by Susan Wiggs
“To go where?”
She took a deep breath. “Live. On the Web.”
“Another cooking show?”
“Yes. And no. I won’t be doing anything like the material that’s already out there. I’m far from the perfect host, but I know what I’m good at. I think people will connect to that, maybe even find inspiration. No more stunt cooking. No more crazy episodes about catching frogs in a swamp or insects in Asia. I just want to share with people who love food and want to learn.” She showed him a bit she’d done at the rehab center, making pizza with Pikey and a patient who had lost an arm, and another with the guys at the fire station.
She regarded the town of Switchback with a filmmaker’s eye. The independent shops and restaurants, the painted church steeples, library, and courthouse, the brick-paved streets lined by clapboard houses and picket fences would be the backdrop for future productions. As her online channel expanded, day by day, she reveled in the feedback—even the criticism—from her viewers, feeling a sense of connection that had been missing from the network production. She could take her webcast out among the old barns and trout streams, the farms tucked in among the mountains. She wanted to highlight a genuine farm-to-table connection, sharing the things that had once inspired her, but had been slowly buried by her busy lifestyle.
“What do you think?” she asked him.
“I think you’re magic,” he said, turning off the screen and taking her in his arms. “I always have.”
She woke up the next morning drowsy from lovemaking. Fletcher was already up and freshly showered, wearing a crisply pressed shirt, a blue necktie hanging unknotted around his neck. He brought coffee in a French press on a tray with two mugs. “Check your computer.”
“Um, good morning?”
“Oh, yeah. Good morning. Check your computer.”
She scrambled to sit up and grabbed for the coffee. Her channel had gone live for the first time last night. She opened the page and studied the analytics. “I have views,” she said. “I have followers.”
“I wanted to be first,” he told her, “but there were already four thousand subscribers when I woke up.”
She set aside her coffee and scooted up on her knees to help with his tie, looping the ends in a loose knot. “Ten years ago, I got my start with an online video. Is it pathetic that I’m back here again?”
“It’s cool. The world is different. You’re different. More talented, more sure of yourself. Your channel is going to be huge.”
“From your lips,” she said, kissing his coffee-warm lips, “to God’s ear.” She kissed his ear.
He slid his hands down her torso. “Do you know how easy it would be to blow off the world and stay right here with you all day?”
“Maybe we should do that.”
“I have to go perform civic duties.”
“Fine.” She neatened the knot of his tie, then let him go. “I’ve been dreaming up an episode on pumpkin soup with fried sage-butter croutons.” She reached for her laptop just as an e-mail popped up. She must have made some audible sound, because Fletcher leaned over and brushed his lips against her shoulder.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
She nodded, although every cell in her body turned to ice. “It’s a note from my ex.”
She deleted the note without reading it, and tried to shake off the feeling of violation. It wasn’t terribly hard, because she suddenly had a lot of work to do. In order to keep the momentum going online, she had to produce material regularly, and the quality had to be impeccable.
In the next few weeks, subscribers signed on in droves. Major publications wrote about her and sent referral links. With the sort of hyperbole found only on the Web, she was dubbed tomorrow’s brightest food star. Her well-crafted reels appealed to everyone, the articles touted, not just foodies and professionals. Her authentic, smart segments resonated with anyone needing a fresh approach to life.
She should not have been surprised when Alvin Danziger called, but she was. Her agent was part of a past she hadn’t dealt with yet, and the phone felt cold in her hand as she listened.
Alvin said, “Empire wants a meeting.”
She didn’t move, except to tighten her grip on the phone. The production company was one of the biggest in the business, working with major networks, not just in the niche markets. By comparison, Atlantis was a small player. Finally, she found her voice. “I’m listening.”
The first person she wanted to share the news with was the last person who wanted to hear it—Fletcher. Because once again, Annie was being pulled in a different direction.
They met at one of their favorite places on a Sunday afternoon—Moonlight Quarry—to hike with Titus.
The season hovered on the edge of fall and winter. The last of the confetti-colored leaves clung to the tree branches, the sky was a clear sharp blue, and the air held a bite of cold. Annie had always liked this time of year. To her, it meant getting out her favorite sweaters, jeans and boots, the crackle of leaves underfoot, football games, cinnamon donuts, and apple cider.
When Fletcher saw her, he swept her up into his arms and swung her around, looking so happy it nearly broke her heart. Not so long ago, she just wanted to hole up and be with him and forget the rest of the world.
But no. She couldn’t belong to him. How could she belong to anyone until she belonged to herself?
They hiked around the periphery of the quarry. Titus went crazy, bounding around and sniffing out the wildlife. He flushed a quail, and the bird made a rattling noise as it sped skyward.
Annie tucked her hand around his arm. “Something came up.”
“I’m not going to like it,” Fletcher said, correctly reading her tone.
They sat on a rock ledge overlooking the pool. Annie looped her arms around her drawn-up knees and stared at the still blue water. “I’m going to L.A.”
Nothing. No movement. Not a sound.
She didn’t want to insult him by making excuses or rationalizing her decision. “I’ll be getting an offer to take Starting from Scratch to a major network. I’m not saying I’ll agree to it, but I want to hear what they have to say. If I don’t, I’ll always wonder.”
They sat quietly for a while. “You’ll always wonder about us,” he said.
She braced one hand behind her and turned to face him. “I won’t wonder,” she said. “I already know.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I need to face up to what happened to me. Reclaim what’s mine.”
He touched her cheek, then leaned forward and softly kissed her lips. “This is the third time we’ve said good-bye,” he told her. “I’m not doing it anymore, Annie. I’m not.”
“Neither am I. Fletcher—”
“So we both agree. Because last time, you changed your mind and came running back—”
“You knocked up Celia before my landing gear was down in L.A. That didn’t work out so well for us, did it?”
“Okay, I deserved that, but we’re different people now. And there’s Teddy. I’m not going to budge an inch because of him.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“Then . . .”
“Then you’ll just have to trust me.”
“Trust you. To do what?”
“To make this work. Place has nothing to do with it. What matters most is what two people want together.”
“I know. Annie—”
“I have ambitions. You have your judgeship and your unswerving sense of obligation to Teddy. That doesn’t make us bad people.”
“It makes us people who can’t seem to coexist in the same space for more than a few months.”
26
It was remarkable how quickly Alvin Danziger, the talent agent, flipped his loyalty from Martin to Annie. Equally remarkable was how seamlessly she rejoined that world. The culture was familiar—endless traffic and small talk, catered events and schmoozing, New Age cafés full of whispering vegans and sitar music, the brash nightlife of trolling papar
azzi and loud, close-talking hopefuls. At the end of the whirlwind of meetings, the offer appeared before her in a hand-delivered parcel, like an invitation to a formal ball.
Annie found herself at a crossroads. Finally, her own show, reflecting her own vision. Everything would be exactly as she wanted it, right down to the last detail.
She promised an answer and then went to find the hired driver furnished by Empire. Before she could consider the next step, she had to take care of something on her own. There was no way to move on until she revisited the past.
She found Martin and Melissa doing a gig in Pasadena, one of those episodes so larded with sponsors and product placements that the whole thing seemed like an infomercial. Annie had never liked those episodes, although they were necessary to stay on budget.
The shoot was taking place at a rather lovely old-California mansion, probably to garner publicity for the place as a wedding venue.
Melissa was by herself, fishing a mike wire out of her blouse. She was pregnant and glowing. Annie nearly threw up when she saw the graceful, distinctive belly.
Setting her jaw, she walked over to Melissa. “I’m looking for Martin.”
Melissa looked from side to side as if seeking an escape route. Then she set down the mike wire and battery pack. “Annie, I’m so glad you’re better.”
“Thanks. Where’s Martin?”
“I think he went to the terraced garden in back for a photo shoot.”
Fighting a wave of nausea, Annie went toward a wide outdoor staircase.
“Hey, wait. Please.” Melissa came after her, slightly breathless from exertion. “There’s something I want to talk about.”
Annie eyed her belly. “It’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“I feel so bad about everything that happened.” Melissa spoke in a desperate rush. “I know there’s no excuse and I don’t expect forgiveness. But I have to tell you, I made a terrible mistake—not just sleeping with Martin, but choosing Martin. He’s not in love with me. He’s in love with himself. I’m afraid . . . oh God. We’re not going to make it. I just know I’ll end up going it alone.”
“Your point?”
“When I got the note that you wanted to meet with us today, I couldn’t help wondering about things. I woke up this morning thinking, What if neither of us teamed up with Martin? What if the team was you and I?”
“Me,” Annie said automatically.
“What?”
“You and me, not you and I. It’s an indirect object.” She realized Melissa was not getting it.
“I’m trying to say I’d like to partner with you on something entirely new. Just the two of us. Just us girls.”
Oh. Goody. “Sure, Melissa. Have your people call my people.”
“I’m serious. We could come up with something fantastic, I know we could. We don’t need Martin. You and I have a history. A bond of trust.”
Annie felt no anger. She simply felt . . . depleted. “Melissa, see if you can understand this. The person I mistrust the most is the one who tries to steal from me behind everyone’s back.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.”
“Have you run your idea by Leon? By Martin? By anyone?”
Melissa’s silence was the answer. Annie wasn’t the least bit surprised. “And speaking of Martin . . .” She turned her back and hurried away.
Annie walked down to the garden of California autumn splendor—asters and mums, Chinese lanterns and colorful grasses whispering against a terra-cotta wall. Her ex-husband was yukking it up with a couple of ridiculously attractive girls in neoprene sheath dresses and expensive shoes. He was the picture of studied elegance in skinny jeans and a navy jacket over a black T-shirt. He’d been freshly made up for the shoot, and his skin looked strangely smooth.
When he saw Annie, he didn’t miss a beat. “You’ll have to excuse us,” he said to the two beauties, and they drifted away.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Annie said to Martin. “I’m not here because you summoned me.”
“I take it Alvin already called you.”
Annie wasn’t about to say anything to Martin about that.
“I had to see you. Annie, I need to level with you.”
“How exciting.”
“I don’t blame you for anything you’re thinking right now,” he said. “Nothing’s been the same since the accident. I lost something so special that day.”
It was all about him, she observed. Always.
“I’d do anything to turn back the clock and start again,” he continued.
“Anything?”
“I want us to be us again. The team we’ve always been.” He offered his sweetest, blue-eyed sincerity.
The old Annie might have been tempted. That Annie had honed self-deception to a fine art. She could encounter any problem and convince herself that it didn’t matter. The new Annie had lost that technique. She simply couldn’t lie to herself anymore. She couldn’t lie and pretend she could be happy with her life in L.A., with Martin and the show.
“And what part of ‘team’ was it that had you making a grab for my share in the production and my accident settlement on the grounds of common property?” The look on his face told her Gordy had been on the right track. “Oh,” she said, “you weren’t expecting that, were you? I was so much easier to deal with when I was on life support, wasn’t I?”
“That’s not fair. I was destroyed, Annie. Every expert I consulted told me you’d never recover.”
“And how inconvenient for you that I did.”
“Please. Can we start again? I know you don’t want me to be your husband anymore, but let’s partner again on the show. Together, we won’t just turn it around. We’ll reinvent it and make it bigger and better than ever.”
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. I need you again, Annie. Without you, the show veered off track. The production budget is bleeding us dry, sponsors are pulling out. Somebody said the C-word.”
“Cancellation.”
“Don’t let them take you down, Annie. You built this show. Together, we can keep it from failing. I need you. I made a stupid mistake, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do in order to make it right.”
Martin. Begging. It was a wonderful thing. Annie recognized the opportunity for gloating or even retribution. Then she surprised him—and herself—by simply saying, “Good luck with that.” She turned away.
He hurried after her, planting himself in her path. “I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but we signed a multiyear contract for the show. You’re in breach of that.” He handed her a copy. “But let’s not get into a legal battle.”
“Good idea. Let’s not.”
“Work with me, Annie. We’re the dynamic duo, remember? We can make it.” He offered a smile she knew all too well—the persuasive, charm-your-socks-off Martin smile.
It was amazing to Annie that he still thought it would work on her. “Martin,” she said. “On the very first day I met you that day in Washington Square Park, you showed me exactly who you are. A user, an opportunist, a narcissist. I just didn’t see it. You stole from me, not only in the material sense, but you appropriated ideas, anything that would advance your career.”
“Whoa. That knock on the head rattled your brains. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You wouldn’t. You don’t even recognize what you’re doing, what you’ve always done.”
He clenched his hands into fists. “After the accident, I was a wreck. I felt sorry for you. I grieved so hard. Now you’ve woken up and you’re bitchier than ever.”
“Bitchier than ever. Was I ever bitchy? I don’t remember that.”
“Why do you think we grew apart?”
“Oh, good. You’re blaming me.”
“Come on, Annie. Work with me here.”
“I’m done with this conversation.”
“So that’s a no.”
“That’s a hell no. I won’t make a deal with you.”
“I wanted to do this cooperatively,” he said. “I don’t have to. When was the last time you went over your contract? There’s a noncompete clause—remember that? The only way around it is if I release you from it. You can’t do your show without me.”
Ah. So he knew about the Empire offer. There were no secrets in this business.
“I can, and I will.” She tried not to show fear. He was up to something. She just knew it.
“Then you’ll regret it.”
“Ah, regrets. I think I get it. Is that Martin-speak for ‘See you in court’?”
The confrontation left Annie shaken. Why did she let him have power over her, even now?
Because he did. All the things he’d taken from her had left her empty. Creating a new production was not going to fill her up.
She asked the driver to pull off the highway at the Colorado Boulevard Bridge viewpoint in Pasadena. Still agitated from the meeting, she got out of the car and looked up the contract on her phone. What Martin had said appeared to be true. How ironic that after all that had happened, he still wielded his power over her.
And how ironic to find herself standing here at this bridge. The hundred-year-old structure had a grim nickname—Suicide Bridge. Generations of troubled people had flung themselves to their deaths from the graceful steel-and-concrete arches, making one final plunge into the arroyo below.
Why here? Annie wondered. There were plenty of high places in the area—skyscrapers, scaffolds. But jumpers were drawn to the bridge. There was something mesmerizing about it, she realized, wandering along the figured stone railing. Barriers had been put in place, but if you jumped wide enough, you could clear them.
Swimmers, take your marks.
It would be so easy.
But that was for cowards. Annie knew what she had to do. She resolved to find a way to make this work.
27
The fly rod made its familiar whip-snap in the clear evening air. Then the blue-winged olive fly popped onto the surface of the water in the ring of the rise, precisely where the wily trout had surfaced to feed.