Touch Screen: a small town romance

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Don’t think it’s too far-fetched, though. I crossed the Atlantic once to find my true love, only it wasn’t in a hot air balloon.”

  “There’s no place like home,” I muttered, again quietly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I said I’m going home. Tomorrow afternoon.”

  Dad shook his head. “I see,” he replied and stood to exit the dark kitchen, leaving the mug on the table. A half-moon shone over the silent cherry trees outside the dark window, giving a surreal caste to the orchard. It was as if outer space were beaming down rays, searching for something.

  I waited in the Cherry Capital Airport for my flight to Detroit, which would then connect me to a flight for LA. I was early and took the time to check email and my cell phone for messages, but there were none from the person I most wanted to hear from.

  “Gavin Scott?” a voice suddenly broke my thoughts.

  “Christopher Beckman,” I stood to shake the impeccably dressed man’s hand.

  “Good to see you again. Surprised.” Beckman had a puzzled look on his face. “What are you still doing in town? I thought you had a meeting with Joe.”

  “I was in town an additional week for a friend’s wedding, and then my mother died. She had been suffering from breast cancer.”

  “Oh, that’s awful. The death, not the wedding. Although weddings can be awful, too.” He mock whispered the last part.

  “You have no idea,” I mumbled in reply. But that wasn’t truthful, because Jess and Emily’s wedding had been beautiful and fun, if not revealing in both my feelings for Britton and the truth of my past. I looked up at Christopher Beckman.

  “Did you just say, Joe, as in Joe Scanlon?”

  “Yes, I did. Didn’t you have a meeting scheduled with him?”

  “I did, but that was the day my mother died and I had to reschedule for Monday.”

  “Oh. I’m glad he could see you. He’s pretty understanding at times. A family man,” Christopher added, which I realized was what Joe had said on the phone. Family first.

  “How do you know him?” Gavin questioned.

  “We went to college together, so we go way back. He was the creative one and I was the money guy. Hey, I’m headed to New York, but it was great to see you. I hope it all works out with your project. Joe’s a good guy for what you want.”

  “Thanks.” I shook his hand one more time before he walked down the corridor to his flight.

  “By the way…” Beckman stopped, and turned to me at the end of the row of seats. “Did you ever find the girl. You know, the one you were looking for at my party?”

  I blinked.

  “I did, actually,” I said, surprised that Beckman would remember.

  “Good. I’m sure she was worth the wait,” he said and winked at me before he walked away.

  Arriving in Los Angeles, the first thing I noticed was the heat, followed by the hazy fog over everything. The cement structures of stores and buildings were a sharp contrast to the lake views and cherry orchards of my hometown, and while I’d reveled in the dissimilarity when I first arrived almost ten years ago, I was slightly overwhelmed by it now. My car had been left at my apartment three weeks ago, and I took a cab home. Taking the elevator up five flights, I felt slightly claustrophobic after weeks of open fields and wide spaces. When I entered my apartment, I almost seemed surprised that it was the same as I’d left it, and for a few short minutes I felt as if I’d never gone anywhere.

  But the moment passed and I took in the gray couch and the hard lines of my metallic furniture. Modern, sleek, and not highly comfortable. There was no woven faded rug, no overstuffed sofa with a slipcover, no warm looking fireplace. I had a balcony that looked out onto more buildings, not a screened in porch that viewed the blue waters of Lake Michigan. The hum of the air conditioner was all I heard. No chatter of a child’s voice asking questions and speaking like an old man. Britton’s whole house could almost fit in this place with its vast kitchen and living room combination with one bedroom and a master bath. Her whole house would definitely fit in the space in Malibu. I dreaded the call I needed to make to Zoe.

  I should have called Britton. I should have called Gee. But I didn’t know what to say to either.

  “Gavie? You’re finally home?” Zoe squealed into the phone when I called her instead. “I’ve missed you,” she purred.

  I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, or a headache coming on, or maybe both at the same time.

  “Zoe. We need to discuss the place in Malibu.”

  “Oh, honey. There’s nothing to discuss. I forgive you and I’m so happy you’re back.”

  “You…Zoe, you have no idea what’s been going on for me back home.”

  “Why don’t you come over and tell me all about it?” Her voice was that of a temptress.

  “I have a son,” I blurted. “And my mother died.”

  There was silence for a few seconds.

  “A son,” her voice had shifted as it could to sound more business-like in nature. “A son? Since when?”

  “Since six years ago, and I didn’t know until now.”

  There was more silence for a beat.

  “It was the woman on the street, wasn’t it?”

  I was shocked.

  “How did you know?” I asked softly.

  “The kid had your eyes, for God’s sake,” she screeched.

  I wanted to kick myself again. Even Zoe had noticed. How had I been so blind? How could I not have seen it? Was I that stupid? Or was it like what Britton had said, and I was so busy chasing the past, I couldn’t see the present?

  “About the apartment, Zoe,” I began again.

  “My father bought it for us,” she said with a bite to her voice.

  “I don’t want it; just my things.”

  There was silence again.

  “Monday afternoon. After that, I’m changing the locks.”

  Take 43

  Under the Moonlight

  On Monday morning, I was at Joe Scanlon’s office at Image Productions by 6:15 a.m. I worked all day Sunday on a storyboard for my documentary plan and had outlined the schedule of my vision. It would take most of the fall and then the early spring to capture the struggles as migrant workers moved throughout California and into other states, following the harvest of various crops. I thought again of Michigan and my desire to cover the small population of migrant workers there for the cherry and apple seasons, but I knew that California was a bigger market.

  Joe was an Irish man with slightly red hair and a face full of freckles even in his thirties. He was casually dressed and sat at the end of a large conference table. Movie posters from films he’d produced decorated the walls behind him. His resume was small, but still impressive, and I was honored again to have the potential to work with him.

  “So, tell me about your idea.”

  I went into the details of following migrant workers and capturing their stories, similar to a modern day reality show, but I also wanted facts interspersed within the real life images, like something you’d see in a Mike George film. When I was finished, and Joe had taken notes, we began to talk about the logistics that concerned me most: a budget. It wasn’t going to be a high grossing film, but I needed enough money to pay for a crew and supplemental fees.

  While we were still haggling over the budget, a call came for Joe and he took it in the conference room with me present.

  “Joe Scanlon.”

  “Hey, Joey, it’s Chris.”

  Christopher Beckman?

  “Hey, were you able to reschedule with Gavin Scott?”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s in the conference room as we speak. On speaker phone, Chris,” he seemed to warn him.

  “Take me off,” he demanded.

  I lost the rest of the conversation other than a few grunts from Joe and an ah-uhn a few times. He was scribbling more notes on his tablet and he finally ended the call with a personal question.

  “How’s Mike?”

  Mike Ge
orge?

  “Funny. Okay, you behave yourself in New York. Call me next time you’re my way and say hello to Mike for me.”

  Did all these guys know one another? I quickly learned the answer.

  “Mike George lives in Traverse City, Michigan. Isn’t that where your home is?” I almost choked. My home? In Traverse City? Home… Britton and Gee.

  “No. Well, not exactly, but yes, kind of.”

  He raised one eyebrow, but didn’t question me further. Somehow these men did all know one another, but I wasn’t going to learn any further details today. Joe said he wanted to write up a plan and he’d get back to me by the end of the week. As I stood, I noticed several pictures on a long thin table behind him. One in particular caught my eye: a boy in a baseball hat, bent on one knee and smiling for the camera.

  Joe followed my gaze.

  “My son, Teddy. He’s eight. He loves baseball.”

  “I have a son, also,” I said softly, but I had no idea if Gee liked baseball or not. Or if Gee even knew how to catch a ball.

  “I coach his little league team. They’re horrible, but it’s fun. Family first,” Joe said again as he clapped me on the shoulder to lead me out of the conference room.

  I should have been on a high after my meeting, but I was more on edge than I expected, and I assumed it was from my next appointment: a visit to the Malibu apartment. I found the locks had not been changed, but Zoe was not alone. Her father was present.

  “Gavin,” he began firmly, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Zeke Steinmann narrowed his gaze on me.

  “I believe I do, sir,” I said as I picked up a box off of the kitchen counter. Zoe seemed to have begun collecting my things for me. I returned for another armful and found Zoe holding a medium-sized box labeled with an old food company advertisement. It was clearly not from California, but a place in northern Michigan. The box was once sturdy, but had several strips of thick tape over and around it. A large label on the side, written in Mum’s handwriting, gave away the fact it was something that had been mailed to me from my parents. I couldn’t remember receiving it.

  I continued to gather clothes, and odds and ends, realizing that although I spent over a year living with Zoe, I didn’t have much in this place that belonged to us. I parted ways with Zoe, giving her a brief hug. Zeke had disappeared, and I was relieved to have no additional words with him.

  The boxes stared at me for almost two weeks. I dumped them in my fifth floor apartment in LA and went to work on plans for my documentary. Phone calls, emails, making connections. I tried to stay away from networking with anyone related or affiliated with Zoe or Zeke or Steinmann Financial. I didn’t want the backlash, and I decided my opportunity with Joe Scanlon was a fresh start. My days were filled, but it was the nights that were lonely.

  I drove to the ocean, but the heavy crashing waves weren’t the calm of the lake. I enjoyed the ocean and its white-combed beaches, but it wasn’t the same as being on the lakeshore. I even watched the sunset one evening and caught a glimpse of the filling moon, but it wasn’t the reflecting moonlight over gentle ripples of lake water like I wanted.

  I missed Britton, as much as I didn’t want to admit it. I had already admitted to myself that I loved her, but she’d walked away. I missed Gee, but I didn’t know how to be a father. I didn’t know if it was okay to call him, which I desperately wanted to do. I didn’t know what to say, and I thought of Gee’s dream that one day his dad would take him all over the world. I slumped onto my couch and stared at the boxes in the corner of the room.

  I felt like the one with the faded strips of tape was staring back at me and I finally decided to open it. To my surprise, in it was the old camcorder I’d briefly looked for at my parent’s home. I wasn’t sure what the memory drive held and I put it to the side, plugging it in to see if the battery would hold a charge. I leafed through a stack of what looked like random papers and a pile of photographs, finding several of Britton and myself that I must have printed.

  Her in the dress when we went to my grandparent’s anniversary party.

  Her with my baseball cap on backwards.

  Her in a bathing suit, casually looking at me under a shielded hand.

  There were some loose papers mixed in with the photos, nothing of which seemed important. Newspaper clippings from old events back home and random cards from my birthdays. Mixed in the pile was a bright blue envelope addressed to me in feminine handwriting that included a heart above the lowercase i in Britton. The date was faded, but I didn’t need to know it. I suddenly knew when this letter was addressed.

  Dear Gavin,

  There’s no easy way to tell you what I have to share, but I didn’t think a text or email would be personal enough.

  I’m pregnant.

  The baby was conceived under what I know was distress on your part. You didn’t want to be home, and you didn’t want to be with me, but it happened last July. I can’t have an abortion, Gavin. It just isn’t in my nature, so I’m having the child. Alone.

  I’m moving to my Uncle Leo’s house if you wish to find me. I’d love to ask you to come home, but you’d have to want to be here with me, and I know that you don’t. I’m not resentful. I want you to understand, though, that this is my decision

  I know you have dreams. Reaching for the stars and letting the moon light your way, but I have dreams, too. I wouldn’t change this one for all the world. I just didn’t expect it to happen at eighteen.

  I’d wait for you, Gavin, if you thought you could get home in time, but I think our time together is over. I loved you, Gavin. I always will love you. It will be hard to have a reminder of you every day for the rest of my life, but it’s a gift as well, and I promise to love him.

  I’ll be thinking of you, under the moonlight.

  Love always, Britton

  I read and reread the letter, and read it one more time. I knew when this letter was dated, but I had no idea when I’d received it. I’d probably had the box for a while, which meant I had the letter, and the truth, for a long time. The truth, while I was with Zoe, who constantly lied to me. The truth, that Britton was willing to wait and love me, knowing that I was resentful and full of myself at twenty. The truth was quite literally in the closet.

  I found myself at LAX the next morning, contacting Joe Scanlon to postpone another meeting.

  Take 44

  Under the Moonlight

  It was late afternoon when I arrived in Traverse City. I drove straight to Britton’s, knowing that a phone call would not be enough. I took my chances that I would surprise her, and I was determined that I would make her listen to me, no matter what or who was present. So I was discouraged when her car was not on the side of the small house on the lake and no one answered the door.

  I drove to the bookstore next, fortunate to find a parking spot in front of the store on a Saturday on the last official weekend of summer. Labor Day weekend. I saw the same girl who I’d asked about Britton five weeks before, and the only information she would give me was that Britton had the day off. I called her then, but got her voicemail. I texted her several times in a row, but got no response.

  In the end, I decided to make the drive to my sister’s, thinking as I drove how to phrase my apology to her for not calling to say I would attend my nephew’s first birthday party after all. And for missing so many events and special occasions over the past years. And for making her the one responsible for the family. For Mum. For Dad.

  When I pulled along the road outside her ranch home on Elk Lake, I was surprised by the number of cars. I entered the house from the front, even though I clearly heard the party in the back.

  “Gavin?” my sister said with surprise as she stood in the kitchen, removing bowls from a cabinet.

  “Karyn. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I know I’m late.” I held her gaze for a long moment, hoping she would know that I was apologizing for more than just being late for the party; for more than not calling today.

  She set the bowl
s down lightly and placed her hands on the countertop, taking a slow deep breath. She looked up at me.

  “Well…you’re here now, right?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  She nodded at me, then reached for bags of chips and began to fill the bowls. I carried two outside to find the yard filled with family and friends. Jess and Emily had returned from their honeymoon. Pam, looking larger in her belly, sat by Jacob. Ethan and Ella. Mary Carter. Tricia and Trent Walker. My father. Ben Mullen.

  “Gavin,” my father said, not half as surprised as Karyn. I walked directly to him and hugged him. Not the awkward California hug I’d given hundreds of time, but a real hug. Jack Scott was not an affectionate man, but he did hold on a moment longer than I expected.

  I turned to Ben.

  “Where’s your aunt? I tried to call her.”

  “I don’t know why she has a phone. She never has it on her or answers it or texts me back,” the towheaded teenager laughed. “She’s in the lake,” he added, pointing behind the garage.

  I took a step and then turned back to Ben.

  “Why are you still here? I thought you were going home in August.” Ben had a similar summer arrangement to what Britton had as a teenager.

  “Britton asked me if I wanted to stay for the whole year.” Ben was beaming as Madison walked up to him with a soda. I smiled to myself, took a deep breath, and walked around the garage.

  Gee, Katie, and Britton were standing knee-deep in the shallow water, which would be growing colder in the September air. She wore white shorts with a lacy sweater over a t-shirt, but she still had a summer tan on her bare legs. Her blonde hair was long and loose, and I noticed her push a piece behind her ear as she bent forward and dangled her hands in the clear water. She picked up a small stone and was trying to skip it along the water, but failed miserably. Katie tried next with the rock already in her little hand, and Britton squealed with delight when Katie skipped it a few times over the lapping water.