by Susan Wiggs
“That’s what Greg and I are thinking. Between the Bellamys and the Romanos, we’ve got more than enough stuff for the little guy, so the trick is to sort everything out and arrange it. But there’s a problem. I don’t know where to start.” She made a helpless gesture with her arms.
The stacks of boxes were intimidating, some labeled, most not. Mismatched items of furniture were shoved up against the walls—a chest of drawers, pieces of a crib, nightstands and lamps. The air smelled of sunshine and dust and disuse.
“A wise woman once told me to do the next indicated thing,” Sonnet reminded her. “Oh, that’s right. That would be my mother.”
“Gosh, I was annoying, wasn’t I?”
“Only because you were usually right.”
“Don’t be nice to me just because I have cancer.”
Sonnet hated hearing those words. She hated them with a vengeance. But it only made her more determined to stay positive. “How about I’m nice to you because you’re my mom and you’re awesome?” She opened the first dusty box, which was marked “baby things” in her mother’s handwriting. Brittle leaves of tissue paper covered the contents. She pulled the tissue aside to find a collection of folded clothes and blankets. There was a tiny smocked shirt with whales swimming across the chest, a pair of hand-knit booties, woven blankets and little toys and teething rings.
“Those were yours,” her mother said, her eyes misting up. “Wow. I haven’t seen these things in ages.” She held up a yellow romper with an owl on it. “Look how tiny you were.”
“And now you’re doing it all over again,” Sonnet said. “That’s exciting, Mom. It’s very cool.”
“It’s such a blessing, Sonnet. Such a gift, I can’t even describe it. I am excited.”
Sonnet tried to imagine what that must be like, expecting a baby and dealing with cancer at the same time. The only thing she felt was sick to her stomach. “So what do you want to do with this stuff?” she asked. “Store it away, or keep it for the new baby?”
“Well, if it’s a boy, some of this won’t work, but I’d love to pass on some of your favorite things. Unless you’d prefer I save them for your babies?”
Sonnet rolled her eyes. “I’m not even close to thinking about that.”
“I’m just assuming you will be, one day.”
“Maybe.” Sonnet’s “one day” seemed as distant as a dream. “Don’t save anything for me, Mom. Use whatever you like. I think it’s great that you get to do that.”
“All right, then. I’ll make two stacks. Then we can— Oh, Sonnet. Look.” She held up a doll-sized gown, with white-on-white embroidery, the front covered in tiny pleats. Held to the light, the fabric seemed as wispy as a cloud. “It’s your christening gown. You wore this at your baptism at St. Mary’s. Oh, my gosh. What a day that was.” Her gaze softened as she studied the delicate garment, her finger tracing a line of embroidery. Nina had been a single mother, but one with a big, supportive family who probably all gathered for the event.
“You were so young,” Sonnet said quietly. “Did you even understand how your life would change?”
“Not a clue. What kid that age has a clue? I was that cautionary tale, the girl they all pointed at and whispered about, you know? ‘That Romano girl’ became code for ‘town slut.’”
“Ah, Mom, that makes me hurt for you.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I was—and still am—blessed with an incredible family who supported and loved me no matter what. And in the end, I got to claim the ultimate reward—you.”
“Yes, but I hate what you had to go through.”
“I don’t remember hating it. Your father was a cadet at West Point when we met at Avalon Meadows Country Club. Cadets were the ultimate forbidden fruit, because they weren’t allowed to marry while they were at West Point. There was nothing to hate, just a beautiful evening, a boy who…well, without going into too much detail…”
“Thanks.” Sonnet braced herself.
“I want you to know, you weren’t a mistake, but a blessing. I’m sure your father sees you the same way.”
“I’m not sure how he sees me,” Sonnet confessed.
“He’s a very responsible person. The only reason I didn’t let him know I was pregnant with you was that he would have insisted on taking responsibility for you, and that would have forced him to withdraw from the U.S. Military Academy.”
“Did he ever object to the fact that he never got the chance to choose for himself?”
“Yes, but ultimately, I think he was relieved that he didn’t have to make a really difficult choice.”
Sonnet didn’t love the idea that she’d been anyone’s difficult choice. She was grateful to her mother that Nina hadn’t hesitated to turn a moment of hormone-driven madness into a lifetime commitment. That wasn’t the right choice for every teen mom, but Sonnet was one of the lucky ones.
“So you waited to tell him until he finished West Point and got his commission,” she said.
“Yes, and at that point, he sent child support like clockwork. I don’t think his opponent in the campaign is going to be able to make much out of this,” Nina said. Her dark eyes softened with memories. “I was still only a kid myself. Nowadays, I’d be on an MTV series.”
“Thank God you weren’t.” Sonnet shuddered. Although grateful her mom had always been completely open about her conception and birth, she was also glad to safeguard her privacy. She prayed her dad’s campaign would not breach that wall. Sonnet had been the result of a night of irresistible impulse and raging hormones, and a decision that changed the course of Nina’s life. “You gave up so much for me,” she added.
“I gained so much more from being your mom than I sacrificed.”
“Aw, Mom. Thanks.” Sonnet gave her another hug. “And thanks for never letting me feel like a mistake.”
Nina tightened her arms around Sonnet. “Let’s get one thing straight, missy. You were never a mistake.”
Chapter Eight
Zach regarded the people at the meeting with horror. “Are you serious?”
It probably wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to say about a reality show concept that had been months in the making, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself.
C. Bomb slapped his hands on his knees and laughed. “We knew you’d love it,” he said. “Don’t we all love it, people?”
Around the long table in the conference room at the Inn at Willow Lake, heads nodded emphatically. It was just Zach’s luck that C. Bomb’s headquarters turned out to be the inn belonging to Nina and Greg Bellamy. Nina was beyond pissed at him for telling Sonnet about her cancer, though he knew he’d do it all over again given the chance. A person deserved to know something so basic and so serious about her mother. If Sonnet ever discovered that Zach knew the truth and didn’t tell her, there would be hell to pay.
The producer of the reality series did not look as cool as his name. He wore pleated khakis and a golf shirt, and he constantly had a Twizzler half in and half out of his mouth, or held between his fingers like a cigar. However, he ran the meeting like a precision machine, although he didn’t seem to realize Zach’s comment wasn’t meant as a joke. He was sincerely appalled. The title and concept of the show felt like twin nightmares to Zach.
He glanced around at the other personnel gathered at the conference table, checking to see if anyone else was as appalled as he was. Instead, everyone—from the art director to the field director to the location manager to the story specia
list—leaned forward, seeming to hang on C. Bomb’s every word.
“Big Girl, Small Town. You gotta love it, right?” C. Bomb exclaimed, beaming as if he’d just discovered a cure for male pattern baldness. “It all takes place right here, in this little piece of Americana called Avalon.”
And there you had it, Zach thought glumly. He was staying right here in Avalon, like a migratory bird that had lost its way. When the production company first got in touch with him, he’d imagined a move to New York or out to L.A. to find his dream job. Instead, the job had come to him.
“And that’s not all,” the producer continued. “We’ve secured a deal to film at another location nearby—a resort called Camp Kioga.” He clicked on his computer keyboard, and a slide show started on the big screen of the conference room. Appropriate gasps arose from the team.
“That’s stunning,” said the art director, a woman clad entirely in black, with a pierced eyebrow and several visible tattoos. Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table.
Zach didn’t need to look. Not only did he know Camp Kioga like the back of his own hand; the photos in the brochure had been done by Daisy Bellamy, the owners’ granddaughter. Besides that, he’d shot umpteen weddings there.
He’d nailed Sonnet Romano in a boathouse there. That, maybe, was his favorite memory of the place.
Still, that didn’t mean he was going to like working on this crazy series. He’d been looking for something new and different. This was going to be like one unending wedding, presumably one with an overweight bride who was going to be shedding pounds week by week. Zach tried to picture himself trying to document her angst-ridden journey, complete with late-night meltdowns, tearful phone calls to the folks back home and overproduced hissy fits. He gritted his teeth, suppressing a shudder.
“All right, C.,” said the director of photography. “Let’s hear about the talent you’ve got lined up for the show.” The DP was a guy Zach had actually heard of, Myron Wu, a big name in the world of reality shows. Zach had been stoked about meeting him. He was still stoked, but…Christ. Avalon. Willow-Freaking-Lake. How much worse could it get?
There was a knock at the door, and then it opened. Sonnet Romano stepped into the room. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, brushing back an indigo coil of hair. She handed a small computer storage drive to C. Bomb. “Here are the images you requested.”
Zach felt his jaw practically hitting the table. Sonnet. What the hell was she doing here?
“People, I’d like you to meet Sonnet Romano,” C. Bomb said, beaming at her like a proud papa. “She just joined the team this morning, and thank God for that. We’ve been needing a casting and location coordinator, and Sonnet just happens to have grown up right here at Willow Lake.”
Sonnet took them all in with a warm, professional smile—everyone except Zach. When her gaze reached him, a subtle sheen of defiance came over her eyes. He was pretty sure he was the only one who could read her look; she’d always been clever about masking her moods.
Zach’s stomach twisted into a double knot. Fantastic. Fan-effing-tastic. So not only was he stuck in Avalon for as long as the show lasted—and Mickey Flick productions were known for being long-lived—he was also going to be working with Sonnet Romano, of all people. If he’d thought things were complicated before, they were suddenly even more so.
“So you were saying,” the DP prompted him. “About the talent…? Who’s our big girl, Clyde?”
“Ah, the talent. That’s the best part.” The producer selected a fresh Twizzler from a bowl on the table, then gestured at the screen. “Check it out.”
He touched the keyboard, and a strong beat thudded from unseen speakers. A video in grainy Super 8 format appeared on the screen, the first image a black girl’s furious face, filling the screen. Zach recognized the piece even before the words appeared on the screen: “Luv Made a Mess o’ Me” by Jezebel, the latest hip-hop sensation on the national music scene.
The reason he recognized the piece—and the artist—was that she was so damn mesmerizing, you couldn’t look away. From her first album, she’d been a sensation. She’d burst onto the music scene a few years back, angry and unapologetic, and unselfconsciously…large. Her lyrics were anthems of fury and injustice, thumping like a sledgehammer.
Then came the seemingly inevitable battle with fame and notoriety. Zach wasn’t quite sure what had happened to Jezebel, but he knew by the end of the video, he’d find out.
“She’s good, eh?” asked C. Bomb.
“The best,” agreed the art director. “Whatever happened to her?”
“That’s my favorite part. She was with this loser guy, a second-rate hipster named Goose, who she claimed beat the crap out of her. Defrauded her of her earnings, too.” C. Bomb advanced the image on the screen to show an issue of the New York Daily News, its headline screaming Hip-Hop Star Arrested for Battery, Destruction of Property, Grand Theft Auto. Next came a video clip of her arrest. As fierce and defiant as a combat soldier, she glared straight into the camera with her one good eye and one swollen eye.
“So they’re fighting, her and this Goose character,” the producer explained. “I’m thinking she gives as good as she gets.”
“Better,” murmured a woman named Cinda.
“Yeah, and she seems to hit him where he lives. She messed up his two most prized possessions—his BMW Z4 and his Tibetan mastiff.”
“Oh, my God, she hurt a dog?”
“Nope. We couldn’t feature anyone who hurt a dog.” C. Bomb showed another visual. “She spray-painted her favorite obscenity on his side, in DayGlo orange paint.”
There were high fives and fist bumps around the table. “You’re right,” someone said. “She’s awesome.”
The producer took them through the rest of the sordid story. After doing time at Bedford Hills, Betty Lou Watkins—aka Jezebel—was released under house arrest, on condition that she didn’t leave the state. An electronic ankle-bracelet monitor ensured her cooperation.
“Holy cow,” said the DP, turning to high-five C. Bomb. “Nice going. So you’re…what? Going to set her loose on the unsuspecting town of Avalon?”
Zach glanced over at Sonnet. She sat statue-still, staring at the final image on the screen, a shot of Jezebel looking as livid and defiant as ever, leaving some courthouse or other and heading toward a shiny black Hummer.
“Better than that,” said the producer. “We got a lot of tricks up our sleeve.”
* * *
When the meeting broke up, everyone dispersed, laden with assignments, which had been handed out with brisk efficiency by Sonnet herself. She was already indispensable to the producer; Zach could see that. It was one of her gifts, that knack she had for anticipating what needed to be done and then doing it before she was even asked. It used to drive him crazy when they were kids. In school, she’d be the one getting her homework done when the rest of the class didn’t even see the assignment coming. Senior year, she’d been voted the girl most likely to succeed, though he used to tease her, calling her the girl most likely to annoy.
Overachieving had served her well—academically and career-wise, at least. As the photography unit was getting organized to head for the train station to shoot Jezebel’s arrival in town, Zach cornered Sonnet.
“Seriously?” he demanded. “Are you serious?”
She clutched her clipboard against her chest. It seemed she’d been carrying a clipboard since the second grade. “I needed a job,” she stated defensive
ly.
“Aren’t you a little overqualified for this?” He thought about her years at college and grad school, the internship overseas, the work at the UN.
“It’s a way to be near my mom. That’s all that matters.” A shadow flickered over her face.
And just like that, his annoyance vanished. She’d always had that power over him, the power to move him, somehow reaching his heart and touching it in a spot only she seemed to have access to.
“Let’s go,” someone on the team called. “Who knows the way to the station?”
“I’ll show you.” Sonnet held Zach’s gaze for another moment, then dashed away to the lead van. Zach followed in his work van with Perla Galleti, his newly hired assistant. They’d only just met a couple of days ago when she’d arrived from the city. Though she dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl, she had the mouth of a dock worker and a degree from NYU’s Tisch Film School. Now that he realized the show was going to be about a disgraced hip-hop star, he understood why Perla had been assigned to him. Her resume contained a list of music videos a mile long.
Not only that, she was a digital geek. He’d always considered himself pretty good at multitasking, but she truly had a gift. At any given moment, she could juggle up to three devices. She might be tweeting on her iPhone while taking a call, at the same time scheduling something on her iPad and uploading a video to the internet. He was in awe of her for that.
“What’s the scoop on Jezebel?” he asked, putting the van in gear. “Ever worked with her before?”
“Yep, I assisted on a shoot for ‘Hell Hath No Fury’ a couple of years back. It was an MTV video of the year.”
“What’s she like?”
“Oh, just you wait. You’re gonna love her.”
* * *
“Get the hell outta my way,” bellowed Betty Lou Watkins. These days, the hip-hop icon went by one name only, a stage name summing up her image. With the presence of visiting royalty, she brushed aside a guy in a black sweatshirt who seemed to be with her security detail. Then she descended from the train to the platform, planted her hands on her hips and scanned the area with narrowed eyes. Thrusting on a pair of thick-framed sunglasses and tossing back her mane of shining braids, she struck a powerful stance, projecting a do-not-mess-with-me message. Despite the mismatched stack of amulets encircling her arms, and the house-arrest bracelet unabashedly displayed on her ankle, she had the look of a queen surveying her domain.
