Just South of Paradise

by Grace Palmer

  Tasha peers at the driver’s phone, mounted on the dashboard. Twenty minutes until they reach the airport. That reminds her …

  She pulls out her phone and calls the inn. She hopes her dad doesn’t pick up—he was never the most supportive of the move and she can’t stand to hear the self-satisfaction in his voice. The phone rings for a long time, which is unusual. Between Georgia, Richard, and Annika, someone is always around to pick up.

  Finally, Georgia answers.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the Willow Beach Inn,” she says, voice uncharacteristically flat.

  “Hey, Mom. Everything okay?”

  “Tasha!” Georgia’s voice brightens. “Yes, everything is fine. Is everything okay with you?”

  Tasha traces a finger absently down the suitcase on the seat beside her. “Yeah, sort of. I’m coming home for a bit. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Right.” Georgia’s voice wavers a little. “Of course. You’re always welcome, sweetie. Did something happen?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it just yet,” Tasha replies. “We can talk when I get home.”

  “Yes, I suppose we should.”

  Why does her mom sound so weird? Is she trying to hide her excitement so as not to upset Tasha? Or does she not want her to come? “If it’s a problem, I can stay with Mel.”

  “No, no. You would kill each other.” Georgia chuckles. “Come home. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you, too,” Tasha says. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, sugar.”

  They end the call and Tasha leans back and closes her eyes. This will be good for her. She will go home, reset, recharge, and return to Los Angeles in a few weeks with fire in her eyes and a fresh new outlook on how to achieve her goals.

  Or maybe this will change nothing, and her life will continue trekking along at the same humdrum tempo it always has.

  Tasha’s thoughts on the subject oscillate as she goes through security at the airport, waits in the lounge, and finally boards the plane. She settles into her seat and looks out the small oval window, deciding that if she wants this to be a good trip, it will be a good trip. And that’s that.

  It’s a long flight. By the end of it, Tasha’s limbs are aching and she is impossibly tired. She managed to sleep for a couple hours, but that somehow left her even more exhausted, with a sore neck to boot.

  She shuffles off the plane and into Willow Beach Airport, which has not changed an ounce since she last saw it. Her small, sleepy hometown has a small, sleepy airport to match, and as the luggage belt croaks to life, she wonders if she ever actually left this place at all. Was Los Angeles just a dream gone sour?

  Mom told her that she would come pick her up, but Tasha insisted on getting a cab. Now that she’s walking into the arrivals area and sees all the people gathered to greet her loved ones, she kind of wishes she hadn’t been so stubborn. It would have been nice to see a friendly face and have a hug after her long flight. Still, she will see her mom and dad soon enough.

  “Tasha Baldwin?” a familiar voice calls from behind.

  She swings around and her jaw drops. “Vivienne?”

  A tall brunette in a long, elegant peacoat shrieks happily and races toward Tasha, throwing her arms around her. Vivienne smells like vanilla. Tasha is conscious that she probably smells like a mixture of LA smog and Candace’s dogs, and maybe also a little bit like the guy across the aisle who decided to open a can of tuna somewhere over Colorado.

  “How are you?” Vivienne exclaims, pulling back to inspect Tasha’s face. “You haven’t changed a bit! What are you doing here?”

  Vivienne Rhodes—Russell now, Tasha reminds herself, glancing at the massive rock on Vivienne’s left hand—was Tasha’s best friend in high school. They used to dance around her room to Whitney Houston and go to the mall to spy on their crushes, and they always promised each other that they would be best friends no matter what.

  Life got in the way, as it often does, and Tasha hasn’t seen Vivienne in years. They like each other’s posts on social media sometimes, but that’s more or less the extent of their communication.

  “I’m good,” Tasha says, pasting on a smile. She follows up with questions of her own, if only to deflect from the reason for her sudden return. “How are you? How are the kids? How old are they now, anyway?”

  Vivienne’s face lights up. “They’re great! Grant’s eight and Dan just had his fifth birthday. Both of them want to be the next David Beckham, so I go through a lot of dirty soccer laundry, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  “That’s wonderful. What are you doing these days?” Tasha asks, knowing that Vivienne is going to ask her for more details but wanting to avoid that moment as long as possible.

  “Jayden’s been at a work conference in Dallas all week,” Vivienne replies. “He took over his parents’ furniture store a couple of years ago and it’s been busy, busy, busy ever since! And then, of course, I’ve got the café.”

  Of course! How could Tasha forget? Vivienne used her grandmother’s inheritance to open up a little coffee shop called The Roast just off Main Street not long after they left high school. She always loved baking, and Mom has reported that Viv’s cakes are phenomenal and the café is always packed in the summer.

  Tasha can’t help the stab of jealousy. She left Willow Beach to make something of herself, but Vivienne stayed and has come out better for it. And she looks gorgeous, too. Her long wavy hair is perfectly coiffed, her designer clothes fit her slim figure perfectly, and when she smiles, it is with perfectly straight, white teeth.

  “I would love to see the place,” Tasha says. “I remember you used to draw your dream café instead of taking notes and Mrs. Grunfeld always lectured you for it.”

  She laughs. “I’d forgotten about that! That old cow was always out to get me.” Vivienne pokes Tasha’s shoulder playfully. “I remember you giving such a heartfelt performance as Fantine from Les Misérables senior year that you somehow made her cry.”

  “I still think she had other stuff going on that day. You can’t make a stone cry that easily.”

  “I disagree,” Vivienne replies. “I think you were just that good. Why else would they keep casting you as the lead? I used to have to listen to Fiona Braithweit grumble about it in math class. Do you remember her?”

  “Ugh, yes. What a pill.”

  Both of them chuckle, thinking about the good old days. And then Vivienne pulls them back to the present and Tasha is miserable all over again. “I always admired you so much for that, you know. You had such confidence and ambition; you gave people no option but to notice you. Nobody was surprised when you decided you were heading off to Hollywood to be a star. And here you are—back, victorious!”

  Tasha coughs. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?” Vivienne’s brows knit in concern.

  “I’m actually taking a break from all that,” she explains, face reddening. “I guess you could say I’m on sabbatical from showbiz.”

  Tasha studies Vivienne’s face, but her smile doesn’t drop an inch. “You’ll get there,” Viv says. “When you open your mouth, people listen. They always have, always will.”

  “Thanks, Viv. I’m sure you’re right.” Tasha wants to take comfort in this but she can’t help but wonder if Vivienne pities her, or—even worse—if she’s actually mocking her. Does she resent Tasha for leaving, for thinking that she could do better than Willow Beach? Is she secretly happy to see that Tasha has failed?

  Vivienne checks her Michael Kors watch. “Jayden won’t be long now. We could give you a ride. I assume you’re going to the inn?”

  “Uh, yeah. I am.” Tasha smiles. “But actually my mom’s waiting out in the parking lot for me. Thank you so much for the offer.” The lie comes out so easily that it takes Tasha a second to realize that it was a lie at all. Why lie? She’s not sure, but something about admitting that she’s hailing a cab feels like yet another failure in a l
ine of them. Small, yes, but significant anyways.

  “Of course!” Vivienne grins. “It was so good to run into you. We’ll have to get together and catch up while you’re here.”

  “Let’s.” Tasha smiles back. “I’ll see you soon.”

  They part ways, and Tasha heads toward the exit, looking back when she reaches it to make sure Vivienne won’t see her getting into a taxi. Her old best friend has her eyes glued on the arrival gate, so it’s a clean getaway.

  Once in the cab, Tasha lets out a great sigh. All the confidence she built on the way here has been sapped away in an instant. She is left with nothing but a shaky dread that rolls around in her stomach like dozens of sharp pebbles.

  She wonders if the feeling of peace she had on the journey over was just a sham the whole time, some sort of biological fake out when, in reality, she is crumbling apart inside. Like when people with hypothermia feel too warm and start to strip off their clothes.

  The taxi starts to move. Tasha takes in the familiar sights with a glum expression. The road to the airport meanders along the coast and soon, the harbor appears in the distance. There are only a few boats moored as most are out in deeper waters. Tasha spies a couple fishing vessels like pinpricks on the horizon. Seeing this, it almost feels good to be home. If only she was returning triumphant like Vivienne initially presumed.

  The cab drops Tasha off in the driveway of the inn. She hauls her suitcase to the entrance to the private apartment at the back of the house. She knocks and there is no answer. Her mom is probably cleaning but if she goes through the front entrance, Tasha will likely find her dad at the front desk, and she’s not quite ready for that encounter just yet. She is about to turn and walk back around when she glances at the patio and sees her mom.

  Truth be told, Tasha doesn’t feel like talking to anyone at all, but she needs to at least announce her arrival. Tasha heads over to her mom and notices that she’s not alone, but she doesn’t recognize the straight-backed man Georgia is sitting with. A guest, Tasha infers.

  “Mom,” Tasha calls as she walks over.

  Georgia shoots to her feet and turns to grab her daughter, pulling her into a tight hug. Tasha closes her eyes. Her mom smells like lemons and soap. She breathes in deep.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Georgia says, pulling back. “Why don’t you sit and we can talk for a bit?”

  Tasha shakes her head. “Sorry, Mom. I’m not up for it right now.” She hefts a sigh. “My dreams are dead, my life is ruined, and all I want to do is take a nap.”

  Georgia’s brow furrows and for a second, it looks as though she is going to say something. Then she offers a short nod and a gentle smile. “Sure. I’ll see you soon, love.”

  Tasha pats her mom on the arm one last time, grateful to her for abstaining from follow-up questions, and hikes back over to the house.

  Just like that, she’s back where she started.

  12

  Drew

  Drew doesn’t sleep for the rest of the drive. The truck eats up miles under its tires and he stares straight ahead. He thinks about turning the radio on, if only to drown out the voices in his head, but he decides against it. As long as he keeps his eyes on the road, he can ignore the thoughts and memories crowding in, demanding to be noticed.

  He wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, he was a winner. Drew Baldwin, All-Star, big-time prospect. Bursting with potential. A first baseman wielding a wicked swing and a cocky swagger. He lived and breathed baseball, loved it—truly loved it like an essential part of himself. High school, on the other hand, felt wholly optional. He went where he wanted, when he wanted, and if someone had a problem with that—well, then he had a problem with them.

  The future felt so bright and clear back then. He’d go off to the big leagues. He’d be a star. They’d put his face on a Wheaties box.

  But it hasn’t worked out like that.

  Maybe he just didn’t try hard enough, or maybe escaping his past required more effort than he was ready to give. Either way, the result is the same—he is driving back home, everything he’s ever owned stashed in the back, and staring at the blurred trees whipping past his windshield as he wonders whether his life is over before it ever really started.

  He keeps thinking about the dream he was having before the cop woke him up. That night at the ballpark in South Carolina. The sweetness of a perfect swing. That brief moment where the ball hung in the air and the world was full of possibility.

  That was the last pure moment he had before it all went south.

  Drew receives a rousing ovation when he walks into the locker room for practice the day after his walk-off home run. It’s like a hometown hero in an old spaghetti western movie, pushing through the doors of the saloon: a brief moment of silence, contemplation, tension—then boom, eruption, applause, raucous hoots and hollers, the kind of teasing trash talk from between men that is secretly code for, “Good job, dude.”

  Drew circles the room giving out fist bumps and high fives, throwing back some jesting barbs of his own, before ending up at his own locker, where he begins to get dressed for practice.

  “You alive, Henderson?” he calls over to Brock, who is seated on the bench in front of his locker with a nasty pallor to his face.

  “Barely,” is the muttered reply.

  The team went drinking after their big win. Brock did his best to keep up, and it seemed in the moment that he more or less held his own. But the morning after is always the giveaway, and Brock looks darn close to tossing his cookies right on the locker room floor.

  Drew grins. He’s got a slight headache, but nothing he can’t handle. This isn’t his first rodeo. “If you’re gonna play with the big dogs, you’ve gotta learn to drink like the big dogs.”

  Brock laughs nervously. “I think maybe I just need to remember to drink more water.”

  “Or you need to loosen your training bra,” center fielder Vince remarks. He’s known as the tough guy on the team, and he drinks like a fish. Drew laughs as he walks past to grab some tape for his bat from the shelves on the far well.

  “We’ll make a man of you yet, Brock,” Drew hollers over his shoulder. “Don’t you worry.”

  “He is a man,” their pitcher Javier replies, his voice thick with sarcasm. “He’s got a whole chin hair and everything,”

  They all laugh, then it’s go time. Drew chuckles as Brock stands up unsteadily, grabs his glove, and follows the rest of the players out of the room.

  Drew is one of the last in line to file out. As he exits into the dim hallway that leads to the practice field, he notices Coach Wyburn standing leaned up against one wall. When he sees Drew emerge, he straightens up. “Baldwin, hold up for a sec,” he grumbles. “Gotta talk to you.”

  Left fielder Tom Wallace slows alongside Drew, curious what’s happening. Coach barks at him, “What are you doing, Wallace—sticking your nose everywhere it don’t belong? Get onto the field! Vinnie’s out there waiting for you.”

  Tom shrugs and jogs off toward their assistant coach as instructed, along with the rest of the guys who held back to see what Wyburn wants Drew for. The team always teases Wyburn for being a grouchy old codger, and Vince does an impression of him that never fails to leave the guys in stitches.

  “What’s up, Coach?” Drew asks.

  “C’mere,” Wyburn grunts.

  Drew swaggers into the office behind the portly man. But when he spots the Rangers’ general manager standing next to Wyburn’s rickety desk, he can’t help but grin.

  This is it. It’s finally happening. The man in charge of player promotions saw the game last night, and he’s come down to personally escort Drew up to the next level. He’s finally moving out of Single-A and into a league with some serious ball players. How long has he been waiting for this recognition? Forever and a half, it feels like. And now the day has come. He can’t wait to tell his dad.

  “Sit down, son,” Wyburn instructs, taking his seat behind the desk. He gestures to the man beside hi
m, whose slicked-back hair seems too dark for his obvious age. “You’ve met Graham Fincher before.”

  “Pleasure to see you again, sir,” Drew greets, nodding. “I was happy to see you at the game last night.”

  Graham nods. “Yeah, great performance.”

  Drew winks. “Thanks. I’ve got more where that came from.”

  There is a subtle shift in Coach’s features, and he clears his throat. “Baldwin, have you given much thought to your future?”

  Here it comes. Drew grins wider. “You mean with the team?” he asks.

  “In general,” Coach clarifies. “What are your goals? What’s after baseball?”

  Drew blinks. He looks between his coach and the GM. Something feels wrong, somehow. As if the three of them had all been reading off the same script up until now, but the moment has suddenly veered off the rails towards something unexpected.

  “I would have thought this was obvious, but I’m committed to baseball 100 percent,” he says. “All this time in Single-A means I’m more than ready for what’s next. Level me up, guys; I’m pumped.”

  Coach nods. “Understood.” He sends a weighted look toward Graham. “We, uh, hadn’t anticipated that answer.”

  Drew sits forward in his chair, frowning. “Why would you not anticipate that answer? Baseball is my life. I’ve put everything I have into this team.”

  “And we appreciate that,” Graham says pleasantly. “I’ve been very impressed by your skill and determination over the past few years—”

  “Thank you, I—”

  “I’m not finished.” Graham narrows his eyes at Drew. “The fact is, Drew, the team needs some fresh blood. You’ve got the attitude of a ballplayer and you’ve shown some flashes of potential, but you’re not getting any younger. And the cold hard truth of it is, you’re not at the level we would need you to be at in order to consider keeping you on as you cycle out of your prime.”