“How bad?” Sonnet pushed her plate away and regarded them
both.
Orlando handed her a printout from a political blog. She
scanned the article, horror rising along with the bile in her throat. She stared
at her father. “They’re bringing up your illicit affair as a West Point cadet
with an underage local girl. Of a different race. Which, by the way, is not
exactly fiction.”
The article further characterized her father as a ruthlessly
ambitious career operative who ignored his own child and moved ahead with his
own agenda. At the bottom of the article was a link—Jeffries’s love
child…post-wedding hookups?—that made her nearly gag. How had that leaked?
“All fiction, of course,” Orlando said confidently.
She shuddered with distaste, pushing aside the page. “They left
out the bit about you having horns and a tail.”
“I’m sorry,” her father said. “I hate that you had to be sucked
into this.”
“How will you respond?”
“It’s taken care of. I issued a statement with the truth,
explaining that I wasn’t aware that I’d fathered a child. Once I learned I had a
daughter, I was elated by the gift I’d been given, and I supported you and your
mother to the best of my ability. I’m proud to say you’ve grown into an
accomplished young woman with a passion for service and a bright future ahead of
her.” The hookups notwithstanding, she thought with a shudder.
“Depending on their politics, readers will decide which version
to believe,” said Orlando.
“And if someone contacts me?” Sonnet suppressed a chill of
terror.
“Tell them the truth,” her father said easily. “
Your
truth.”
“Sure,” she said, envious of his sangfroid. “Right.” In her
heart, she knew she would gloss over certain key facts—such as the fact that she
used to cry herself to sleep at night, wishing she had a daddy like other kids,
even a part-time daddy. Or the terrific, secret envy she felt toward his other
daughters, Layla and Kara, the dual heiresses to his dynastic marriage. Yes,
he’d married the perfect woman to enhance his career. Sonnet wanted to believe
it was a love match, but sometimes she wondered if his marriage to the daughter
of a famous civil rights leader had been by design or happenstance. Sonnet
wouldn’t say a word about these matters because she could scarcely admit them to
herself. Love had never seemed like her father’s top priority. He shied away
from it, perhaps because it was the kind of thing that couldn’t be controlled,
like a battalion of soldiers or a department in the military.
“I’m a big girl,” she assured them. “I can take care of
myself.”
“There was never a doubt,” said her father. “But again, I’m
sorry.”
An uncomfortable thought struck her. “Did they harass my
mother?”
“I would hope not, but unfortunately, we’re dealing with Johnny
Delvecchio.”
“If he contacts her, she won’t have anything bad to say.”
Sonnet spoke with complete assurance. Nina had always owned her part in the
situation, too, and she’d never expressed any bitterness or resentment against
Laurence. Not to Sonnet, anyway.
The conversation drifted to other campaign matters, the topic
sneaking further away from Sonnet’s big news. She tried not to feel cheated.
This was supposed to be a celebration of her getting the fellowship. Of course,
in the company of her father, she was used to being eclipsed. He had a big
career and a big life, and running for Congress only made it bigger.
Like everyone else in his circle, she admired and respected him
for his drive to succeed. Judging by the things he had achieved in his career,
the propensity was working well for him. He lived a considered and well-crafted
life.
The only misstep he’d ever made was Sonnet herself. She was the
result of a youthful indiscretion, one for which the world had forgiven him.
Some people were lucky that way. They got away with things.
Other than that, his resume was stellar. Through sheer
determination, he’d risen from humble roots as the son of a single mother who
got by on public assistance. In school, he excelled at both academics and
sports, winning a coveted appointment to West Point. From there he’d climbed the
ladder of leadership through the ranks of the military. He married well, in
terms of his career, and as far as anyone knew, it was a loving partnership. His
two lovely daughters wore the polish of private schools and an international
lifestyle. Sonnet was the only blot on an otherwise spotless record.
She hated being the blot.
* * *
“How is this going to work?” Sonnet asked Orlando later
that night as they got ready for bed. He’d calmed down about the key, and she
felt excited to be at his place, carefully placing her belongings in a small
corner of his walk-in closet. “With you being here and me going overseas?”
“Guess we’ll rack up some air miles.”
“I don’t mean booking flights. I mean, how will it work?”
“You mean how will we stay in this relationship.”
He’d called it a relationship. He’d teased her about a
proposal—or was it more than teasing? They were making progress, she felt sure
of it. Progress toward a goal—that was a good thing, right?
He was the most cautious guy she’d ever known, choosing his
words as if they were going to be chiseled in stone. Saying something like
“relationship” was serious business to a man like Orlando. She tended to be more
impulsive, and he balanced her.
“Thank you,” she said. “That is precisely what I mean.”
“Besides visiting, there’s email and Skype,” he pointed
out.
“And that’s enough for you?”
“It will have to be. Unless you’re willing to give up the
fellowship.”
“Or you’re willing to give up the campaign,” she said.
“Don’t be silly. It’s not an either/or situation.”
She tried to figure out what she was feeling. Neither of them
seemed too upset by the prospect of a lengthy separation. Yet they were in a
relationship. He’d given her a key to his place, and even though she’d promptly
lost it, they were still a couple. Weren’t they?
“As a matter of fact, it’s probably a good thing we don’t give
Delvecchio one more thing to latch on to.”
“Orlando—”
His phone rang, and he grabbed it. She gritted her teeth.
Couldn’t he for once let it go to voice mail?
He answered, listened briefly, then handed her the phone. “It’s
your mother. She’s been trying to reach you.”
Sonnet grabbed it. “Mom, hey. I, uh, lost my phone today—”
“Oh, no wonder I couldn’t get you. Sorry to call so late.”
“Is everything okay?”
A beat of hesitation passed. “Why do you ask?”
“Daisy said you had news. Geez, Mom.”
“She’s right, honey. I’ve got a little news. Are you… Um, is
this a good time to talk?”
“It’s fine. Just tell me, Mom. You’re freaking me out.”
“Have a seat, Sonnet.”
* * *
Sonnet carefully set the phone receiver back in its
cradle. She felt strangely disoriented as she approached Orlando. He was now
busy checking his email on his iPad. “Um…there’s been a change of plans.”
He barely looked up from his screen. “Yeah?”
“Are you listening?”
“Yeah. Sure, babe.”
She hesitated, so filled with the news from home she couldn’t
think straight. She wished she felt closer to Orlando in this moment. She longed
for their relationship to be further along, so that she could tell him anything
and everything. But when she tried to come up with the words to explain, she
felt frustrated before she even began.
Meanwhile, he’d gone back to reading on his iPad, the bluish
glow of the screen outlining the angles of his chiseled features.
“Orlando.”
“Uh-huh?”
She abandoned the idea of explaining everything to him. So she
simply told him, “I have to go back to Avalon.”
Chapter Four
“How about a
cream-filled delight?” The waitress named Glynnis leaned toward Zach Alger and
moistened her lips, just in case he missed the suggestion.
He didn’t miss it. Kind of hard to miss a rack like Glynnis
had. She was one of several women he’d dated, but she wanted something from him
he had no capacity to give. Not to her, anyway. There wasn’t a thing wrong with
her…except that she was wrong for him.
“I’m good, thanks,” he said, swirling the coffee in his
mug.
“God, Zach, don’t you know I’m hitting on you? You used to be
fun. What’s the matter with you?”
Great, he thought. She’s going to make me say it. “Hey,” he
said, “that’s really cool and you know I like you, but—”
“Whoa.” She held up her hand, palm out. “I’d just as soon you
didn’t finish that thought. I can already see where you’re going with it.”
He tried not to show his relief. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”
“Clearly not. God, I need to get the hell out of this burg.
Don’t you ever get the feeling you’re fading away?”
Honestly, he didn’t. Right here, in the middle of this small
town, was where he felt most alive. Which probably meant there was something the
matter with him.
“Me? Fading?” he said, trying to lighten the moment. “No
way.”
“Have the cream-filled delight anyway.” She shoved a thick
white china plate onto his table. “And don’t forget to tip your server,” she
added as she went back to the counter.
Not only would it be rude to refuse the treat at this time, it
would be foolhardy. No one in his right mind refused a pastry from the Sky River
Bakery.
His love affair with the Sky River Bakery had begun way back
when he was a tiny kid. Now it was still his favorite place to sit with a big
mug of coffee and a cruller, getting into work mode for the day. The place
looked virtually the same as it had all those years ago, although it had been
stylishly updated by Jenny McKnight, the owner. There were café tables made from
rounds of maple wood, a changing display of work by local artists, and a
black-and-white checked floor. It still had an old-fashioned feel to it, and the
warm, fragrant atmosphere created an air of nostalgia. Zach sometimes used it as
the setting for wedding videos or personal narratives. The morning crowd was
present—locals grabbing a bite, retired folks chatting over the day’s
New York Times
, a couple of tourists perusing an area
map.
In fact, the family-run shop was the site of his earliest
memory. His mom was taking him to the first day of kindergarten and he was
practically catatonic with terror. She’d grabbed his hand and ducked into the
bakery, which was just a block from the primary school. He could still remember
the sugary, buttery smell of the place, the smell of comfort.
His mom had bought him an apple kolache and a cup of hot
chocolate, and she’d told him that going to school was a big adventure for a
little boy, and that he was going to love it. And she’d filmed the whole thing.
That was his mom’s thing—documenting her life. She’d been compulsive about it,
capturing moments on her video camera. His mom had filmed everything—his first
day of school, his first lost tooth, his exploits on the soccer field, his
disastrous attempts to emulate Jimmy Page. She didn’t put herself in the picture
much but her voice often came from behind the camera, always encouraging and
sweet-toned. It was as if she’d known she wouldn’t be around that long, and
wanted to capture the two of them together for posterity. And sure enough, one
day the filming had stopped, and she had moved away. Far away.
He hadn’t seen it coming that day, and he hadn’t been fooled
for a minute by her pep talk about kindergarten. His head was full of nightmare
visions of snarling teachers, an endless maze of hallways, rooms full of
strangers. But then, as he was chewing on a bit of kolache, Sonnet Romano had
breezed into the bakery, completely by herself. She wore a pink backpack with
pockets and zippers, and pencils all lined up like bullet cartridges in an ammo
belt. She wore her curly black hair in twin braids, and a pair of horn-rimmed
glasses perched on her nose.
All by herself, she marched up to the counter. Her pointy
little chin barely reached the edge. “One iced maple bar, please. And can you
put it in a nice box? It’s for my teacher. Today is my first day in kindergarten
and I’m bringing her a treat.” She carefully placed her money on the counter.
“My mom said this is the right amount. She had to work today.”
Zach stared at her in amazement. His mother nodded with
approval. “It’s that nice Sonnet Romano from play group. Why don’t you go say
hi?”
Zach recoiled in horror. He nearly gagged on his pastry.
While Sonnet waited for her parcel, she turned, zeroing in on
him like a laser. “You’re Zach,” she said. “You’re in Miss Nelson’s class, same
as me.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he blurted out the
first thing that popped into his mind. “Why are you wearing those glasses?”
“They make me look smarter,” she said, tilting up her chin with
pride. She turned abruptly, pigtails flying out like helicopter rotors. Then she
picked up a pink cardboard box sealed with string, and went to the door.
She paused and turned to Zach. “Well? Are you coming?”
His mom had given him a hug. “Go ahead, sweetheart. It’s going
to be a wonderful day.”
Zach shook his head at the memory.
Even
then
. At the age of five, Sonnet knew exactly where she was going,
and he was expected to follow along.
He sipped his coffee and frowned at the screen of his iPhone.
He was supposed to be getting organized for the day, and instead he’d let his
mind wander to a time back in ancient history. With a will, he made himself
focus on the present.
The present wasn’t a bad place to be. Here and now, with the
future glimmering ahead like a sunrise on the horizon. He needed to move in that
direction, not dwell in the past.
Through the shop window, he watched the town getting ready for
the day. Shopkeepers rolled out their awnings and displayed their wares on the
walkways. Delivery trucks disgorged supplies to restaurants, and people walked
briskly toward the train station. Like any small town, an atmosphere of
familiarity colored the scene. Zach had always liked that about Avalon. Being
part of a small community filled in somewhat for his crappy family
situation.
He had been on his own ever since high school, when his father
was led away in handcuffs, the town disgrace. Zach was left with a house in
foreclosure, a mountain of unpaid bills and a reputation in tatters. Matthew
Alger had defrauded the town of Avalon. He’d picked the pockets of people who
could scarcely buy groceries, let alone pay their local taxes.
Zach had made a vow that day. He would make restitution to the
people his father had defrauded. It would surely take years, but he would do
what he could. It wouldn’t happen on his salary from Wendela’s, though. Through
the years, he had been depositing whatever he could into the city treasury,
trying to chip away at his father’s debt, bit by bit.
He was going to miss this place. But he had to go, and soon.
How else was he going to find his life? Filming weddings and bar mitzvahs and
retirement parties was a way to make ends meet. But being a filmmaker…that was
his life. And he couldn’t very well do that in Avalon. Sure, the town looked as
pretty as a picture on a postcard, so pretty it made your heart ache. But pretty
didn’t pay the bills. To do that, he needed to go where the work was. But he was
stuck in a conundrum. Due to lack of funds, he had not gone after what he
wanted.
Zach’s phone rang, and he did a double take. The name that came
up was the one he least expected—the longest of longshots: Mickey Flick.
“Who’s Mickey Flick?” demanded Glynnis, peering at the screen
of his phone. She not only had a rack; she was the nosiest waitress on the
planet.
He ignored her, and skimmed his thumb across the screen in
order to take the call. “This is Zach Alger.”
“Mickey Flick here.” A crisp, easy familiarity mellowed the
voice. The guy sounded as if he and Zach talked every week.
Zach held his breath. Mickey Flick headed up an outfit in
Century City noted for its wildly successful celebrity reality shows. Zach was
no fan of the genre, having little interest in watching has-been actors in some
ludicrous setup. He was, however, a fan of the success of the shows. He’d been
in contact with Mickey Flick Productions, knowing it was a crazy roll of the
dice. There had been several emails back and forth with various assistants, but
still, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. Now here was the guy, calling
him out of the blue.
“Hey,” he said, trying not to fumble. “Thanks for calling me
back.”
“Not a problem. We were glad to hear from you. We’ve been going
over the samples you sent in.”
Zach felt himself teetering on the brink. He knew, he just knew
his life was about to change. “Wow. Well,” he said, “I’m flattered you had a
look. I hope you liked what you saw.”
“Hell, yeah, we liked them. You’ve definitely got the technical
expertise and the eye we’re looking for, so I wanted to see if you’re available
for a new production that’s about to start filming.”
Available? Available? Was he available for
Mickey-freaking-Flick?
“Could be,” he said, hoping to sound measured. Interested, but
not too eager. “Tell me more.”
“For the time being, I can’t say much. You’ll get more details
from Clyde Bombier, my production exec. It’ll be a reality show, all under wraps
until we’re ready to go wide with it. What I can tell you is that it’s a
sixteen-week gig, it involves a major talent and a name director. You’d work
directly with him.”
“Okay,” Zach said. “You have my attention.”
He tried not to hyperventilate as he listened to the terms
being offered. The money alone made his head spin, but the real excitement
kicked in when Flick said he was sending a formal letter of offer and a contract
via email.
Zach thanked him and hung up, looking around the bakery at the
coffee drinkers, the tourists and locals, the little kids smearing their hands
on the glass cases, the old guys with their crossword puzzles. These people had
no idea that the world had just shifted for him. Finally the dream was coming
into reach. He’d been trying to get a break forever, sending out his portfolio
of digital clips, emailing them into what seemed like a black hole of digital
ether. He’d been networking through people in the business who were at least six
degrees away from West Coast and New York producers. Each award he won, each
scrap of recognition, hoisted him another rung up the ladder, but until now,
nothing had materialized.
The opportunity was still so new, he had only the sketchiest
idea of what was in store for him next. He knew for certain Mickey Flick had a
reputation for doing things in a big way. The guy had mentioned that this
opportunity was a major production.
Major
. It was
the biggest thing that had ever happened to Zach, for sure.
The current project was so top secret he would only learn the
details when everything was in place. All he knew was he’d been offered a
fortune to work on the production. He wondered why they’d picked him, given all
the talent in the business. He wouldn’t quibble. The money was nice, it was more
than he’d dreamed of making, but that wasn’t the part that excited him. What
really excited him was the crazy array of possibilities that now lay before
him.
Speculating on what the secret plan for the show might be, he
dreamed of Malibu, maybe filming a surf competition. Or perhaps there would be a
crew of castaways on Fiji, mountaineers in Colorado. Or a rock group in
Amsterdam. Yeah, that’d be awesome. Mickey Flick was known to work closely with
some of the biggest names in the music business. His last hit had involved a
world-class heavy metal star’s collaboration with a classical pianist,
culminating in a triumphant performance in Carnegie Hall.
Zach couldn’t wait to see what was in store for him. And at the
end of it all, he’d finally have the seed money to start living his dream.
The people in the café carried on, oblivious. Just for a
second, Zach felt a twinge of frustration. He wanted to call somebody, tell
somebody, share this amazing news. And the person he most wanted to share it
with was the last one who wanted to hear.