by Fiona Grace
“Great,” Ali said glumly. “I have that to look forward to.”
“Now listen,” Teddy said, suddenly sounding all business. “You have got to use this to your advantage. Sort your stuff out right this instant. Find your next step, your next path, and take this moment to shine. Quick fire. Don’t think, just answer. What do you want to be? Go.”
“A pâtissier.”
He made the noise of an incorrect buzzer on a gameshow. “Wrong answer. You already blew that. Try again. Think bigger.”
“Bigger? I mean, I guess I did always picture myself running my own bakery. Baking all the things I wanted to. Wearing pearls like Julia Child. Using my creativity like Milo taught me to. I could fill the menu with exquisite French pastries and I’d never have to make another crème brûlée!”
Teddy clapped. “There you go! Now hold on to that dream, sis. Hold on to it. Visualize it. We need to put it out into the universe.”
The universe, Ali thought ruefully.
But she did as she was commanded. She closed her eyes and pictured herself as a business owner, standing proudly outside the doors of a gorgeous high-end bakery. The warm California sun shining down on her, an ocean breeze rippling through her blond braid. No, not braid. Her loose blond hair, with a perfect wave. She was her own manager. There was no Russell barking demands at her. No Otis taking her earnings. There was the dog she’d always wanted at her feet, and a hanging basket of pretty pink flowers, and a gorgeous hunky man with his top off…
“Can you see it?” came Teddy’s voice in her ear.
“I can see it,” she said dreamily.
“Wanna know how you make it happen?”
“Yes,” she said, licking her lips at the sun-kissed golden skin of her dream heartthrob.
“Come to Willow Bay with me tomorrow.”
Ali frowned. She opened her eyes. The gorgeous beach hunk of her dreams disappeared as she was transported back to her lonely apartment.
“Where?” she asked.
“Willow Bay. It’s near Venice. There’s this boardwalk I’ve never been to, full of new stores. Food stores. They’re having a food festival tomorrow. You could do some networking. Ask for some advice.”
“Networking?” Ali said with a grimace. “That sounds a bit actorish.”
“Say you’ll come. Step one of your new life. Please?”
Ali hesitated. It wasn’t like she had anything better going on. No job. No boyfriend. May as well eat her way through her woes. That was step one to healing a broken heart, after all.
“Fine,” she said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Whimsical was the first word that came to Ali’s mind as her car crested the hill and the small town of Willow Bay opened up before her.
Like most California beach towns, it was surrounded by tree-covered hills. But the architecture wasn’t like anything she’d seen before. At least not in California. The buildings were three and four stories high, like townhouses, with flat facades and huge windows. They were painted bright colors and had large wooden doors. In fact, it looked to Ali like every building had been transported there straight from Havana. The tall rainbow houses went all the way from the hills to the seafront, like a staircase for a giant toddler.
It was so quirky and unique, Ali thought it would make a good location for a film. Then she immediately shook away the thought. Films had actors. Otis was an actor. The last thing she wanted to think about right now was her ex-boyfriend.
She parked and exited her car, choosing instead to think about how nice it was to get out of the city for once. The haze and heat of LA could get a bit much sometimes, without the ocean air to blow away the car fumes. But in Willow Bay, the air was positively refreshing. And instead of the background hum of traffic, there was the gentle sound of surf against the shoreline, and the crooning of seagulls overhead.
Ali took a deep, relaxing breath. Even the sun against her skin felt less oppressive here. More like a caress than an assault of harsh UV rays.
She followed the palm tree–lined path down to the cove. Here, the golden sand was dotted with multicolored beach umbrellas for the sunbathers. Barefoot joggers zigzagged between them. A solitary artist sat on a stool painting the aquamarine water, which was calm enough for paddle boarding. There was even a gondola, Ali noticed with delight, amending her initial impression of Willow Bay as Havana, to Havana mixed with Italy.
To her right, there was a wooden archway with the words Yacht Harbor carved into it, and signs advertising fishing, boating, an aquarium, and a museum. In the other direction was a boardwalk brimming with colorful storefronts, which ran parallel to the beach. Coming off it was a pier filled with fairground rides.
Ali took a long, deep breath. Willow Bay was wonderful. A vibrant, buzzing, wholly unique place. She felt suddenly as if she was standing at the epicenter of the universe, in a place designed just for her.
Ali began walking along the boardwalk. She’d arranged to meet Teddy at the entrance to the food festival, and could see a cordoned off area in the distance of bright parasols and picnic tables and the billowing smoke of barbecues. As she strolled, she was pleasantly surprised to see there wasn’t a single franchise store in sight. Every store she passed was independent, selling everything from tacky tourist souvenirs to vintage clothes, fried donuts to little pots of steaming clam chowder. It was a real mix, and everything was unified with a joyful energy.
Ali reached the entrance to the food festival and sniffed the amazing aromas of barbecue ribs, pulled pork, and rotisserie chicken. She was glad Teddy had cajoled her into this. It beat sitting at home wallowing in her misery.
As Ali leaned against the railings to wait for Teddy, a couple walked past her into the festival, hand in hand, with big, smug smiles plastered onto their faces.
Give it three years, Ali thought. See how smug you feel when you can’t pry his eyes away from his computer games.
Her gaze roved across the pretty wooden beach houses. Families sat around fold-out tables in swimwear and with sopping wet hair. Happy families always intrigued Ali. Not that hers was exceptionally messy, but they’d never be able to peacefully visit a beach together like that. Hannah’s kids would be tearing up the place for starters, while her anxiety-prone husband, Jackson, tried his best to preempt every trip or spill they might make—something he always failed at, which only served to rile his children further and disappoint his wife all at the same time. Then her mom would find something to complain about—too hot, too windy, not enough shade, too many seagulls—and then there’d be the ever-present unspoken absence of her father. In a nutshell, it would be fraught.
The shrill ring of her phone brought Ali out of her ruminations. Teddy’s name flashed on the screen. He was probably calling to tell her he was running late. That was very typical of her big brother.
She answered the call. “Let me guess, you’re stuck on the I-10. You’ll be fifteen minutes, but actually thirty, so I may as well do a recce and scout out a spot for lunch. Am I close?”
“Ish,” Teddy said.
“Which bit did I get wrong?”
“The I-10 bit.”
“Teddy!” Ali exclaimed. “Are you not even on the I-10 yet?”
“Bingo.”
“Where are you?” she huffed.
“West Hollywood.”
“And what the heck are you doing there?”
“I have an audition,” Teddy explained. “My agent called me an hour ago. It’s all been very last minute. Apparently the super straight director from yesterday thought I might be suitable for a role in his friend’s show, and passed on my details. I’m so sorry. I’ll come as soon as it’s over.”
“How long will that be?”
“Honestly, sis, I don’t know. A few hours. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes, obviously,” Ali said, though she was a bit put out. Being ditched by two guys for auditions, two days in a row, put something of a dent in her ego. “But wha
t am I going to do in the meantime? And don’t say scout out a place for lunch. That’s not going to kill a few hours, is it?”
“Walk on the beach. Swim. Flirt with a paddle boarder. I don’t know. Use your imagination.”
“All right, all right,” Ali said. Teddy could be trying sometimes. “Good luck with your audition. I mean, break a leg. Whatever.”
“Thanks.”
The call ended. Ali stared at the cell phone in her hand, then sighed and shoved it deep inside her pocket. She peered around, squinting against the glare of the sun. Her gaze fell to the pier, and the fairground rides and arcades dotted along it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to kill a few hours after all.
*
The entrance of the pier was flanked on either side by fast food kiosks. The smells of sugary donuts and greasy fries mingled deliciously in the air.
Ali paused and sniffed the aromas.
“Watch your back!” a voice cried.
Ali turned just in time for a roller skater in nothing but tight Speedos to streak past her in a blur. The wheels of his skates made a rhythmic beat on the wooden planks of the pier. Ali smiled, and took her first step onto the wooden boards.
She strolled slowly, letting the ocean air stir her hair. She reached a carousel. It was designed to look like a traditional French one, with gaudily painted horses. Creepy circus music played through its speakers as the carousel turned round and round with a couple of chubby toddlers squealing with delight.
Beyond the carousel was a mini children’s roller coaster. The train was designed to look like a bright pink worm, with a tunnel shaped like a big red apple.
Right at the end of the pier stood a yellow Ferris wheel. It had a distinctly ’90s feel to its design and color scheme, with large patches of rust blemishing the mechanism and carts. Ali could picture it in its heyday, pristine and swarming with kids with side ponytails and high-top sneakers.
But no sooner had Ali conjured the image of it in her mind’s eye than she suddenly realized it wasn’t her imagination at all. It was a memory. She’d been here before! She’d been the kid with a side ponytail and high-top sneakers!
Ali couldn’t remember when exactly she’d stood at this very spot, but the memory was strong, vivid, and full of nostalgia. The seagulls soaring through the sky behind the Ferris wheel, the flashing lights, even the creepy fairground music was the same. And she could remember she was holding hands with her father.
It all came back to Ali in a sudden rush, a long forgotten memory resurfacing as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Her tugging on her dad’s hand, leading him across the pier to the Ferris wheel, desperate to ride it. She couldn’t have been much older than ten because she’d stopped holding hands with him around that age. She remembered that clearly, because shortly after, her parents had divorced, and she’d always wondered if he’d taken it as a sign that she didn’t need him anymore. Of course, she knew now, as an adult woman, that relationships were significantly more complicated than that. But the ten-year-old inside of her couldn’t let that thought go. And it was so far from the truth. She’d never stopped needing him, even though his phone calls became less and less frequent, even though she’d raged at him as a teenager because he was never physically there and a disembodied voice on a phone couldn’t substitute for the real thing, and even when she gave him the cold shoulder at graduation because he’d let a whole year lapse without calling and hadn’t even sent a birthday card. She even needed him now, even though years had passed since he’d contacted her and she was full of bitter rage. Perhaps if he was here now, she’d feel less unmoored. Perhaps her breakup wouldn’t hurt so much if she had a cuddle from her dad for comfort. Perhaps being unemployed wouldn’t be so scary with her dad there to tell her everything would be okay.
At that very moment, Ali saw a man waving at her. Her heart stopped.
It was him. It was her dad.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ali couldn’t believe her eyes. Her heart soared. She went flying along the pier, toward the Ferris wheel, waving at her father.
But as she got a little closer, her hopes were dashed. The man was not her father at all. He couldn’t be. He was too young, at forty-something, the age she remembered him being, rather than the sixty-odd he would be now.
Disappointed, Ali drew to a halt. She watched as a young blond girl—the girl the man was actually waving at—hurried up to him and took his hand.
They headed for the Ferris wheel together, hand in hand, just as Ali and her dad had done all those years ago. Ali couldn’t help but wonder if the same fate that had befallen her was on this child’s horizon. She got the urge to run over and cry, “Don’t trust him! He’ll let you down!” but she held herself back, because in all likelihood, this child’s father would be a better man than hers.
“The one you love is closer than you think,” a voice suddenly whispered in Ali’s ear.
Ali jumped. She turned her head sharply over her shoulder and came face to face with a rhesus macaque.
The monkey blinked at her, with disconcertingly human mischief in its eyes.
Ali screeched and staggered back. “What did you just say?”
The macaque cackled and darted back, revealing it was standing on the shoulder of a woman.
The woman gazed at Ali with soft, mysterious eyes of a brilliant emerald green. The long black wavy hair that trailed down her back was adorned with colored threads and beads.
Recovering at last from her shock, Ali took in the woman from head to toe. She was dressed in a vibrantly patterned skirt that reached right down to her toes, and a white cropped peasant top with puffed sleeves. The macaque on her shoulder was also wearing clothes—a little red waist coat stitched with gold, and matching bloomers, like the ringleader of a circus. All that was missing was a top hat.
Ali grimaced. This woman was probably panhandling, using a cute monkey as a gimmick to get more cash off the tourists. Ali herself had no patience for people who kept wild animals as pets, especially ones who dressed them up like mini humans.
The woman batted her long black lashes at Ali and smiled. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant smile. There was an eeriness to it.
“The one you love is closer than you think,” she said again, her European accent like honey in Ali’s ears. Then she gestured with her jewelry-adorned hand toward a wagon.
It was a proper Romani caravan, painted dark green with a swirling floral motif on the side. A set of wooden stairs led up to the doors. Painted above them in an arc were the words Lavinia Leigh. LOVE. LIFE. LUCK.
A fortune teller, Ali thought, dispassionately. Just what I need.
Ali had no time for the world of tarot cards and clairvoyance. To her, fortune tellers were just people with a knack for spotting the emotionally vulnerable and telling them some generic information that could apply to at least half the population. It didn’t take a genius to work out that a slightly forlorn-looking thirty-something woman was going through a breakup.
“I don’t need my fortune told,” she told the woman sharply.
The macaque yipped.
“Are you sure?” Lavinia asked, tickling her monkey under the chin. “Because Django seems to think you do.”
Ali had to stop herself from snorting her distaste. She was even less inclined to listen to a fortune teller who pretended her pet monkey was some kind of empath!
“I’m pretty sure Django doesn’t give a crap about me,” Ali replied, coolly. “I’m just waiting for someone.”
“Your father,” Lavinia said.
The word hit Ali like a freight train. Her eyes widened.
“What? Why did you say that?” she demanded.
Lavinia said nothing. She merely gestured once again to her caravan.
Ali folded her arms.
“I’m not going in there,” she said, stubbornly.
Just then, Django the macaque sprang onto Ali’s shoulder and started clambering all over her like some kind of spider. As much as Ali loved an
imals, she wasn’t particularly thrilled to have a monkey scrabbling around in her hair.
“Can you get the monkey off me?” Ali asked, feeling him settle on the top of her head like some kind of hat.
Lavinia shrugged. “Django has chosen you.”
Ali rolled her eyes. She knew how this went. The only way the monkey would get off was if she agreed to let the woman tell her fortune.
“Fine,” she sighed, admitting defeat. “I’ll take the reading.”
Just like that, Django bounded off her head and back onto the fortune teller’s shoulder.
He grinned, baring his pointy little fangs.
Ali patted down her tangled hair and straightened her rumpled clothes.
“After you,” Lavinia said, calmly, gesturing with her arm toward the open door of the caravan.
Reluctantly, Ali clomped up the wooden steps.
It was dark inside the caravan, which was lit only by a couple of candles. The small space smelled strongly of incense and varnished wood, though not strongly enough to cover up the aroma of Django’s urine.
The monkey scurried past Ali and leapt through the open doors of a cage. He started swinging back and forth on a swing inside.
“Take a seat,” came Lavinia’s voice from behind.
Ali flopped down onto the wooden stool, and the woman inched past, crouching so as not to hit her head on the ornate brass oil lamp hanging from the ceiling.
“How much is this going to cost me?” Ali asked.
“You’ve already paid,” Lavinia said, mysteriously, taking the seat opposite her.
Ali decided not to press it. If this crazy woman wanted to tell her fortune for free, then fine. She had a few hours to kill anyway.
“Where are your tarot cards?” Ali asked, looking at the blank tabletop between them.
“I’m a psychic,” Lavinia said. “I don’t use cards. I just need to tune into your frequency.”
