Just South of Paradise

by Grace Palmer

  And where is “here,” exactly? Memories are slowly starting to filter back into Drew’s head, though they haven’t quite yet pieced themselves together. Judging by the badge on the man’s chest, he’s somewhere in Virginia. He was driving back home to Maine, right after …

  Oh. That.

  Drew shakes the last of his sleep out of his head and turns to face the patrolman again. “I’m headed home, sir. Just got a little tired, so I had to stop to rest my eyes for a little while.”

  “Mhmm. You drunk?”

  Is he? Drew blinks once or twice just to confirm. He was drunk, when he concocted this whole run-from-your-failures plan, but that was a while ago. Now, he just feels hazy and slow and dumb.

  “No, sir,” he says with as much seriousness as he can muster.

  “Mm,” the man grunts again. Drew can feel the officer’s gaze testing for lies, for weakness. He does what he always did whenever Wyburn grilled him like this—stares the man right back in the face and makes his mind as blank as possible.

  “Am I free to go, sir?” he asks. It’d be better to escape the scrutiny before he collapses. Not that he’s done anything illegal. Wrong, yes, but not illegal. And he didn’t hurt anybody, so it’s really none of the officer’s business what Drew is running from. But there’s something about the dimple in the patrolman’s chin that reminds Drew of his father, and the longer he sits here roasting under his withering gaze, the closer Drew gets to turning into a blubbering mess.

  Once upon a time, the possibility of crying would’ve never even crossed Drew’s mind. But it seems like that’s all he’s done for the last few days, ever since everything went down. Since the plug was pulled on his dreams. A twenty-seven-year streak of no tears, snapped just like that. Right when he thought everything was getting pretty close to perfect.

  The officer ignores his question. “Where you headed, son?”

  Drew winces when the man calls him “son” again. He doesn’t look a darn thing like Dad, he scolds himself. And he doesn’t have Dad’s accent either, so just put that out of your head right now, you hear me? It’s true enough, sure, but the mind sees what it wants to see, especially when it’s grieving, so all the facts in the world aren’t enough to stop Drew from picturing his father’s searching eyes hidden behind those tinted aviator lenses.

  He bites down and forces himself to look the officer in the eye as he says, “I’m going back home to Willow Beach.”

  “Willow Beach? Where’s that?”

  “Maine, sir. Right on the coast.”

  “Beach town, then.”

  “Yes, sir. Real nice in the summertime.”

  “You said that’s home?”

  “Yes, sir. My folks run a B&B up there, the Willow Beach Inn.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I’m a ballplayer,” comes Drew’s automatic answer. He’s been telling people that for as long as he can remember.

  But the thing is, that’s not true anymore.

  So he corrects himself. “Or rather, I was a ballplayer.”

  Thankfully, the officer doesn’t seem to notice the tense change, or if he does, he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t pry any further. Thank the Lord for small blessings. The wound there is still fresh. Drew isn’t ready to explain the backstory. He might never be. He sure as heck doesn’t know how he’s going to explain it to Mom and Dad whenever he gets back home.

  “Right. Lemme see your license and registration, sport.”

  Drew plucks the driver’s license from his wallet and fishes car documents out of his glove compartment. He hands them over to the officer as semitrucks whizz past on the highway behind him. The man nods and strolls back to his car.

  Drew breathes a heavy sigh when he’s gone. He thinks back to how he got here. He was mad last night, so mad. He vaguely remembers his sister, Tasha, teaching the family about the stages of grieving way back when—she was studying it for some play she was doing, so naturally, she wanted everyone else to learn about it, too—and the emotions he had been experiencing yesterday seemed to line up pretty neatly with that. How’d that chart go again? Drew is fairly sure denial comes first, but maybe it’s depression. Either way, he’d had both in spades, but they quickly transformed into blind rage.

  He’d been sitting in his ratty apartment nursing a beer or two—maybe more than that—when the anger came on. And when it came, it arrived like one of the roof-shaking thunderstorms that rolled into Willow Beach in the late summers. He could feel the rage crackling in the air, in his veins, and so he had done the only thing he had left to do—run.

  It didn’t take long to throw all his stuff in the truck. He didn’t have much, anyways. Rock Hill was more like a workplace than a home. But still, something about seeing all his possessions strewn in the bed of the truck like that felt a little bit like a gut punch. It was easy to justify his spartan living when he was an athlete in pursuit of a dream. Now, he was just a loser without much to his name.

  The first hour on the road had felt good. The second did, too. But weariness came on faster than Drew expected. Not just the eyes-fluttering, time-for-bed kind of weariness, but a soul-deep weariness. As if twenty-seven years of chasing something had caught up with him all at once. He barely managed to pull over to the side of the road before he passed out into a hard sleep. And then that dream came—more of a recollection than a dream, since the things he’d dreamed had actually happened. Funny how a man’s subconscious really taunts him sometimes with things he once had that he’s never gonna have again.

  Now, he’s been startled awake by a surly cop who keeps reminding Drew of his father. It has been a whirlwind week. He can’t wait for it to be over. He just wants to get back home to Willow Beach, crawl under the covers, and go to sleep for a very long time.

  Hopefully, he won’t dream about what happened next.

  4

  Melanie

  “Now, now, Fred,” Dr. Melanie Baldwin scolds. “You know that we are not going anywhere until you take your medication.”

  She rolls the pill that her patient spat out into another piece of ham and offers it to him.

  Fred, a droopy basset hound with a bad attitude, sniffs the ham tentatively. He is a tough customer. Melanie glances at the clock on the wall. Her first appointment of the day is in three minutes, and though the distance from her home to her veterinary practice is all of two flights of stairs, she still needs Fred to take his medicine, then set him up in the living room before she can even think about heading downstairs.

  Fred eventually decides the ham smells palatable enough and gobbles it out of her hand.

  “Finally.” She smiles and pats him on the head. This time, Fred is none the wiser and swallows the hidden pill.

  Melanie leads him from the kitchen into her small living room, which is decorated with driftwood, seashells, and pretty pebbles. They are all things she has picked up on the beach while walking her clients’ dogs, whom she sometimes boards, as is the case with good ol’ Fred.

  Hilary and James Briggs would not have anyone else in the world look after their baby, and much as she might gripe at him, Melanie adores the wrinkly old grump. He is being picked up after his mom gets off work today, and Melanie is sad he can’t stay just one more night. She is not looking forward to tonight; having Fred there would make everything a little easier.

  Fred hobbles over to the dog bed in the corner of the room and slumps down, sighing dramatically.

  “You lead a hard life,” Melanie says with a chuckle. She flicks on the TV to his favorite channel—Animal Planet, of course—and gives Fred one last pat before dashing to the front door and then down the stairs.

  She didn’t necessarily intend to buy the apartment right above her practice, but when it happened to come up for sale right around the time she needed a new place to live, it seemed like a good idea. Sure, it is a small apartment, but with only her and the occasional dog or two to fill it, how much space does she really need?

  Sandy Gluckstein is in
the waiting room with her black lab, Beau. The woman is wearing a plaid shirt and worn jeans, her long hair tied to the side in a plait. Beau has a matching plaid bandana. He wags his tail furiously when he catches sight of the vet, which is not how most of Melanie’s patients greet her. She and Beau just happened to spend a happy week together with walks on the beach and cuddles every evening in front of the TV, so he’s got a soft spot for Dr. Mel.

  “Mr. Beauregard Gluckstein,” Melanie greets formally, walking over to squat at the dog’s level. He licks her face, nibbling on the end of her nose. Melanie laughs and scratches him behind the ear. His leg starts thumping against the floor, and only then does Melanie realize his owner is staring at her.

  Shoot. She should have greeted the human first. She always forgets that part.

  Melanie stands up, wiping her hands on her scrubs. “How are you doing, Sandy?”

  “Oh, you know,” Sandy says with a shrug. “Same old, same old. How about you?”

  “Yeah, same.” Not a lie necessarily, but not exactly the whole truth either. There is one piece of news that Melanie could tell people about today, but she’s purposefully keeping it to herself.

  Melanie leads Sandy into the examination room and squats down next to Beau to start the checkup, giving him a few scratches first.

  “How’s your mom?” Sandy asks as Melanie inspects the inside of Beau’s ears. Sandy and Georgia went to high school together, and were even close for a time, but they don’t keep in touch much these days.

  “She’s good.” Melanie struggles to think of a piece of news, a funny story, or even just a casual observation she could pass on about her mother. Nothing comes to mind. So she lets the room hang in silence, until it is time to ask Sandy about Beau’s bathroom habits.

  Somehow, this is a conversation she feels much more comfortable with.

  Melanie hurries up the stairs at the end of the day and is delighted when Fred greets her at the door, wagging his crooked tail and staring at her lovingly.

  “You just want more treats, don’t ya?” Melanie teases, grabbing some dried chicken from the bag in the cupboard. “Don’t tell your mom I’m spoiling you so much, okay?”

  Fred’s lips smack as he gobbles up the treat and Melanie laughs. Then she heads around the apartment, gathering his things. He follows her, sniffing everything. With all the traces of former dog tenants in this apartment, it must be a veritable feast for the doggy nose. After she has finished, Melanie slumps on the sofa. It takes him a couple of tries, but Fred comes up to sit beside her.

  “Maybe I’ll tell your mom something happened,” Melanie poses. “And you need medical help for the night.”

  Even as she says it, she knows it would be a cruel thing to do. She also knows that she is practically incapable of telling a lie, so it would never work.

  But the clock has run out on their time together. Just then, the doorbell rings and Melanie gives Fred one last kiss on the head. Two minutes and some more uncomfortable chitchat later, Fred is gone and Melanie is alone once more.

  Alone and thirty.

  Melanie didn’t exactly intend to spend her thirtieth birthday alone, but then again, she didn’t go out of her way to make plans, either. Her mom wanted to throw her a big party but that has never been Melanie’s scene. Her dad suggested they go to the casino, just the two of them. Also not on the top of Melanie’s list. Her siblings are living in different corners of the country, and the few friends Melanie has all have plans.

  Lots of people spend their birthdays alone, Melanie thinks, as she grabs a bottle of red wine from the kitchen and pours herself a glass. It’s just another day, isn’t it?

  Much as Melanie tells herself this, she can’t combat the despondent chill that creeps through her bones. The TV is still playing Animal Planet. She sits and watches. Her mom calls but she ignores it. She already received her birthday wishes from Georgia earlier in the day and she’s not in the mood to answer more questions about what she’s up to for her big three-oh.

  Melanie has only gotten through half of her glass of pinot noir when the doorbell rings. She is not expecting anyone, which means it is probably a medical emergency. Everyone knows that she lives on-site, and the door leading upstairs to her apartment is right next to the door into the practice, so every once in a while, someone will come over after-hours, needing her urgent help.

  She doesn’t mind, preferring that they come to her in an inconvenient time rather than leave an animal suffering. Melanie gets up to answer the buzzer and hopes whoever is out there is okay.

  “Hello?” Melanie asks.

  A voice sings to her through the speaker. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Melanie! Happy birthday to you!”

  Melanie’s heart warms. She knows that voice. It’s her best friend, Sabrina Morgan, a teacher at Willow Beach Elementary and a notoriously horrific singer. She and her husband were supposed to be celebrating their wedding anniversary tonight, which is why she wasn’t able to hang out.

  “Come on in!” Melanie buzzes her in.

  Sabrina arrives at the front door a few seconds later, tight dark curls bouncing as she wraps Melanie in a hug. She has a bottle of wine in one hand and a big carton of ice cream in the other.

  “Is everything okay?” Melanie asks, pulling back from the hug. “I thought you and Alec …”

  Sabrina grins. “As if I was going to leave my best friend alone on her birthday! Alec agreed, and since we can let loose a little more on the weekend, we decided to go for dinner on Friday instead.”

  Alec is a great guy, always has been. It means a lot to Melanie that he was willing to put his anniversary plans on hold for her.

  “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages,” Sabrina complains good-naturedly, grabbing two fresh wineglasses and two spoons. “What have you been up to? Any men on the horizon?”

  Melanie scoffs. “Only the four-legged kind. You know how I am.”

  Sabrina pours the wine and gives Melanie a glass. They head over to the living room, and sit facing each other, cross-legged, on the couch. Like they used to in high school when one of them had some drama to dish, and how it has been their custom to do so ever since.

  Sabrina sets the ice cream between them and shoves her spoon in, taking a massive chunk out of the top. “I know how you are, yes, but that’s no excuse. You deserve to find someone and be happy. The hermit life doesn’t suit you, Mel.”

  “I am happy,” Melanie insists as she scoops up some ice cream. “I’ve got my own veterinary practice; I live three minutes from the beach; and I’ve got the world’s best best friend.”

  Sabrina laughs, exposing her pearly whites. The girl has a great smile. Melanie has always been a bit jealous, not necessarily out of insecurity about her own looks, but more the implication that someone with a smile like that knows how to light up a room, how to talk to people, how to connect. All things that Melanie has never been so good at.

  “Don’t you want someone to share all that with, though?” Sabrina pushes. She sighs, props the spoon up in the ice cream, and looks Melanie right in the eyes. “I think it’s time, Mel. I know Derek hurt you, but it’s been four years.”

  “‘Hurt me’ is a very polite way of putting it,” Melanie mutters. “After three years of dating, and seven years of marriage, my husband decided he would be happier with a life on the open road and divorced me to become a trucker. Just in case you forgot.”

  Sabrina winces. “It sounds bad when you say it like that, yeah, but my point still stands. Just think about it at least. There’s loads of online dating apps these days that are actually pretty good, and there’s a new teacher at my school that I’ve been keeping an eye on. He’s cute and I’m like, 85 percent certain he’s single. Well, at least eighty. Maybe seventy-five.”

  “Not creepy at all …”

  The pair of them break down into laughter, and for one happy little stretch of time, everything in Melanie Baldwin’s life doesn’t seem so serious.
>
  5

  Tasha

  “I’m home!” Tasha calls, stomping into the cramped entrance hallway of her and Chuck’s apartment. She tosses her keys in the bowl and shuffles through to the living room.

  It feels like it’s been the longest day ever. Then again, every day with Candace is the longest day ever.

  Chuck is sitting sideways on the sofa, typing away on his laptop. Tasha is accustomed to finding him here. His chocolate eyes are focused on the screen and he has a pen stuck behind his ear, as though for convenience, even though he never edits on paper.

  Tasha takes a second to admire him. His ruffled brown hair, the crinkle of concentration in his brow, his lean, tanned forearms. Chuck has always looked more like an actor than a writer to Tasha. He has a penchant for drama like a movie star, too.

  “I’m home,” Tasha repeats, prodding Chuck’s socked foot with her leg.

  He looks up. His mouth lifts with a generous smile. “You’re home.” He swings his legs to the front and pats the space next to him on the couch. “Come here. I’ve got something exciting I want to tell you.”

  Tasha sinks onto the sofa gratefully. It feels good to be off her feet. The traffic was even worse than expected, and when she delivered Candace’s kombucha, the starlet complained that Tasha’s lack of efficiency was seriously messing with her chi. Tasha has no idea what that means and suspects that Candace didn’t either. Neither of them stuck around to figure it out.

  Tasha leans her head back on the cushions and closes her eyes. “I’m listening.” She reaches for Chuck’s hand.

  “You know Summer Dreams?” he asks.

  Tasha wonders if that’s a joke. Summer Dreams is the screenplay that Chuck has been writing for the past six years. He has made a habit of slipping it into almost every conversation he has. He told the clerk at the supermarket down the road that it’s going to be “the next Amelie but American and better” and the last time they went out for dinner he told the waitress he was working on a movie that would have “all the environs and drama of Jaws without the shark.” The poor girl had just asked if he was still working on his food.