“Thanks.”
While she waited, Jenna looked around. The grocery store was much larger than she remembered, not quaint at all. It was fully modern and she could see an aisle selling books, another section for movies to rent or buy, and, on the other side, a sit-down bakery/café. It’s funny how different a memory of a place could be.
“Here it is!” The salesgirl said. “Would you like to pay here or up front?”
“Can I pay at the bakery?” Jenna wanted to sit down with a cup of coffee to look through the photos.
“Sure!”
She took the photos and headed over to the café.
Cappuccino in hand, she sat at a corner table and opened the envelope. Nostalgia gave way to trepidation, remembering the diary entry. Who knew what might be lurking on this roll of film.
Chapter 19
The photos turned out to be mostly of them out on a ski boat. There were shots of she and Airika together, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, making faces, Airika pushing Jenna off the boat where Zach swam around grinning, Jenna getting up on a wakeboard, and one of Jenna and Airika floating on a big inner-tube, their cheesy grins aimed right at the camera. Then there was a series of shots of the lake. An artistic close-up of the water after a pebble fell in, rippling the glassy surface. Another shot of a dock Jenna recognized from nearby the boat beach. The sun sank down below the mountainous horizon through the legs of the dock. It was striking—clean lines, good perspective and depth. Did I take that? She wondered.
The next series revealed sunsets full of pinks, oranges, reds, purples and a velvety navy sky taken from different parts of the beach. A sort of time-lapse panorama.
Finally, she got to the last shot, the one she’d had enlarged without seeing (against the sales girl’s recommendation). It was different than the image she’d had in her head, but effective nonetheless. She was mostly in silhouette, exposing the sapphire blue of the sky and lake outside, but the little crystals glowed like the embers of a campfire, throwing light haphazardly around the room. The effect was half fashion editorial (maybe she still had some modeling chops, after all) and half horror film, with irregular up-lighting on her face and neck.
The longer she stared, the less she recognized herself. The image took on a life of its own. Her pose was angular and imposing. Her expression looked intimidating, even sinister in the harsh lighting—a look unseen in her daily repertoire. It frightened her to have that kind of anger lurking just below the surface. She was terrified she might be angry forever.
She quickly repacked the photos into the envelope and braced herself for the cold walk back to the cabin. Big white flakes fell from the sky as soon as she stepped outside. She gave herself a mental pat on the back for dressing appropriately—the right choice in the battle of fashion versus function.
On the ground in front of her, littered by some rude passerby, lay a tabloid photo of her husband sitting at a table on a hotel balcony across from a woman with sharply layered blonde hair, exactly like Airika’s, and a caption that read “Finding Love in Spain: Alex Anders out with another woman? Does Jenna know?” She stuffed it in her pocket, hating herself for not leaving it there on the ground where it belonged. She told herself not to give it credence. Most stories are contrived and planted for publicity; she heard her voice repeating the same monologue she’d often recited to Felicity, finding it wholly unconvincing. The snow whipped around, biting the skin of her exposed cheeks, thankfully giving her somewhere else to direct attention.
As she made her way toward the lake, the wind at full gale turned the blowing snow into a whiteout. It was like navigating a thick white maze, guided more by gravity than sight. She stuffed the photos inside her jacket to keep them dry. After a few slips and a close call with a snowplow barreling up the road, she made it back to the cabin, kicking the accumulated snow off her boots, jacket and hat.
Inside it was freezing. She flipped the light switch on to read the thermostat, only to realize the power was out. She couldn’t bear the thought of freezing to death in this cabin, that tabloid being her last visual.
Flashlight, she thought, scavenging drawers and cupboards to no avail. She looked at the fireplace and noticed that there was wood already in it. She didn’t know the first thing about lighting fires, but what better time to learn? Next to the fireplace was a pile of extra logs and butane lighter.
On TV they always lit some sort of newspaper or something first. She looked around. Nothing. A smile spread across her face as she pulled the tabloid out of her pocket, relishing each crumpling sound, placing it neatly between the logs. She took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. A small flame shot from the lighter and … Poof! The paper caught fire quickly, black smoke filling the small fireplace. A few loud crackle pops followed as the flame spread across the ready-to-burn logs, stretching upward.
It seemed apropos that the tabloid smoke was black, but there was an awful lot of it. Was it supposed to fill the room? She spluttered a cough, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Probably not. She looked around for some sort of vent. A black wrought iron handle protruding from the rock seemed her best bet. She jiggled it until it moved, immediately sucking the smoke up through the chimney. “I did it!”
Jenna Jax-Anders—the girl who’d never been camping, whose idea of roughing it involved room service and down pillows—lit a fire to save her life. She assumed it was cold enough to freeze to death without one. Beaming, she rubbed her hands together, body and soul warmed by the fire.
The camera, still sitting on the coffee table, reflected orange light off its lens, grabbing her attention. She put in a new roll of film. This was worth recording. She took a couple shots of the flames in the logs and then set up the self timer, as though she were taking a silly tourist shot of herself in front of some famous monument, posing in front of her very first fire.
Her spirits weren’t even dampened by the realization that all the other appliances were electric, and she had no way of cooking for herself. There was only one thing she could think to make, though she’d never done it before, but always wanted to. She found the ingredients needed (having conveniently shoved them into her basket on her earlier shopping expedition at Zach’s insistence), including the wire hanger for optimal marshmallow roasting. Carefully laying out the graham crackers and chocolate on a plate, she speared a big fluffy marshmallow and stuck it right into the thick of the flames. It caught fire quicker than she expected and she extinguished it, the thin black skin sliding off its gooey flesh. Her second attempt was more of a golden brown bubbly effect: the perfect S’more.
With a belly full of the most delicious dessert of all time, and a roaring fire of her own making, she curled up on the couch, settled in for the night. Aside from paranoia about burning the house down if she left the room, there wasn’t another heat source, making the couch the best spot in the house.
A week ago, if someone had told her this is where she’d be, she’d have had them committed. It was unfathomable that her whole world and sense of self could be flipped upside down so quickly. She’d had the perfect devoted husband. A loyal best friend. Her biggest concern was buying amazing one of-a-kind dresses and looking great for her anniversary, trying to make her husband happy. Even her teenage daughter was pretty perfect. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She played sports. Got good grades. She was confident and capable, the opposite of her mother.
Chastising herself for having been so vapid and gullible, a conversation with Alex came back to her. It had to have been around the time Felicity started kindergarten, a particularly low point in Alex’s career.
“I bumped into Ella Ryan today,” she’d said, unloading groceries in the kitchen. Alex had looked up briefly from his laptop, grunting in response. “She mentioned a couple modeling jobs she thought might be perfect for me.”
“Oh yeah?” Alex said, still not listening.
“Yeah. Maybe I should get some new headshots?” She grabbed the milk, turning to put in the fridge.
“Why would you want to go back to modeling? I thought you said it was a shallow industry, that you were basically an object.”
“I did. No, I don’t want to be a model. It just sounded like fun.” She busied herself, turning everything in the fridge label side out.
“Jenna, I already told you, if you’re worried about money, you don’t need to … ” he started, sighing.
“No, no, that’s not it. Never mind. You’re right, it’s shallow and stupid.”
He looked up at her, concern etched into the creases in his forehead.
“I think I forgot something in the car,” she said, excusing herself from the tension.
That was the last time she’d ever mentioned getting a job. She didn’t want to work if it meant making Alex feel like a bad husband. But now the memory felt different. Now all the rules had changed. And she was changing too.
Chapter 20
It was dark when Trey dropped Felicity off at her grandparents’. The silence chilled the air between them as they made their way up the gravel driveway. Felicity gave no indication of wanting to talk about what happened at the party.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.
She pulled off her helmet and handed it to him, not looking up. “Fine.” She slung her backpack over one shoulder, waved and mumbled something that sounded like “see you tomorrow.”
She didn’t look back, keeping her head down, looking at her feet hitting gravel on their way to the door. Before she reached it, it flung open. She jumped, momentarily forgetting her anger.
“Cici! There you are!” Anya said. Felicity adjusted her backpack. “I was worried sick!” Anya hugged her like she’d been returned by deranged kidnappers.
“I’m fine.” Guilt for making her grandmother worry overrode the anger she’d been stewing in. She should have called. It wasn’t like her to take off and not check in. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” Anya asked. It was the worst question to be asked when trying not to cry. She couldn’t withstand her grandmother’s imploring look and the tears started flowing.
“Oh Cici, what happened?” Anya hugged her, wrapped both arms around her like a small child, and kissed the top of her head. “Shhhh. Shhhhh. It’s okay. Shhhhh.”
“Is it true?” Felicity sniffed.
Anya took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye. “If you’re asking what I think you are, then, honestly, I’m not sure. I don’t think we know the whole story.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I didn’t think we should say anything until we knew if it would blow over.” Anya maintained eye contact with her granddaughter, carefully watching her face turn from anger to confusion to concern.
“I’m not a baby. I’m sick of being treated like I can’t handle anything. I know a lot more than anyone gives me credit for.”
“I know you do, Cic. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just wanted to protect you.” Felicity thought about that. Her grandmother had always treated her like an adult from the time she was a little girl. The fact that she’d hidden it disconcerted Felicity more than the separation itself.
“It’s been a week.” Felicity said.
Her mom carried out a dramatic scene for a few hours, at most. She was always back and ready for the next round of theatrics before her perfect chestnut hair could fall flat. As over-reactive as she was, Felicity had never seen her move out, or even threaten to.
“Why hasn’t my dad called?”
Now in full-on detective mode, she wanted answers. In the moment it took Anya to respond, Felicity regretted asking. Before she could hear the official answer, she preempted, “It was his fault, wasn’t it? The fight?”
Anya nodded. “There are two sides to everything.”
“Can’t he just apologize?” Her voice cracked. The sad look on Anya’s face told her all she needed but hoped she wouldn’t have to know.
“You girls ready for dinner?” Shawn asked, poking his head around the corner.
“I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed.” Felicity said, slipping past him up the stairs to her room.
“Suit yourself. If you change your mind later, I’ll leave some leftovers in the fridge.” His chipper mood couldn’t penetrate the wall of tension he’d walked into.
After Felicity went upstairs and they heard her door close, Anya told Shawn what happened with Felicity. For a giant celebrity, he was still just a bloke from Woop-Woop, Australia. He had a relentlessly optimistic outlook on life, and not much knowledge of the inner workings of the female psyche.
“Ahh, she’ll be ‘right.”
Anya wasn’t sure to which ‘she’ he referred, especially since he often used the same phrase after burning a sausage.
Shawn’s musical career as a touring musician had been relatively short. He was on the road for five years before the band split up. By the time he ventured into his solo career (at Anya’s urging), he was in a position, both leverage-wise and financially, to hit the summer tour circuit and add select dates throughout the rest of the year. It meant that he was around for most of Jenna’s childhood, unlike Alex for Felicity.
Shawn’s success came through smart use of his publishing royalties and by writing and producing for other artists. That’s how he got to live out his childhood fantasy of creating a home studio (a feat far more ambitious in the analog days). He’d been able to make a good living off music with as few dealings with the dark underbelly of the industry as possible. His was not the usual tale.
Alex’s career followed the more stereotypical path. He’d been in countless bands over the years, from punk to emo to rock, playing to drunks and a handful of fans, at every seedy bar and club around LA. He even did some solo stuff at one point that no one paid any attention to. His die-hard fans stuck by him while band members cycled out through drugs, alcohol and creative politics, but their numbers were never impressive enough to propel the band to that next level.
Fans attributed his not signing a record deal as his “fuck you” to the music industry. It gave him credibility that he’d been riding on for years, but as he watched his contemporaries sign record deals and sell out shows, he had to admit he was frustrated by his inability to get that kind of industry validation.
Success had only come recently, to the uproars and occasional death-threats from his die-hard fans. Some of the more virulent and outspoken ones (angry that his music had been featured on a soda commercial) blogged that he was the “worst kind of sell-out,” “a pussy-whipped loser because his wife was sick of him living off her trust fund as he trifled in the shadow of his famous (and more talented) father-in-law.”
Though Alex considered himself a pretty secure man, it wasn’t easy to read that stuff, especially because at the heart of it was a grain of truth. Shawn knew the cruel realities of the industry as well as the dichotomy between his passion and practical pursuits of The Dream. He liked Alex. He’d never blamed him or held it against him that he hadn’t broken in earlier, though of course he’d offered to help.
Alex wanted to do it on his own. Shawn respected that. He knew Alex’s priorities were where they should be. And as a father, he appreciated the adoration shown his daughter, though the circumstances of their marriage were less than desirable, to say the least. This business with Airika kissing Alex seemed out of character, and Shawn was content to calmly wait for the truth to be revealed in time. Unlike Anya.
“Hungry?” He asked again. Anya smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Famished.”
They ate in comfortable silence. Their approaches to dealing with conflict differed, but they were united in parenthood.
Chapter 21
“Hi Dad, it’s me. Again.” Felicity stalled, not sure what to say in yet another voicemail. “Um, I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’m worried about you. Call me back, kay?”
She hung up, hating her whiny tone. For as long as she could remember, her dad had checked in with her at least once a day whenever
he was on tour, even if it was just a quick text. It had been four days since his last text and that had been a photo of an old bookshop on a cobblestone street. He hadn’t even attached a caption, let alone explained anything.
Felicity played the part of messenger in her parents’ fights often enough, but typically they involved things like who was supposed to do the shopping, or the old standby: “I told you I had that thing to go to tonight. You just forgot.” That always got Jenna in a snit and then Felicity would go from one to the other relaying messages until they made up or her mom cooled off, whichever came first.
But in all the years of mediating, she’d never seen anything on par with what was going on now. If she didn’t know better she’d have suspected another woman. But he would never cheat. Never. She’d bet her life on it.
There must be a simpler explanation. Obviously it involved their anniversary, since that’s when it happened, but Felicity helped him plan the whole thing—from the backyard winter wonderland transformation to the surprise renewal of their vows. She knew her mom would have loved it.
“Beeep!” She leaned out the window and signaled “just a minute” before running down the stairs to meet Trey. She shouted a quick, “Bye” over her shoulder and slung her backpack on as she shut the front door. Trey waved and handed her a helmet.
“You ready?” He asked.
“Sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” Her cheeks flushed thinking about how she’d behaved.
“Yeah, what was that about?” He asked.
“Sadie was just being … Sadie. I shouldn’t have let her get under my skin.” Trey nodded, shrugged, and let the kickstand up.
“Shall we?” He asked.
She nodded and grabbed hold of his waist as they took off.
***
“Why is she here?” Alex said, glaring between Airika and Simon. Simon put up his hands.
“Mate, hear me out. She’s under contract for the tour and we wouldn’t want a lawsuit, would we?” He raised an authoritative brow. “Plus, didn’t she do a great job for your last cover?” Another pause met with steely silence. “Yes! She did. The label loved it. I loved it. Everyone loved it. So this’ll be fine. We’re all big boys here.” He glanced over at Airika. “And lass.”
Rock My World Page 8
