's true, which I doubt, I do not care. Your public will not care. Dickens looks snobby.”

  Dickens did look snobby. All fluff and curly tail, his deep-set eyes were mostly hidden in his abundant ginger fur. The closest thing you could get to my dark sunglasses in a dog. “He has opinions. That's why I need a trainer.”

  The subject of Shell Tate revived Heather's enthusiasm. “Now there's a relatable woman. She has a good face. She photographs well.”

  Here it comes.

  “I'd like you to revisit the idea of social media. You, Shell Tate, and a fluffy dog could make for some very shareable images.”

  The last thing I wanted was for Shell to think I was using her to promote my next movie. Especially after eleven years of silence. “I can't agree, Heather. Warm and relatable is not my brand. My public wouldn't like me better if I was shooting off my mouth on Twitter.”

  “You wouldn't have to post anything. In fact, it's better if you don't. Just pose for some pictures from time to time, and your social media director does the rest.” She pointed a crisp red fingernail back at her own heart.

  “That's how I'm supposed to be warm and real. By paying you to pretend to be me on social media.”

  “Other stars do it.”

  Other stars that people found more likable.

  “How much does a dog like that cost anyway? Five thousand, ten thousand? That might be no money to you, but to Jane Flyover Country it seems excessive. I just wish you'd sit back and rethink. There's so many better breeds you could pick to warm up your image. And there's still time. How about some fluffy little mutt from a rescue? We could craft all kinds of publicity about something like that.”

  I swallowed hard. Nobody, no fucking anybody, could ever guess Dickens was a rescue. Nobody was going to know. My heart was my heart, not something to be shared with the public at large.

  My fingers made an airy wave in mid-air. “Honestly, Heather, a mutt? It's already decided.”

  Although it wasn't. I wished I could sneak a look at my phone. What time was it? Shell might be finalizing the adoption at this very moment.

  Or she might be laughing and joking with the shelter's owner while they both agreed I was a vain, silly movie star who couldn't handle a strong-willed breed like a chow. What would I do if they wouldn't let me have the dog who was meant to be mine?

  Heather's martini glass made a soft clink against the table. I must have been woolgathering behind my dark glasses longer than I realized. Pushing away her empty glass, she made a circular motion in the air to tell the waiter to fetch another one. He nodded, but then we all turned toward a small commotion coming from the front of the restaurant.

  The hostess, two of the waiters, and now the manager were blocking the entrance. It was hard to see from back here. I stood up, and then Heather did too.

  It was bright outside in contrast with the cool dark of the restaurant. My shades actually served a purpose as I caught glimpses of a tall, short-haired woman with a fluffy red dog on a leash. Both woman and dog were calm. Almost regal. My breath caught in my throat.

  “You can't come in here with a dog.” The manager was a nice guy, a good manager, but excitable. “Dogs are strictly not allowed inside the restaurant.”

  Time for the movie star to put in an appearance. I walked over slowly, my hips swaying thanks to my high-heeled pumps.

  “Not even Caro Ballad's dog?” I asked.

  Dickens wagged his tail. Shell Tate looked directly at me, into me, giving me the distinct impression she could see behind my dark glasses. Eleven years. We knew nothing about each other anymore, and yet it felt as if she could see everything.

  Chapter Five

  Shell

  Dickens, for all his aristocratic looks, had a history. A teacup Yorkie could have knocked me on my ass when I found out the fluffy red chow was a rescue. Caro's assistant filled me in over the phone. Caro and I still hadn't talked ourselves.

  “I want our first conversation after eleven years to be in person,” said her email.

  When she put it like that, so did I. Even though my stomach fluttered a little at the thought.

  Had she changed? Dickens himself was evidence of changes. Caroline, who always wanted the best of everything, could have grown up to become a snob who purchased a designer dog to carry around in a twenty-thousand-dollar handbag. There were plenty of high-end Hollywood breeders who catered to that market.

  The owner of Happy Heaven Dog Rescue insisted on meeting me in person before she released the dog for adoption. “Caro has a good heart, but she could be getting in over her head with a chow.”

  I noted the use of Caro's first name. Had she spent a lot of time at the shelter? Or was Georgia Sumners one of those Hollywood name-droppers looking for any excuse to prolong her contact with a celebrity? “I'll be there around noon tomorrow,” I said.

  The shelter complex reassured me of her priorities. The facility was among the best I'd ever toured, with several large exercise areas furnished with topflight equipment. A young woman out back was running a team of eight dogs off leash on the track, something you couldn't do if you were a bad trainer who couldn't maintain control of her animals. Another young woman was teaching a flyball class. Inside the spacious kennels, dogs who felt secure with
smaller crates or cages had them, while dogs who needed more space had that too.

  In a large back office, two Irish Terrier puppies wrestled playfully at the foot of an ageless woman who wore her graying hair in a low ponytail. That was Georgia Sumners. When she rose to shake my hand, I noticed a tiny curl of dog fur on her thrift store jeans. Her sharp eyes followed my gaze, and she brushed the curl away. Now there wasn't a single, solitary thing out of place anywhere on the premises.

  “As I told you on the phone, I want to take special care with this one's adoption.” Her gray-eyed gaze searched my face. “He's got a look. Photogenic. Even telegenic. For an animal, beauty can be a curse.” She was being polite, but not overly warm, which actually encouraged me. This woman was about the dogs, not about name-dropping Caro Ballad and Shell Tate at Hollywood parties. “You can spoil an animal's character by adopting him, taking a few videos for your Instagram stories, and then rejecting him.”

  “I'm aware,” I said.

  “If there's any chance she's only taking this dog so he can appear on a TV program...”

  The rumors had escaped into the wild. “There's no guarantee there's going to be a TV program. Dickens is intended to be Ms. Ballad's personal pet. I will be working with him to develop his other talents, but I am not promising a TV appearance to any client.”

  She frowned at her paperwork, although I felt confident she'd already memorized every word.

  “Ms. Ballad has a strong point in her favor,” I said. “She's a new pet owner, so there are no other established pets in the home.” We both considered that a plus. Chows usually liked to be your one and only.

  Sumners nodded. “He can be stubborn. He has a mind of his own. But if he feels he has your attention, it won't be a problem.”

  “Any history of biting?”

  “No, but the previous owner was getting nervous.”