by Grace Palmer
The best way to find out if something is bothering a person is just to ask, of course, but now is not the time. Richard hates being interrupted while he’s playing cards.
Georgia sets the sandwich down next to her husband. “Sure,” she says. “Good luck!”
Another “back pocket memory” pops up in her head. It was one of the first times Richard had gone off to play poker at the house game down the way. He’d come back around eleven or twelve at night, bright-eyed and cheery, with a not-insignificant stack of winnings in his chest pocket. “My Lady Luck!” he’d crowed happily as soon as he opened the front door and saw her. “My goddess of fortune!” He’d pounced across the room and swept her up in a kiss that quickly went from chaste to not-so-much. She’d swatted him in the chest—“Put me down, Richard; there are guests upstairs!”—but she was laughing all the while. For a while afterwards, every time he went out to gamble, he’d make Georgia kiss him on the forehead and wish him luck.
He hasn’t done that in a long time now.
Georgia vows to check in with her husband that evening, when they can have a quiet moment together away from the guests. She’s sure it’s no big deal, but it’s always good to confirm that. For now, though, it’s lunchtime.
She takes her lunch past the front desk, through the breakfast room, and out through the French doors that lead onto the patio. Only a short, handmade boardwalk, bordered by scrubby bushes, separates the patio from the beach. She loves watching the lizards skitter across the weathered planks, half engulfed by sand.
Sitting down in a seat at the wicker table, Georgia takes a bite of her sandwich. A seagull cries and takes off into the sky, which has turned a lovely azure blue above the last vestiges of morning fog.
It is the most perfect place in the whole world, in Georgia’s humble opinion. As long as she has this, she is happy.
2
Tasha
The sky in Los Angeles is a perfect, cloudless blue—as long as Tasha Baldwin doesn’t look too closely at the smog hovering on the horizon.
Tasha’s phone trills from her pocket. She stops to readjust her grip on the two dog leashes before answering it, balancing the phone on her shoulder precariously as Augustus threatens to pull her arm from its socket.
“Hello?”
“Finally, you answered,” comes the clipped, irritated voice of her boss, Candace Walker. “I just got home and my dry cleaning isn’t here.”
Tasha struggles to pluck the phone from her shoulder so she can check the time. It is two in the afternoon. “Oh, I thought you weren’t going to be back until three. I’m just walking the dogs and I was going to head over to the dry cleaner’s after.”
Candace sighs. She could scuttle a fleet of ships with the power of one of her famous sighs. The very sound makes Tasha cringe.
“I told you that I was finishing my meeting early.”
She didn’t, but Tasha doesn’t say this. It would only cause more problems. “I’m so sorry. I’ll head back now. I can run to the cleaners and have it in your closet by 2:45.”
Tasha turns on her heel and starts marching back, tugging Augustus and Poncho behind her. Augustus is a Great Dane who would have no problem ripping her arm off if the right smell tickled his nose, and that makes things difficult as he has stopped at a fire hydrant to sniff. Poncho, a tiny Pomeranian who often bosses around the bigger dog, is already prancing ahead with an upturned nose that has always reminded Tasha of his haughty owner.
“And deny my babies their proper exercise? I don’t think so. What are you thinking? Jeez, you’re thoughtless sometimes.”
Tasha turns around again. “Sorry. I just—”
“Whatever. I don’t need my dress until this evening. I guess I’ll just have to wait.” Candace hangs up the phone without another word.
Tasha rolls her eyes. Why bother complaining if she doesn’t need the dress until tonight? Sometimes Tasha feels like Candace only hired her so she would have someone to let out her frustrations on. And Candace has oh-so-many frustrations.
“Come on, guys.” Tasha tugs the dogs forward and shoves her phone back in her pocket. Augustus has stopped at the fire hydrant again. He seems determined to categorize every single dog who has ever visited.
Tasha spies another dog walker across the street, trying to shift a feisty Weimaraner past a very tempting Pekinese on the lap of a woman at a coffee shop. Beverly Hills is full of them this time of day—“them” being dog walkers, though there are plenty of fancy lapdogs enjoying artisanal coffee as well.
Of course, Tasha is more than just a dog walker. Or at least, she’s meant to be. She thought being the personal assistant of one of Hollywood’s A-list movie stars would mean managing Candace’s schedule and putting out fires all while mingling with the rich and famous. But, three years in, all she seems to do is run errands, walk Candace’s spoiled dogs, and languish on the receiving end of Candace’s sighs.
“How’d we get here, huh?” Tasha asks the dogs. “I thought I would be the one with a personal assistant by now.”
Augustus tries to bound after a husky-looking Saint Bernard down the street and Tasha reins him in, deciding to head back to the house. Her shoulders are groaning; keeping the dog under control takes a serious toll on her. It sure doesn’t help that Candace doesn’t believe in disciplining her pets. She probably spends more money than Tasha earns on their food, hand-crafted each week by a Michelin-starred chef, but she rarely spends any time with them. When Candace does, she inevitably complains about the fur on her clothes and Tasha is sent back to the dry cleaner to “ugh, handle it.”
Tasha takes in the scenery on the walk back—the spindly, regal palm trees, the glimmering luxury goods stores, the grass that is almost a little too green—and thinks that at least she made it to Hollywood. She’s never had a role, never sung in front of a crowd, but she’s here. And that has to count for something, right? She’s only twenty-eight. There is lots of time left for her to make her big break.
Tasha’s phone rings again and she’s relieved to see the name Chuck Foster lighting up the screen. Thanks heavens it’s her boyfriend calling her and not her employer again.
“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” she answers playfully.
Chuck doesn’t return her happy tone, or even acknowledge it. “Did you buy more lemongrass?”
Tasha rolls her eyes. Welp, maybe she would’ve preferred another call from Candace after all. “Not yet.”
“You know that I need it for my post-workout smoothies.”
“I do, Chuck, I just—”
He cuts her off. “It’s fine. I’ll go get some myself.”
Beep. Call ended.
“I love you, too,” she mutters, putting her phone away and yanking Augustus back while a sleek greyhound saunters past.
Two years she’s been with Chuck, and he has never once called just to ask how her day is. He’s like that, though. A bit self-obsessed, a bit manic. Sometimes he can be sweet as molasses and it’s easy at those times to forget all the sourness. Today, though, Tasha is in a particularly foul mood, so his tone sticks out like a sore thumb.
Things were different before the Hollywood hustle and bustle. Before Candace. Before Chuck. Tasha thinks back to Willow Beach, where she grew up, and wonders what her parents are doing. It is nearly five there, so her mom is probably settling down for a glass of wine on the patio before dinner. Her dad is almost certainly napping in front of the TV. She wishes she was there.
Life in Willow Beach passes at a different pace than it does in Hollywood. Here, everyone wants everything done right this instant, if not five minutes ago, and they talk so quickly Tasha struggled to keep up when she first moved here. Her friends still call her Small Town, a nickname she secretly loves. It reminds her of lazy summers on the beach, of licking melting ice-cream cones while watching the waves roll in. Or of those quiet winter months when half the stores close, forcing the locals into closer proximity, which made everything seem so much cozier. It remi
nds her of home.
Locals tell the tourists that Willow Beach was the inspiration for Cabot Cove, where Jessica Fletcher lives in Murder She Wrote. It does have the same rocky bluffs, a harbor full of bobbing fishing boats, and its fair share of Cape Cod houses, sure, but so do most coastal towns in Maine. Plus, having seen the set of Murder She Wrote at Universal Studios, Tasha knows the sleepy fishing town rife with murder was actually based on Kennebunkport.
Tasha lets herself into Candace’s sprawling mansion and the dogs go bounding in the second they’re off the leash. There is a surprised squeal from the living room. Uh-oh. That means Candace is still home.
“A little warning would be nice!” Candace shouts.
“Sorry!”
Tasha checks her watch. 2:25 p.m. The dry cleaner is only down the road, so she has just enough time to go and get Candace’s clothes and put them away to keep to her promised delivery time of 2:45.
She grabs her keys and is about to head out the door when she hears Candace’s stomping stiletto footsteps approaching.
Here we go.
Candace comes into view wearing a pinched expression. She is still gorgeous, of course. Long, flowing blonde hair, high cheekbones, crystalline blue eyes. Tasha has only ever seen her in flats a handful of times. Otherwise, it’s thousand-dollar heels around the clock.
Tasha, on the other hand, is almost constantly in jeans and sneakers. She keeps her long, ginger hair tied back most days, wearing makeup that accentuates her green- and gold-flecked eyes whenever she can find the time. You never know who you’re going to meet in Hollywood, after all.
“I’m out of kombucha,” Candace whines. It is more of an accusation than a statement.
“I’ll pick some up on my way back from the dry cleaner.”
“Good,” Candace says. “Go to that place downtown, though, not the one here. It tasted funny last time.”
All kombucha tastes funny, Tasha wants to tell her. It is literally rotten. But she doesn’t say that. She also doesn’t mention how inconvenient it’s going to be to drive all the way into downtown Los Angeles and back, with the insane traffic she’s going to experience both ways, which means Tasha will have to go get the dry cleaning and bring it back before making the trek into the city. Otherwise, Candace might not have her dress before this evening, and there is no way Tasha wants to be around for the fury that would invoke.
Tasha has tried reasoning with Candace before. “Fruitless” doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s Candace’s way or the highway, which means it is always Candace’s way.
“Sure.” Tasha forces a smile. “Back in a jiff.”
She leaves, not particularly unhappy about getting away from the movie star for a little while, and sings in the car the entire way to the dry cleaner, then back to the house, then back out again. Singing always calms her down. Angry, sad, stressed—singing makes her feel just a little bit better, no matter her mood.
One of these days, Tasha is going to sing for real. On stage, to a crowd of thousands of adoring fans. For now, she has an audience of a dozen cars packed around her like sardines on the I-10.
It’ll have to do.
For now.
3
Drew
It’s the bottom of the ninth inning. Drew Baldwin’s team is losing.
The crowd is sparse, but that’s nothing new. The crowd has been sparse for almost three seasons now. Drew eyes them all from his perch inside the dugout, where he is chewing a handful of sunflower seeds and waiting for his turn to bat.
Losing has come very naturally to the Rock Hill Rangers this season, and each loss has taken a toll on Drew. He’s not constitutionally suited to take defeat after defeat like the team has been doing more or less since he arrived.
It’s starting to feel like this is a dead end. He won’t ever admit that out loud, of course, or even privately. But it’s hard to deny that he has been grinding it out here for what feels like forever now with nothing to show for it. If he has any hopes of making it out of Single-A ball before he turns thirty, it has to happen soon. He is running out of time.
Brock Henderson, who is on the lineup ahead of Drew, strikes out. Drew swears he hears crickets. He spits in the dirt, frustrated.
Coach Wyburn jerks his thumb towards the plate. “Baldwin, you’re up. Don’t choke.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Drew mutters, gripping his bat and heading out to the batter’s box.
Wyburn is a jerk—that much is certain. He doesn’t matter, though. No one else does. This moment is about Drew. The rest of the world might as well not even exist, as far as he’s concerned.
The afternoon air is hot and sticky. South Carolina has never really suited Drew, but it’s where his team is based, and where his best shot at moving up in the world is, too, so he puts up with it. He makes his way to the plate and takes a few practice swings as he stares down the pitcher.
He closes his eyes for a moment and imagines that he’s back home in Maine with his dad, practicing at the rec center field like they used to do way back in the day. No one watching, no pressure. Just a bat and a ball.
Then he opens his eyes and the world rushes back in. The Rangers are two runs down with two runners on base. There are two outs on the board already, so if Drew blows it here, the game is over. It’s hard not to feel like everything will be over along with it—his career, his dreams.
So much for no pressure.
Showtime. The pitcher winds up. Drew tries to keep his hands loose on the bat, tries not to tense up. “Eye on the ball, son”—like always, his dad’s voice echoes in his mind. A trickle of sweat slides down his forehead.
The ball careens toward him. He sights it up, coils back, swings.
Contact!
But not the right kind. The ball glances off the top of his bat and flies backward into the protective netting behind home plate.
“Foul ball!” cries the umpire.
Drew takes a deep breath. He glances at Wyburn, who is scowling, as per usual. Typical. But, as before, irrelevant. Drew shuffles his feet at the plate and cocks the bat back again as the catcher tosses a fresh ball to the pitcher.
Take two.
The pitcher winds up again, cocks back, releases. Time slows down. Drew sees everything unfolding frame by frame. The ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, red stitching rotating, slicing through the air. It’s a two-seam fastball, coming high and fast right over the middle of the plate. In Drew’s eyes, it’s as big as a planet. He can’t possibly miss.
For one brief moment, he’s just a kid at the playground in Maine again, at batting practice with his dad. Everything is easy. Loose. Free.
CRACK.
He knows it’s good as soon as he hits it. There’s nothing quite like that feeling of pure, sweet, blissful contact. Poetry in motion.
Drew knows he ought to be running towards first base. That’s what all the coaches want, right? Hard effort? A guy who does all the things the right way? Yeah, of course, and he wants to be that guy when the time is right. But the time is right for something else at the moment. So he stands still at home plate, bat dangling carelessly in his hand, and watches his perfectly struck ball get going, going, gone.
It disappears behind the fence.
Home run. Game over. The Rangers win.
The few fans left in the stands burst into cheers. Drew grins and saunters off at a steady lope. He takes his time rounding the bases, holding back the urge to wave at the couple dozen folks who stuck around until now. There are not many of them, sure, but for right now, they love him. Twenty-seven years of playing ball and that feeling never gets old.
From here on out, they are going to keep winning, Drew is sure of it. This feels like a turning point.
He soaks in the adulation as he rounds second, rounds third, turns to face home. It feels good. This is the beginning of the future.
His teammates are waiting for him at home base. As he crosses the last few yards between him and them, they start cheering, chanting,
jumping. Drew leaps triumphantly onto home base to seal the victory.
“Bald-win! Bald-win!”
This is where he belongs.
They’re slapping him on the helmet in congratulations, again and again.
Too much, actually. It’s getting kind of annoying, and the sound has begun to shift. It gets louder, and sharper, and it’s more like—maybe “rapping” is the best word, he’s not sure—until it morphs into something that’s not the happy slap of victorious teammates, but rather …
Someone is tapping angrily on his car window.
Drew shoots up in a panic. He’s bleary-eyed, confused. It takes him several long moments of looking around the cab of his truck before he realizes that’s where he is. He sees the Bruce Springsteen CD on the passenger seat, the half-empty Sprite in the cupholder, the Rock Hill Rangers-branded duffel bag tossed on the floorboards.
Still knuckling sleep out of his eyes, he looks to his left to find the source of the noise. He’s stunned to see a highway patrol officer looking none too pleased to be here.
What is happening?
He’s never been a quick waker-upper. Back in high school, there were days where he’d look up in first or second period sometimes and realize he had no clue how he got out of bed, through breakfast, and over to the school building. Sort of like his consciousness was an hour or so behind his body. This feels like that all over again.
Drew rolls down the window in a hurry. “Hi—uh, hello, officer. What can I do for you?” he stammers.
“I’d like you to tell me what you’re doing pulled over on the side of the road, son.”
“Oh, I, uh …” Drew looks around the interior of the truck again like there are answers stashed somewhere. It’s a beat-up old vehicle, a hand-me-down from Dad. “I must’ve fallen asleep, sir.”
“Fallen asleep,” the man repeats dourly. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses, so it’s hard for Drew to read his expression, but it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to guess that the guy isn’t particularly thrilled to be here right now.
