by Gigi Blume
“Thank you, Emma. I don’t know what I’d do without your advice. Sunday night was so magical, I can’t even describe—”
“Advice? No can do. I have given you too much horrible advice in the past. I don’t want to mess this up too.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“Nevertheless. I have seen the error of my ways and have retired from matchmaking for all eternity.”
“Oh… okay.”
“To prove to you I won’t interfere or try to influence you at all, let’s agree to not even say this guy’s name.” Even though I knew she was totally talking about Frank. Eeep! What an adorable couple they’d make. “As your friend, I completely support you and love you no matter what.”
She squeezed back my hand before turning her attention back to her lunch. As I watched her spread whipped butter all over a breadstick, I couldn’t help but wonder at her remarkable ability to compartmentalise. The questionably unsanitary objects on the table didn’t prevent her from enjoying her meal. It led me to wonder if she was perhaps too cavalier about jumping from one love interest to another. It was a mystery to me how Harriet could possibly be in love with three men in the course of a month. Therefore, I thought it best to offer her a word of caution.
“So, I know I promised I wouldn’t give you any advice, and I won’t… specifically. Think of this as general womanly wisdom.”
Harriet brightened and seemed perfectly at ease as she shovelled a forkful of greens in her mouth.
“I’m all for that,” she replied while chewing. “Does this have to do with…” She lowered her voice an octave. “…you know what? Because I’m extremely groomed, if you know what I mean.”
“What? No! Goodness, no.”
On that subject, I was certain she had more experience than I—even if she had absolutely no experience at all.
“What I want to say,” I continued, clearing my throat. “Has to do with guarding your heart.”
“Guarding my heart?”
“Yes. Be careful not to let your feelings get carried away.”
“Check myself before I wreck myself. Because it’s bad for my health. Got it.”
“Make him chase you. Pay attention to how he treats you. If he likes you, he’ll let you know.”
“Check, check, and check. I promise I won’t make the same mistake as before. I’m a new woman.”
“Indeed, you are.”
To what extent she was listening to me remained to be known. We ended our lunch date with a stroll along the pier, not far from the bistro. There, Harriet cast off her precious mementos and let go of her attachment to Elton. She didn’t hesitate a moment, tossing the pencil, the tissue, and the Band Aid right into the ocean without a thought about the poor fishies and sea turtles. We’d have to have a talk about our environmental responsibility another time.
As she watched the wind carry the objects into the waves, she inhaled new life into her lungs. It was as though she’d unloaded the burden of a thousand pounds. Her eyes sparkled as she watched the hurt disappear.
“Goodbye, Elton Wardlow,” she said on an exhale.
And I couldn’t help but silently add… Hello, Frank Churchill.
26
S’more Bad Jokes
Jaxson
Emma, distracted from the pings on her mobile, took a few moments to check her notifications and then got sucked in. Her windswept hair blew across her face from the wild sea breeze. I shook my head and laughed it off as I unloaded chairs and tables from the bed of my Ute, just happy she was there to help me set up for the bonfire. Oblivious to the flecks of sand in the salty air, she stuck out her tongue, pretending to barf at her phone. “Bleh. Elton’s Instagram grid is littered with disgusting kissy pics. What kind of name is Agnette, anyway?”
I wanted to point out there was nothing inherently wrong with the name Agnette, but since it belonged to Elton’s new girlfriend, I’d let Emma gripe all she wanted.
“I met her the other day, you know,” I said. “And she’s a ding dong.”
Emma returned to unpacking the grocery bag on the folding table and tore into a bag of marshmallows.
“Serves him right,” she said with her mouth full. “Elton got what he deserved, I say.”
“You can always unfollow him, you know,” I offered logically.
“Yes, but then what would I have to complain about?”
“You’re never in short supply, my dear.”
“Har har. Why do you think I keep you around, birthday boy?”
I threw a saucy grin her way. “To be the voice of reason.”
“Like Jiminy Cricket?”
“Exactly. I can already see you’re sprouting a donkey tail back there. Let me just check.” I snatched the first object I could find to give her a good smack on the rump, but she evaded my swat.
“Watch it,” she cried through a flutter of giggles. “That’s for the marshmallows.” She stole the roasting stick from my grasp and wagged her finger at me, returning to the task of setting up the impressive s’mores bar inspired by Pinterest.
This year, instead of a private dinner or late-night editing alone as I’d done the last few birthdays, I decided to invite the Field of Hearts team for a bonfire on the beach. Playa del Rey had plenty of open fire pits this time of year, and I thought it would be a good bonding exercise for everyone, especially after the setback in our schedule. I’d gotten there early to stake out a fire pit and lug the wood and supplies from my Ute, not expecting any help. But as I hauled the last load, there was Emma, waddling across the sand with two huge bags. She brought tiered dessert trays, galvanized buckets, strawberries, bananas, every type of chocolate bar imaginable, an assortment of cookies, caramel sauce, and waffle cones. Currently, she was finishing the aesthetic with a chalkboard sign that read S’more Love for Jaxson. She wrinkled her nose and turned to me, catching me ogling her.
“Do you think we need more peanut butter cups?”
Something about the care and attention she put into setting up the display on the folding table made me want to twirl her into my embrace and kiss her until we had sand in our hair. Wouldn’t that be a sight when the guests arrived?
I’d been completely messed up in the head since our ‘practice kiss’ in my kitchen. I kept telling myself it was in both our best interests to tuck that thought way down. I had no business kissing her like that—or thinking of her like that—the way she looked right now in those snug jeans and loose cable-knit sweater, her bare toes wiggling in the cool sand.
Definitely not.
Then again, it was my birthday.
“One can never have too many peanut butter cups,” I said.
I didn’t usually make a fuss when another year took me further away from my twenties and closer to my forties. Now that I was halfway between the two decades, something clicked in me, like it was time to finally get my act together. Maybe settle down. But every time the idea crossed my mind, the only woman I’d dream of considering was Emma. It was always Emma.
“Do you think he’ll come tonight?”
“Who?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Elton.”
“Are we still talking about him?” Because I had moved on a while ago.
“It’s just… well, it might be a little awkward if he comes with his new girlfriend. What if it upsets Harriet?”
“You told me Harriet was over him.”
“She is, but I wouldn’t want anything to set back her progress. Not like I’m interfering at all. I’m completely reformed.”
“I believe you.” My feet carried me across the few sandy meters between us, near enough to press her hand in mine. The ocean breeze sent tendrils of hair into her eyes, and I brushed them behind her ear by instinct. “I’ll tell you what. If Harriet seems upset, I’ll take her to look for seashells or something.”
“In the dark?”
“Okay, not seashells but grunions, then.”
Emma’s features softened and her delicate mouth
curled upward. “She’d like that. Thanks.”
“No problemo.” I returned the smile and pinched her chin. “Harriet’s a nice girl. Elton’s an idiot for not noticing.”
“I know, right? What makes this Agnette girl so special?”
Other than her ability to do the splits three different ways? Nothing. But I didn’t say that.
“I know one thing. You chose better for him than he chose for himself.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Hey now. It almost sounds like you’re admitting I was right.”
“Ha. I don’t think so. You can retire that bow and arrow, sweetie.”
A flush of pink bloomed across Emma’s skin, her eyes dancing as they locked on mine for a long, heady moment. Then she threw her arms around my shoulders and whispered warmly onto my neck, “Happy birthday, Jax.”
I drew my arms around her and squeezed her into me, inhaling her shampoo. She was soft, oh so soft—her figure melting into the hard planes of my form. An overwhelming mixture of friendship and desire squeezed my chest as I buried my face in her hair. My whole being ached to touch her, to hold her seven thousand times more intimately—to ease the exquisite longing that set my insides on fire. Emma was my oxygen. I couldn’t breathe without her.
She quivered in my arms, untangling herself from me just enough to softly brush her lips on my cheek in a feather-like kiss. My heart sputtered to a stop. What was stopping me from crashing my mouth upon hers, declaring my feelings once and for all? Somehow, I’d conjured up this false sense of propriety in my relationship with Emma. But lately, the lines had blurred to such an extent I could hardly imagine they ever existed.
A gush of salt air washed over us, plunging me out of my stupor. Emma stiffened in response and bit her bottom lip as she took a step back, very much aware of the paradigm shift that had just occurred between us.
“Welp, that fire’s not gonna start itself,” I quipped to lighten the mood.
“Right. I’ll just…” She pointed to the s’mores table.
We fell back into our tasks although most everything was already set up. It was still too early to light the fire, but that didn’t matter. I needed to occupy my hands. I was a complete goner. The sensation of her lips on my skin branded me, making me very much aware of that singular spot on my body for the remainder of the night. Even after several of our friends arrived, after Harriet and Pinky each greeted me with a kiss to the same place on my cheek, Emma’s touch remained.
To Emma’s chagrin, Elton came and brought Agnette. He had been in L.A. for a few days at my request. Three studios were interested in Field of Hearts, and the pitch session was scheduled two weeks out. I planned to announce the news to everyone at my birthday party—another reason for inviting them.
Elton proudly peacocked around with his new squeeze on his arm, pointedly showcasing her in front of Emma and Harriet. Agnette was the quintessential poster girl for the song Dance: Ten, Looks: Three from A Chorus Line. Her manners weren’t much to write home about, either. She was one of those people who talked incessantly about themselves. It made me wonder how she and Elton were able to hold a conversation without stepping on each other’s sentences. I supposed it was a match made in showbiz heaven. She called him E-Bear which was equal parts revolting and endearing. I soon discovered her preference for nicknames when she started calling me J.J. which made Emma cringe every time.
It was no small wonder when Elton busted out his guitar, for only then did Agnette let go of his arm. As Elton strummed his own compositions from Lived Overseen, Morris sang harmonies, pantomiming the piano on his lap. Frank and several of our ensemble members sang along, too. Even Pinky knew all the lyrics to the Tony Award-winning score.
“Why aren’t you singing, Jenny?” Agnette asked her new friend. Jennifer smiled sweetly and admitted she wasn’t very familiar with the newer shows on Broadway. Agnette gasped at such a tragedy and vowed to educate her on the subject. She clung to her the rest of the night and wouldn’t let a moment pass without giving her some sort of advice.
“New York is the place to be if you want to make it,” she’d say. Or, “You should totally do cruise ship gigs like I did.”
I noticed Frank bristle at Agnette’s declarations which prompted Jennifer to throw stolen glances his way. Although Frank took every opportunity to sit next to Emma, his gaze wandered to Jennifer more often than seemed benign to me. I couldn’t help but suspect a secret attachment to Jennifer—the way his features shifted whenever he looked at her. The way his body stiffened when Agnette recommended she audition for Tokyo Disneyland. Then he’d turn and openly flirt with Emma. I balled my fists at my sides. If I ever discovered Frank was leading Emma on, my knuckles would get up close and personal with his face.
Agnette then convinced Elton to shift to Beatles songs. “Everybody knows the words to Beatles songs,” she said, nudging Jennifer with her elbow. Elton sprang right into I’ve Just Seen a Face followed by Strawberry Fields Forever.
“That song’s kind of depressing,” said Annie as the last chord rang out.
Randall cupped his hands around his mouth and cried, “I buried Paul.” in a distorted foreboding drone which made all of us erupt into peals of laughter.
Morris shook his head. “It’s an undisputed fact that John Lennon said, ‘cranberry sauce’ not ‘I buried Paul’ at the end of Strawberry Fields.”
This was met with tones of curious oooohs and mmmms.
“Hey, can I borrow your axe?” Frank bade, reaching out for Elton’s guitar.
“I didn’t know you played,” said Emma with amusement.
Elton reluctantly passed over the guitar, and Frank winked at Emma as he settled it onto his lap. “You didn’t? Well, let me remedy that. Okay, guys, let’s see if you know the story behind this Beatles song.”
He strummed an open chord and, unsatisfied by the sound of it, he picked at the strings, intoning the harmonics while adjusting the tuning keys. I could see Elton’s eye twitch disapprovingly.
“I just tuned it with my app.”
Frank tapped at his own ear. “Nothing can replace good old-fashioned ear tuning.”
If looks could kill, we’d have to bury Frank under the fire pit.
“Do you have a capo?”
Elton offered an amused huff. “Trouble with bar chords?”
“Nope. Not at all.” Frank winked and fingered off a showy riff on the strings. Emma’s eyes widened, impressed. Morris laughed.
Frank got the capo, settling it on the second fret and began singing Hey Jude. He sang the first note a cappella, and then fell into the rhythm of the chord progression. No one could resist singing along. Even Jennifer cracked a smile and offered some harmonies. Somebody manifested a tambourine seemingly out of nowhere. We were a loud bunch, each one of us belting at the top of our lungs, clapping to the beat. Yet Frank’s voice soared above the robust chorus, light and airy as he was famous for. The lyrics rang clear as a bell, reaching my soul as if they were intended especially for me. It was as though Frank’s voice carried over the blazing bonfire and straight to my heart, offering me sage musical advice. I soaked the Kool Aid right up.
Ya know, maybe I really was made to go out and get her. Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am looking for someone to perform with. That’s so me!
But it wasn’t Frank. It was me making it all up in my head, trying to pass Paul McCartney’s lyrics off as some divine message to expose my poor heart outside my chest—like a sad Ood in Doctor Who. Halfway through the song, I could have sworn Frank slipped and sang Hey Jax instead. The truth was I only heard what I wanted to hear. And I was okay with that; I was done watching from afar. Tonight. Tonight, I’d tell Emma how I felt.
When the last note rang out, spirits were high, and everyone was ready for more, crying for an encore. But Frank exchanged a shared look with Emma and handed the guitar back to Elton. Emma stood up from the blanket and called everyone to her attention. The sun had gone down completely, leaving only a crescent moon to cast
a faint silvery glow on the surface of the water. Waves crashed and swished somewhere in the inky distance. The powerful sound intensified in the darkness. Our campfire offered the only light in which to see Emma, the blaze of the flames illuminating her face as she addressed all my guests. It made her look like some sort of warrior goddess. My heart swelled.
“In honour of Jaxson’s birthday, I have prepared a surprise. Frank helped me plan it, so stand up, Frank.”
This couldn’t be good. Before I had a chance to protest, Emma continued, “We’ve been roasting marshmallows all night—I know I like them when they’re gooey and melty on the inside. But while the fire is still crackling, we’d be amiss to pass up a roast of a different nature.” Here is where she looked at me, probably hearing a drumroll in her head. “Tonight… we’re gonna roast Jaxson Knightly.”
I shook my head furiously. “No, let’s stick to marshmallows. They’re more delicious.”
Nobody paid attention to my protests, partly because they were too busy hooting and clapping. Emma cleared her throat.
“But I had to ask myself. How do you roast the nicest man in Hollywood? The man literally has no vices—at least none that I know of.”
See there? It was over before it began. Except she went on.
“But I figure if there was any way to roast Jaxson, it would have to be just like he makes his movies. Overdone.”
Hearty guffaws and an explosion of laughter rippled around the fire. This was encouragement enough to keep Emma on a roll.
“Jaxson has always had an eye for talent. He saw potential in me ten years ago. I’m forever grateful for that. And now, well, now we have Frank. Clearly, Jaxson’s lost his touch. What can I say? You had a good run while it lasted.”
This was met with a mixture of whoops and boos. Frank crossed his arms like he was offended or something, but it was obvious they’d rehearsed this.
“Well, you know, Emma, as much as I might agree with you on some points, let’s not forget we’re here to honour the man of the hour.”
