Once Upon a Summer

by Brooke Moss

  “I’m grabbing the airport shuttle around midday.”

  Jess wrinkles up her nose. “Back to winter in Chicago?”

  I nod. Cold-hard reality is waiting for me by way of the afternoon flight to Los Angeles. A quick change to another plane, and I’ll be home just after midnight.

  “Mom and Dad left early this morning. They couldn’t take one more minute being out of their element,” Then Jess switches gears without warning. “So how’d it go with Dean? Any sparks?”

  Ugh. The dreaded question. But wait. This is odd. She can’t maintain eye contact with me. And we’ve always been able to tell each other absolutely anything.

  “I-I don’t think so,” I stumble over the truth.

  “Thank fucking god,” she sighs with relief. Her eyes return to my face. “I haven’t been able confirm it yet, but word on the street is my sister hooked up with him last night.”

  “Ewwwwwww....” I add. Then we both burst into giggles.

  “I was afraid I’d have to let you down gently. I was afraid you might actually like him,” Jess shakes her head. “What the hell was I thinking? I’ll blame it on ‘Bridal Brain.’ When Bruce found out I’d attempted to match you with Dean, he nearly peed himself laughing. He thinks you and Kai make a perfect pair. I told him you are not the kind of woman who’d ever be attracted to a jock.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Plus, Kai’s not exactly relationship material. He never stays in one place for long. He’s like a perpetual motion machine. It’s how he lives his life. One adventure after another. That’s so not you.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Yes. So not me.”

  “Listen. I’m completely off-topic,” Jess says, finally grasping how uncomfortable I am. “Here’s the question I wanted to ask you: can I hire you?”

  “Me? You want to hire me?”

  “I need a social media strategy. I need it ASAP. The Junior League Designer Showcase Home Tour is in April. Bruce insists I get a move on, if I’m going to do it,” she says. “The Showcase Home gets a lot of traffic. Everyone tells me Insta is the way to go. But I can’t figure it out, and I don’t have the time or the patience to take a class. And one of my besties is a professional. So what do you say? Can we meet up and discuss when I get back?”

  “Yes. But I refuse to let you pay me.”

  “Oh. I’m paying you. You’re an expert in your field with years of experience. That’s the deal.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll work out a marketing plan for you. We can get started when you get back from your honeymoon.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” Jess grins.

  Over small talk Jess and I finish lunch and hug goodbye.

  “Talk soon,” she says. “Thanks for being here for me.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  The beach cottage is too quiet without Kai. The color of the sky is a little less vibrant and the ocean hardly makes a sound as it lazily brushes against the shore. It’s like the island magic has disappeared.

  I throw everything I brought, plus my new flip-flops, into my plastic suitcase. I pause at the door for one last glimpse of the view of the ocean. From the lanai, the palm trees wave a fond farewell.

  By the time I get dropped off at the airport, the sun has set. I check in for my flight, moving through the small airport toward my gate. I’m surprised when I get a call from a number I don’t recognize.

  “Vivienne?” She sounds friendly but I don’t recognize her voice. “It’s Natalie, the makeup artist I wanted you to know I’ve already booked two weddings from the Instagram post we did last night.”

  Her good news makes me feel a little less heartbroken about leaving Maui. “I’m so thrilled. I’ll look for more hash tags for you and email them to you.”

  “That’s the reason why I’m calling. I don’t want you to do one more thing until I pay you. I insist. What’s your rate?”

  My rate? “I haven’t figured it out yet. Let’s talk later this week,” I say. “When I get back to Chicago and get settled.” I click off my phone. My head is spinning.

  Could I really do social media as a freelance gig?

  I scribble some numbers on the cocktail napkin next to an open bag of pretzels on the plane. I keep going until I can’t read my handwriting. Then, I dig my laptop out from under my seat and start to make some real calculations. I do the math. Crunch some numbers, trying to keep my swelling optimism under control.

  It’s doable.

  I could work freelance for a while, which might allow me the time to build the writing portfolio I need to pitch some travel stories to online magazines. I’d need a couple more paying clients, but two is a good start. If Suzi is able to get a good settlement for my severance package, I could make ends meet for at least the next six months. If I had three or four clients, I’d actually be able to pay my bills and I’d make it for a year. Four or five clients, and I’d be actually earning a living. .

  I could travel and work from any place in the world.

  Holy shit. I can do this. I think.

  Maybe.

  Back in Chicago, the four walls of my apartment no longer seem like protection from the outside world. Instead, they’re like a chain link fence with razor wire along the top that have been holding me in for too long. I’m desperate to find a way out.

  Honoring a promise to myself not to continue to travel on a well-worn path between my apartment and an office in Chicago every day like a pack animal, I head outside for a walk in the snow on my first day back.

  Big, fluffy snowflakes are falling softly. I pull my knit hat a little lower on my forehead and step down onto the front walk. I am on a first name basis with at least a dozen dogs by the time I reach the corner of my street. Four blocks and a dog park later, I’ve learned the names of a dozen more and actually looked their owners in the eye at least twice.

  The walk is just what I need. Chasing the self-doubt and negative thoughts into the darkest corners of my brain where they belong. Completing the loop around my block, I stop in my tracks on the corner near my El Station.

  A new coffee shop is open. Honu Java. The outline of a giant sea turtle is painted in green on the glass of the front window. I scurry across three lanes of traffic and I burst through the front door. The barista is busy steaming milk in a stainless steel jug, but glances over in my direction and greets me with a warm smile. “Aloha,” he says.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Aloha,” I squeak.

  This is my new favorite coffee place.

  I return to my apartment with a hot vanilla latte. I drag my kitchen table through the living room and line it up in front of the big picture window. I add a few office supplies and then I settle in and get down to work.

  Scrolling through my emails late in the day, I notice a spam message from the cruise company that took me out snorkeling with the sea turtles. I almost delete the message, assuming it’s a survey or a note begging me to give them a good review on Yelp.

  My fingers hover over the delete button, but I decide to read it first. A quickly in-drawn breath. Then, I cover my mouth with my hand.

  Dear Vivienne,

  My girlfriend, Natalie McKenna, is thrilled with the success she’s had since you helped with her Instagram feed. She mentioned you are a social media strategist interested in expanding your client base. I know you live in Chicago, but I’d like to set up a conference call at your earliest convenience for a consultation. Since you’re familiar with our operation, I’m hoping you’ll have some creative suggestions for us going forward. We’d really like to work with you.

  Warm regards,

  Daniel LaDue

  Captain Dan isn’t a pirate. I was never in danger of being forced to walk the plank. He’s a small business owner in search of a treasure map hidden inside the world of social media.

  I dance across the kitchen floor in my socks in celebration of my growing client roster. I’m doing my best Bruno Mars backup dancer routine when my phone v
ibrates in my hand. I answer without checking to see who is calling.

  “Good afternoon. Are you in for Ezra Brown?” His assistant asks in a formal tone as if she and I have never met.

  “Sure,” I say. Oh hells, yes. This has got to be good.

  Ezra clicks onto the line. “Vivienne, have you heard the good news? Kai Cooper in the Olympics. The campaign you created isn’t obsolete after all.”

  “I’d like to have that printed on a T-shirt,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What?” Ezra asks. He’s not one to beg anyone’s pardon, especially not mine.

  All the things, I’ve been holding back from saying. All the times, he acted like I’m a bug he could crush under the heel of his obscenely expensive sneaks whenever he’s stressed. All of it comes rushing at me at one hundred miles per hour. I want to gloat. I want to point out how the power in our relationship has changed in my favor. But I stay silent, deciding instead to allow Ezra to talk himself into a pit too deep for him to ever crawl out.

  “I think we made a hasty decision last week. Our emotions were high. We were not thinking in our right minds.”

  “Make your point, Ezra.” What little patience I have left for his shenanigans is fast disappearing. “What is this phone call regarding?”

  “Your termination. Perhaps we were too hasty. Perhaps we should revisit.” Ezra sounds like an Eighteenth-Century English nobleman having to dealing with a naughty social-climbing governess, except without any of the delicious sexual tension.

  I’m taken aback. The truth is, I don’t want to work for Brown & Fox Media, but I don’t know how to tell Ezra. So, I hold my tongue.

  “Vivienne. Am I talking to myself?” Ezra prompts me. “Are you still there?”

  I’m chewing a hole through my bottom lip. “I’m here.”

  “So, do we have a deal?” he asks.

  “Nope. Not today.” I don’t hesitate with my answer “I’m not interested in returning to work for you.”

  “A woman of your age and experience is going to find looking for a job to be a most competitive marketplace. No one will hire you.” Ezra aims for my most vulnerable spot and goes right in for the kill.

  “I guess I’ll just have to be the long shot,” I quip. Then my call waiting beeps. “Sorry, Ezra. I’ve got to jump.”

  I push the red ‘end call’ button before he can speak one more word. A weight is lifted off my shoulders. I’ve been waiting fifteen years to do that. I hit the green button to skip to the other call.

  “Hey girl,” Petey’s voice trills. “It’s me. How was the wedding?”

  “Magical. Life changing. Fantastic.” Just as she had predicted.

  “Did you meet a guy?” she asks. “A professor of something-or-other. Jessica thought he’d be a good fit for you.”

  Poor Dean Ellington. I’d completely forgotten about him.

  “Oh, hell no. Not him. I kissed Kai Cooper.”

  “The snowboarding guy,” she yells. “You kissed him? He’s a total hottie. His face is on every bus in town.” She whistles long and low. “Rock on, girlfriend.”

  “Yeah. It was a really good kiss.” I may never see Kai again, but I’ll never forget our kiss.

  “Tell me all about it,” Petey says. “And don’t spare any detail. It’s Frank’s night to give the girls a bath.”

  Jet lag puts me in bed right after I eat cold pizza for dinner. I drift into a deep sleep so I’m confused and disoriented when my phone rings after midnight. I can’t find it on my nightstand in the dark. I answer it right before it goes to voicemail.

  “Hello.” My voice sounds more bullfrog than human.

  “I’m trying to reach Signorina Vivienne Parker?” A man asks with a heavy accent.

  “This is she.” I’m confused and not quite awake. I hope this won’t end up being a pop quiz.

  “Excellent.” He speaks faster, sounding more upbeat. “My name is Carlo Polone. You don’t know me but I’m the Executive Director of the International Snowboarding Federation. We oversee professional snowboarding competitions throughout the world. I hope I did the math correctly for the time zone in Chicago. It’s a little after nine in the evening there, right?”

  “Yes.” I lie without hesitation. He’s calling from a European time zone, and he’s talking snowboarding. I don’t see any reason to tell him his math is off by six time zones.

  “We just reshuffled our executive staff. We don’t have time for a hiring search in the middle of our competitive season, so we need to outsource his tasks,” he says. “One of the reasons we parted ways is he insisted we buy Twitter followers.”

  “Did you spend a lot of money?” I ask.

  “Yes.” His humiliation and embarrassment echoes in his simple answer.

  “They’re usually Zombie accounts in Asia,” I explain. He totally scammed to you.”

  “I know that now,” he says with a chuckle. “Kai Cooper tells me you’ve recently left Brown & Fox Media to go out on your own. And if I’m very nice to you, you might be willing to take us on as a client. ”

  “Yes.” One-syllable words are all I can handle when my heart beating is in my throat.

  “Excellent. The Olympics are an anomaly for us. They only happen every four years. We need to focus on the regular competition season. We’re kind of like a traveling circus. Only we have more monkeys than they do, and none of ours are housebroken. Our biggest concern is the World Championships in Park Snow, Donovaly in six weeks.”

  “Where is that?” How can there be a place on earth I haven’t heard of before?

  “Slovakia,” he continues. “We don’t have much time to prepare. I don’t suppose you’d willing meet me here, so we can discuss some ideas in person?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Chamonix-Mount Blanc. The Olympic host city. Would you mind coming here? I know it’s short notice,” he apologizes “You’d have to get on a plane tomorrow, but I can make all the arrangements.”

  I sit straight up in bed, toss back the covers, and run across the cold floors in my bare feet to the darkened kitchen. I turn on the light and face the wall where I hung the world map when I brought it home from the office.

  “France?” I find the glamorous ski destination in the French Alps on the map with an index finger. There’s a hole in the paper where a pushpin has been.

  “Most of the athletes are flying in and out of Geneva,” he says. “Technically, it’s the closest airport.”

  “Switzerland?” I find it on the map. Another pinprick marks the spot. I’m feeling a little giddy.

  “The Geneva airport is so busy right now, you’re probably better off fly into Turin.”

  “Italy?” The pink pushpin is gone, but the tiny hole in the paper is still there. I run my fingers over it. Feeling light-headed, I slide down the wall and sit down on the floor with my ankles crossed over one another. My heart is beating like a drum.

  “I’ll have a car pick you up in Turin,” he declares. “Do you have a passport?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Thwack!

  One second my passport is empty, the next it contains my first entry stamp into a foreign country. There is no time to celebrate. A uniformed Italian passport official waves me toward the exit.

  Carlo Polone greets me before my plastic suitcase arrives on the luggage carousel. He herds me out of the airport and into the tiniest car I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “These are your credentials.” He hands me a large manila envelope. “You can’t go anywhere around the Olympic Village without them. Get used to wearing them twenty-four hours a day.”

  The Alps appear as a crown of rocky gray mountains with snow-topped peaks in the distance. As we enter their foothills, the snow-covered ground makes the whole world look like an unfinished painting with color to be added at a later date. Driving through the Alps is not at all what I expected. Mostly, because I have my eyes closed while Carlo operates the motorized vehicle like a stunt coordinator for a high-octane movie, makin
g daring passes in front of oncoming traffic. He does it a lot more than I’d like.

  We arrive at the Olympic venue, and Carlo gets out of the car almost before it stops moving. I follow along behind him, running to keep up. We push our way through the crowd of spectators. Flashing our laminates, we continue to press through the crowds and spectators. Moving closer to the half-pipe event that’s already underway, we keep pressing forward until we’re in the area cordoned off exclusively for the use of elite athletes and Olympic officials.

  I look up to the top of the run where Kai is poised, waiting to drop in for the gold medal round. His board is perpendicular to the hill. If he gets some amplitude on this attempt, he’ll make Olympic history.

  Music is pumping through loudspeakers. It’s a song I know well. It was playing at Jess’s wedding. Kai and I danced to it like we were completely out of our minds. He’s wearing a helmet but his goggles are still on his head so I can see his eyes.

  His movements are slow and methodical, savoring every single moment at the top of the hill before dropping into the half-pipe. He’s basking in the glow of attention from the crowds in the stands.

  I hold my breath. A flutter of anticipation vibrates in my belly.

  He raises his hand over his head and his crazy grin flashes across his face. I shield my eyes from the sun. As I stare up at the top of the mountain, it gradually dawns on me he is holding the Shaka sign over his head. His fingers form into the sign of the ‘aloha spirit’ with his thumb and pinkie extended.

  The crowd goes wild, thinking Kai is saluting them. They think Kai is so cool and self-assured that he’s flashing the Shaka before he drops in the half-pipe as if it’s his own personal mantra. They raise their hands above their heads, tossing the same salute back to him.

  But I know the signal is meant just for me. My cheeks flame with heat, remembering our adventures in Maui. I respond to Kai’s public display of affection by putting my hand in the air and answering him with a Shaka of my own.

  Kai acknowledges me with nod. His lips part into a wide grin. Then, he pulls his goggles down over his face and drops into the half-pipe.