by Susan Wiggs
“Join us for a game,” Jezebel said, jerking her head toward the lanes.
“We were just going,” said Zach.
“He cut me off,” Sonnet explained. “I didn’t know you were a fan of bowling.”
“I am, lately. Under the terms of my parole, I’m not supposed to be in a bar,” Jezebel said. “But I’m allowed to bowl.” They went to the counter to trade their street shoes for bowling shoes. She fanned her face at the imaginary fumes from Sonnet. “Hoo-whee.”
“Two drinks,” Sonnet protested. “That’s all I had.”
“They were doubles,” Zach said.
“Guess you got spun out by that campaign debate,” Jezebel said.
“Did you stay for the whole thing?”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“I can’t believe it was brought up by someone who’s supposed to be a bona fide member of the media.”
“What, you want fair and balanced? From the media?” She laughed loudly, attracting stares.
“It was really just to make my father look bad. You saw, the whole thing was just so…pointless but humiliating, for everyone involved.”
Jezebel nodded in sympathy, inspecting one of her long, polished nails. “Welcome to the world of the tabloids.”
“I need a ride home,” she said, groping in her purse.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, girl,” said Jezebel. “My license is still suspended on account of me having a little too much fun with my ex’s Z4.”
“I’ve got this,” Zach said easily.
“’Course you do,” Jezebel said. “One of these days, the two of you are gonna get over whatever it is that’s holding you back and go for it.”
“We’re just friends,” Sonnet said, her voice a little too loud.
“Uh-huh.” Jezebel’s eyes narrowed skeptically.
Sonnet lifted her chin and tried to walk away with steady dignity. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” she said, getting into the passenger side of Zach’s car.
“No problem.”
“I am,” she said. “I am a problem. Can’t help it, I was born that way.”
“Right.”
“No, you’re not listening. I’m a problem because my parents were never married. If it wasn’t for me, my dad wouldn’t be in this stupid fight about his reputation.”
“Ah, I got it,” he said with a chuckle. “You wish you’d never been born. Like the guy in that movie It’s a Wonderful Life. Get over yourself, Sonnet.”
“Hey, I warned you it was going to be a pity party tonight. If you can’t handle that, you’d better let me call a taxi.”
“In Avalon? There’s still just the one taxi, Maxine’s. Do you really want to get her out of bed just to pour you home?”
“Fine, then take me home.”
“Fine.”
They drove along in silence, the streetlamps from the main part of town giving way to long stretches of unrelieved darkness. He parked in front of the house. “You need me to walk you to the door?”
“I’m tipsy, not hammered,” she said. “I was trying to get hammered but then I realized I have to get up in the morning. We’ve got the cooking segment first thing.” She turned to face him on the seat. “Thank you, Zach.”
“For taking you out drinking?”
“For everything today.” She felt a surge of emotion, and knew it wasn’t coming from the Long Island iced teas she’d consumed. “It would have been a lot more awful if you hadn’t been there.”
“I’ve always been there for you,” he said. “It’s about time you noticed.”
He got out and came around to the passenger side to open her door. She stood up and found herself impossibly close to him, looking up at his face.
“Something the matter?” he asked in a low voice.
“I’m just tipsy enough to want to kiss you,” she said, her mouth working several beats ahead of her brain.
“And I’m just sober enough to say no.”
“I thought you said… Sorry. I misunderstood.”
“No, you didn’t.” He leaned down slightly so their faces were very close, their lips almost touching. “I said I was attracted to you. And hell, yes, I want to kiss you and I intend to do just that. Not now, though. When you’re clearheaded and you’re over your so-called boyfriend and the time is right. Then I’ll kiss you.”
Oh, boy, she thought.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, then fled in confusion.
* * *
Jane Bellamy was the kind of old lady you saw on denture commercials, the kind who was pretty enough to make you practically want to have dentures. As he was directing the lighting of the set, Zach didn’t need nearly as many diffusers as he normally used on women of a certain age.
Mrs. Bellamy, whose parents had founded Camp Kioga back in the 1920s, had agreed to make an appearance on the show once the network promised to fund the education of the participating kids. The kitchen was set up for a cooking lesson, and her husband, Charles, was on set, beaming with pride as he watched her.
They’d been married almost sixty years, longer than anybody else in the room had been alive. According to the director’s notes, this was something that Jezebel was going to talk with her about while they showed the kids how to cook something.
Jezebel arrived, and next to the neatly done-up Mrs. Bellamy, she looked more imposing than ever. They were the ultimate mismatch, the old lady in her pearls and the hip-hop star with the ankle bracelet, but Mrs. Bellamy acted as though she had company like this every day. The prep area was set up with a ceiling mirror and lighting, and the kids gathered around on bar stools. Each one wore an apron embroidered with their name.
“Before Camp Kioga was a summer camp, it was a farm,” she told everyone. “It’s still surrounded by gardens and orchards, and summer is the best possible time for rhubarb pie. Ever tried rhubarb pie?”
A few blank stares, shrugs. One camera got a reaction shot from one of the younger boys; Andre narrowed his eyes and gestured at a pile of dark green leaves. “We picked a bunch in the garden this morning.”
“For pie, you use only the stalks,” said Mrs. B. “Jezebel’s going to show you how to cut off the leaves and slice the red stalks.”
A boy named Russell grabbed a chunk of rhubarb and popped it in his mouth, giving them the first money shot for the day. “Yuck,” he said, spitting into a wastebasket. “That tastes terrible.”
“Rule Number One of rhubarb is that it should never be eaten raw,” Mrs. Bellamy said. “It’s terribly bitter and sour, isn’t it, Russell?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Zach glanced over at Sonnet, who was conferencing with the production coordinator. As always, she looked supremely self-possessed, in jeans and sandals and a fluttery top, her short hair tucked behind her ears to reveal oversized hoop earrings. Just the sight of her got his motor running. Since the bowling alley the night before, they hadn’t talked much. There simply wasn’t much to say. He wasn’t sure about her status with the boyfriend who was never around, and Zach had vowed to wait until she was ready to talk. Bo and Eddie had advised him to take his time or—more importantly, give her time. It had taken all his self-restraint to keep his distance, but he hadn’t wanted to blow it. She was too important to him.
It was hard to keep his mouth shut about the boyfriend, though. She never talked about him anymore, which gave Zach hope that maybe she’d come to her senses. Yet when it came to stuff l
ike this, she’d never shown a lot of sense. She had no idea how much better off she’d be without that Rivera guy and Zach was hardly the one to tell her. He totally got why she stuck around Rivera, though. The dude was her father’s right-hand man, and she’d always placed her father on a pedestal. There was this loyalty thing that happened with fathers; Zach knew just what that felt like. You had to be loyal to the guy, whether he was an SOB or not.
Zach got skeezed out, imagining what Sonnet’s dad thought of him. He was the son of a felon, still struggling to make a living despite the awards and accolades he’d won. Not exactly the kind of boyfriend you want for your daughter if you were running for Senate. Or even if you weren’t, he thought, clenching his jaw.
He was still helping Nina with her video diary. Unlike Sonnet’s father, Nina didn’t judge; she never had. Sometimes he was even tempted to level with her about his feelings for Sonnet. He probably would one day, but not now. Nina had enough going on in her life. He wished he didn’t understand so well why she was recording her thoughts and observations on video. He did, though, because the memories of his own mother’s struggle were still vivid, no matter how much time had passed. A person facing this kind of crisis wanted to make sure she didn’t leave things unsaid.
Zach’s mother had left him some letters, and in those letters, she’d told him the things she feared she wouldn’t be around to say—things like, whatever you choose to do in your life, choose it because you love it, not because you think it’s something you should be doing. It was no coincidence that he’d been doing just that—or at least, trying to. He struggled to balance his love for the art with his need to make a living. Once this production was done, then he’d really be on his way. That was the plan, anyhow.
Probably the letter from his mom that haunted him the most was something she’d sent him toward the end. She’d written about how much it had torn her up to leave him, but how much worse the damage would be if she’d stayed. As a kid, he hadn’t understood that at all, but now that he was older, he was starting to get it. His mother’s final words in that letter had stayed with him through the years, and lately he’d been thinking about them a lot: “My wish for you is that you find the kind of love that grows and expands and is solid enough to last a lifetime.”
Mrs. Bellamy demonstrated the proper way to roll out pie dough, with a chilled marble rolling pin. The kids were delighted when they each got one of their own. “You folks been married more than fifty years,” Jezebel said as they worked with dough. “What’s your secret?”
“Keep an open mind and a closed mouth.” Mrs. Bellamy grinned and the camera’s captured Jezebel’s reaction. “That’s oversimplifying things, of course. A marriage is a long journey, and there are bound to be detours, peaks and valleys along the way. People change, circumstances change, the world around us changes. It’s no wonder some marriages don’t survive. It’s a lot of work sometimes, and it involves some luck, too. Finding the kind of love that lasts forever is like finding a stranger in a crowded subway. You never know what he’s going to look like. He might be the man who helps you onto the train with your suitcase. Or he might be the one you’ve seen on your commute every day for ten years.”
There was something riveting in her delivery. The others, Jezebel and the kids, sensed it, too. They fell quiet and stopped what they were doing while she spoke. Zach couldn’t put his finger on it, and he only hoped the taping captured it.
“And now,” said the old lady, not missing a beat, “for the secret ingredient. What do you suppose this is?” She held up a small bowl.
“Sugar?”
“No, although you do need plenty of sugar in the filling. It’s tapioca. You sprinkle it over the rhubarb to make it turn thick as it bakes. How about you do the honors, Rhonda?”
The rest of the morning was spent finishing up the tarts, then filming the kids eating their wares, which they did with plenty of enthusiasm. The director declared it a wrap, and Zach planned to spend the afternoon editing.
He watched Charles and Jane Bellamy take their leave. The old man gently rested his hand at his wife’s waist, and she looked up at him with a soft smile as she spoke. They had the kind of love his mother had written of in her final letter to him, the kind Zach went looking for each time he dated a girl, the kind that seemed so impossible when a relationship didn’t work out. Until recently, that steady, enduring love had seemed out of reach, something he could never have, but sometimes these days, he could picture it.
Sometimes when he thought about Sonnet Romano, he could picture it.
Chapter Nineteen
Sonnet immersed herself in work, and in helping her mother. Her days melded together, a sequence of production, her mom’s appointments and avoiding her growing feelings for Zach. Somehow she made it work, getting through each day as she adjusted to the slow, steady rhythm of life in Avalon. She came to believe that there was something special about the small town where she’d grown up, the place she’d always viewed as limiting. Now that she was back, she was starting to appreciate the fact that a small community offered things she had never found in the city.
People came to see Nina. Claire Bellamy, a nurse at the hospital, brought a neck roll pillow, special Popsicles and tea, and some heavy-duty hand cream. Kim and Bo had to go back to the city, but they sent a massage therapist to the house to treat Nina to some pampering. Eddie and Maureen showed up with an mp3 player loaded with music. Suzanne from the boutique arrived with scarves in the softest of fabrics. The manicurist from the Twisted Scissors Salon, owned by three sisters, did a weekly pedicure. Friends and neighbors showed up with food and good wishes, books to read and handcrafted objects. It seemed most of the town rallied around her, and the attention and caring seemed to boost Nina’s spirits. It gave Sonnet hope, too. There was something powerful in the energy that came from friends and neighbors and family.
But sometimes it wasn’t enough. She got home from work one evening to find Nina and Greg locked in a staredown over a wedge of quiche.
“I can’t get her to eat,” said Greg.
Nina sighed, the breath rattling unsteadily out of her. “I can’t even lift a fork.”
“I’ll lift the fork for you,” Greg said reasonably.
“It’s going to make me gag.” Nina looked pale, her cheeks hollowed out. Everything about her was hollowed out except the growing mound of her stomach.
“Mom, please. You have to eat,” Sonnet said. “What about one of those Queasy Pops Claire brought over?”
“Maybe later.” She swayed a little with weakness and fatigue.
Sonnet literally bit her tongue to keep from nagging. It was hard not to wheedle and cajole, though. Eating seemed so simple. Put the food in your mouth, chew and swallow. Yet her mother was looking at the quiche as if it was a plate of poison.
She glanced at Greg, whose face was a mask of tension, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with worry. An unspoken message passed between them, and he stood up. “I’m going outside for a bit,” he said. “I need some air.”
“That’s fine,” Nina said, her eyes filling. “I’m sorry, Greg. Just give me a few minutes.”
After he left, Sonnet said, “You married a good guy.”
“The best. I hate myself for worrying him.”
“Don’t hate yourself. Just eat the damn quiche.”
Nina glared down at the plate. With a will, she picked up a forkful and put it in her mouth. Almost instantly, she gagged into her napkin. “I can�
��t,” she said.
“Mom—”
“I’ll try later. I just need to rest. Can you let me rest?”
Sonnet totally got why Greg needed some air. Sitting here and arguing with her mother wasn’t going anywhere. “I’ll be back,” she said, and headed outside to find Greg. The two of them had joined a cancer support group for families, and one of the key things they’d learned was to talk things out, to feel their feelings instead of holding everything in.
She found him alone on the porch steps, facing the lawn and pathways that led to the inn. The historic building looked beautiful in the evening, with lights glowing in the windows and along the walkways. The inn was full to capacity with vacationers. Nina and Greg had refurbished the place together, and Sonnet had watched with gladness as the shared enterprise drew the two of them closer. Nina had always been a happy person, but once she was with Greg, she had blossomed in a way Sonnet had never seen before.
“She’s still not eating,” Sonnet said. “She told me she’s sorry. She hates worrying us.”
“Then why the hell doesn’t she just eat?” He raked a hand through his hair. “She’s wasting away to nothing.”
Sonnet felt a frisson of fear. Greg had been a rock through all of this. She’d never seen him break down. “I feel really helpless. I guess we both do.”
He nodded. “Your mother and I are glad you’re here. I don’t think I’ve told you that.”
“Thanks.”
“I know you made a lot of sacrifices to be here.”
“It’s not a sacrifice. Being here with Mom is a complete privilege.” She truly believed that now. Helping her mother was rewarding in a way her career had never been. “Nice night,” she commented, taking a seat on the steps beside him. “The air feels just about perfect.”
“Yep,” he said.
“You and Mom made the inn really beautiful. When I was a kid, she always told me she thought it would be amazing. You’re a good team.”