Return to Willow Lake

by Susan Wiggs

Spurred by her aversion to being late, she now arrived at Camp Kioga only to discover she had plenty of time to spare. Very quickly, she was learning that video production involved long stretches of standing around and getting organized. Jezebel was nowhere in sight; someone said she was being primped for her first encounter with the kids she’d be working with—or rather, performing with—for the production. Judging by the production notes Sonnet had hastily studied, the show’s purpose was to entertain. Assuring that the visiting children learned anything or benefited from the experience was not the concern of Mickey Flick.

  We’ll just see about that, Sonnet thought. She had read the dossiers on the participating children, and each one was legitimately in need. Nearly all of them came from a nontraditional household, being raised by single parents or grandparents or even single grandparents, living below the poverty level, surrounded by the noise and chaos of the inner city. A stay at Camp Kioga could do wonders for kids like this, and the notion brought out Sonnet’s best instincts and intentions. Her work at UNESCO had been with children’s agencies; she was passionate about advocating for kids who had no voice of their own. Even kids involved in a reality show.

  She spotted Zach hunched over a laptop, conferring with the director and a couple of others. They were looking at some footage from the day before.

  Standing behind the group, she caught a glimpse of the monitor and nearly gagged. It was yesterday’s van ride, the part when Sonnet and Jezebel were talking about Nina’s cancer.

  “That’s an outtake, right?” she asked, feeling slightly nauseous as she gave Zach a nudge. “You won’t air that.”

  “Are you kidding?” asked a woman, one of the director’s assistants named Cinda. “This is good stuff. A good start, anyway. People like to watch celebrity driven shows to see the celebrity on a human level. You brought that out in Jezebel in a big way.”

  “It was a private conversation.” Sonnet glared at Zach.

  “You knew I was filming,” he said, glaring back.

  “Yes, but I—” All right, she was sputtering now. “This is a show about Jezebel. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “It’s a show about how Jezebel relates to the people around her,” Cinda said, shrugging off Sonnet’s sputtering. “That’s the appeal of this kind of show. People either want to be the talent, or they want to watch the talent from afar and thank their lucky stars they aren’t her.”

  Sonnet grabbed Zach’s sleeve and pulled him away from the group. “New rule,” she said. “No more filming me.”

  “You’d better read the fine print in the release you signed,” he said.

  “I’m not asking you as the videographer. I’m asking you as a friend. Damn it, Zach. This morning I was thinking we could be friends again.”

  “You’re assuming I’d want that,” he shot back.

  “Don’t you?” She felt a chill, and her stomach tightened.

  “Okay, everybody, time to get going,” Cinda called out to everyone. “The rest of the cast is arriving. We’re going to need all hands on deck.”

  Sonnet’s gaze stayed locked with Zach’s for maybe a heartbeat. Then he pivoted away and went to work.

  “You two fighting again?”

  Sonnet gasped and turned around. “Oh, er, hey Jezebel. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “All miked up and ready to go.” She looked even more formidable than she had the day before, in a flowy black top over ripped jeans, black high-top sneakers and plenty of jewelry. “How’s your momma?”

  “She seemed okay when I left her,” Sonnet said. “Thanks for asking. It was strange and scary, but good, in a way. It felt like we were actually doing something about it. But I wonder—”

  She stopped herself and glanced around in suspicion. She wasn’t going to let down her guard a second time.

  “What’s the matter?” Jezebel asked. Someone came and touched up her makeup; she barely seemed to notice.

  “I don’t want to be on camera.” She gestured toward the approaching van. “Besides, you’ve got company.”

  Just for a moment, something flashed in Jezebel’s eyes—fear. She took a step back and drew her arms protectively around herself.

  “Are you all right?” asked Sonnet.

  “It’s a bunch of kids. What the hell do I know about kids?”

  Sonnet studied her for a moment, bemused. Jezebel had fought her way up from the projects, she’d stood up to an abusive boyfriend and endured a stay in prison. Yet she was worried about meeting a group of children?

  Personally, Sonnet related to children better than she did to adults. “Kids will tell you everything you need to know. You just have to find the right way to listen.”

  Jezebel scowled at her. “How’d you get so smart about kids?”

  Sonnet shrugged. “There’s a part of me that never stopped being one. I used to work directly with children a lot when I was getting started at UNESCO. I miss working with them, and I miss that part of myself.”

  “Then why not go back to working with kids?” Jezebel asked bluntly.

  The woman had a point. All through her march along her chosen career path, Sonnet had moved farther and farther away from her passion for being with kids. However, as her father often stated, she did more good for the world’s children by heading up an agency and setting policy than she did working with them on an individual basis.

  “We’re ready for you, Jezebel,” called Cinda as a flurry of activity erupted around the approaching van.

  Sonnet stepped aside to watch the filming. Everything was so much more technical and involved than she’d realized. Zach was in charge of the shoot, directing two guys with shoulder cams and coordinating an amazing array of lights the viewer would never see. She bit her lip, suddenly nervous for the children. They might take one look at all the gear aimed at them like weapons of siege warfare, and want to hide.

  She needn’t have worried. A pack of kids of all shapes, sizes and colors spilled from the van, looking around as though they’d just landed on a new planet. She recognized them from their profiles—scruffy and scrappy, all with loads of personality, which was why they’d been selected in the first place.

  There was a boy named Darnell, tall and lanky, carrying himself like a long question mark in jeans that sagged precariously on his bony hips. A pudgy girl named Anita stood nearby, her jaw thrust forward in combative fashion. Next to her was another girl, Bitsy, who was even bigger than Anita, herding the twins—Rhonda and Shawna—ahead of her. Other boys—Andre, Quincy, Marley and Jaden. The rest followed in a blur, a small army in scuffed sneakers and sagging socks, some with chalky scabs on their knees and elbows, all heading for the lawn, where Jezebel awaited.

  Sonnet clutched her clipboard to her chest and silently prayed Jezebel wouldn’t fall apart. She needn’t have worried. Jezebel was the consummate performer. With the cameras closing in, she came to life as if an invisible muse had entered her bloodstream, and she offered the kids a smile. “Welcome, my homeskillets,” she said. “I got some big plans for you kids this summer.”

  “Yeah?” said one of the boys. “What kinda plans?”

  “What’re we gonna do?” asked someone else.

  “What do you like to do?” Jezebel asked.

  “Hang out.” “Play video games.” “Sleep.” “Watch TV.” “Play basketball.” The suggestions exploded from the kids.

  “We’ll do a crapload more than that. Each day, we’ll have a theme. Y’all know what a theme i
s?”

  Some of the kids nodded; others looked blank.

  “It’s like figuring out the idea behind a song you’re making up.”

  “I never made up a song.”

  “Bet you did,” Jezebel shot back. “You just didn’t know it was a song.” She pattered out a rhythm with her hand on his head. “Don’t get me wrong/I can’t be makin’ up no song…”

  He jerked away, his cheeks scarlet. “I don’t hear no theme.”

  “You will. A theme is the one thing you’re talking about even when you’re not talking. Like, finding happiness. And all the activities of the day will be about finding happiness. Or honoring a hero in our lives, or what friendship means. Come on, it’s not rocket science.”

  The kids looked skeptical, but Jezebel forged ahead, showing no sign of her earlier apprehension. “We’re gonna do sports and games and campfires. Art projects. Music. Shit like that. You’re gonna love it,” she assured them.

  A few of the younger ones looked cautiously optimistic.

  “What kinda music?” asked Quincy. “Hip-hop?”

  “Of course,” said Jezebel. “I gotta warn you guys—no TV. No video games. No internet or cell phones. Starting now, we’re unplugged.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. What else do you guys like to do? Play cards? Cook?”

  “They like to eat,” Jaden said, jerking a thumb at Anita and Bitsy. The others snickered.

  In one swift movement, Jezebel took him by the skinny arms and lifted him off the ground. Sonnet expected someone to rush to the rescue, but instead, the cameras never wavered. Jezebel lifted the boy so they were nose to nose. His skinny legs dangled helplessly.

  “You are not gonna go there,” she said, a soft threat in her voice. “You got that?”

  Jaden nodded his head, widening his eyes until the whites showed.

  “I don’t hear you.” Jezebel’s voice was even softer.

  “I got it. Yeah. I got it.”

  Cinda leaned over to the director. “Now that,” she said, “is the money shot.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The filming went on in fits and starts throughout the day, and then they called it a wrap. Sonnet was torn between feeling amazed by the sheer contrivance of the situation, and the authentic moments of drama that emerged from the various setups. By the day’s end, everyone had a keen sense of the kids. Like children everywhere, they were annoying, endearing, brash, insecure and endlessly inquisitive. And despite her stated discomfort about being around them, Jezebel took command of every scene and setup.

  Every few minutes, Sonnet checked her messages. Greg kept her updated on her mom’s chemo day. Things were going well, everything proceeding as expected. They’d be home sometime after dinner. It all sounded so…routine. How quickly they were getting used to her mother having cancer.

  As she headed for her car, Sonnet spotted Zach in the parking lot.

  “You weren’t in any of the shots today, so you don’t need to yell at me,” he said when she approached him.

  “I wasn’t going to yell at you. I wanted—” She broke off. What did she want with him? “We didn’t finish our conversation this morning.”

  “Maybe you didn’t.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re so annoyed at me. I said I want us to go back to being friends.”

  “And you maintain it’s possible to go back after a night like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t unring that bell, Sonnet. Or I can’t, anyway.”

  “Then I’m in trouble,” she said.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t want to lose my best friend.”

  He offered a short laugh. “News flash. You’ve already lost him. You threw him out when you decided he wasn’t going to fit into your grand scheme.”

  “I don’t have a grand scheme. God, if I’ve learned anything from my mom’s illness, it’s that you never know what’s around the next corner, so what’s the point of planning?”

  He unlocked his van and threw his backpack in. “Look, I’d love to stay and debate this with you all day, but I need to be somewhere.”

  “Oh.” A terrible thought struck her. “Zach, are you seeing someone? Is that why you’re so ticked off at me?”

  “What if I was?”

  “I…well…” That would suck for me.

  “For the record, I’m not seeing anybody. Not a girl, anyway.”

  “Then who?” She couldn’t help it; she was impossibly nosy when it came to him.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve got a hot date with an inmate up at Indian Wells.”

  She melted a little inside. His dad was incarcerated at the minimum-security facility there. Ever since the sentencing, Zach had visited Matthew Alger faithfully, week in and week out, and apparently the pattern still held. “Ah, Zach. I’m sorry. I’ve been acting as if I’m the only one with troubles. Really, I apologize.”

  “Don’t.” He leaned against the van, propping his foot on the side. “I’m not looking for an apology from you.”

  “Let’s not do this,” she said. “Let’s not fight.”

  “But it’s so entertaining when we fight.”

  “I’d rather just talk.”

  He checked his watch. “Go for it, then. Let’s talk. How’s your mom doing?”

  “All right. Greg’s been texting updates. They’re still at the clinic.” She paused, noting how his jaw tightened. He always did that when he was tense. Of course he was tense. No matter how many times he visited his father in prison, it was bound to be stressful. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’ve got dad problems, too.”

  “Seriously? He’s running for the freaking Senate. How is that a problem?”

  “My relationship with him is…confusing. And I can’t believe I just said that. God, Zach, I always do this with you. I always say too much.”

  “Could be there’s a reason for that.”

  He had a point. Sonnet trusted him; she always had. He knew what her past had been like, which meant he understood her in ways few others could. The things she told Zach remained in a safe place. It had always been that way with them.

  She’d once tried to explain her relationship with her father to Orlando, but he’d brushed her off. It was a relief to have Zach to talk to. “My father and I…we love and respect each other. I really believe that. I’m proud of who he is and what he’s achieved.”

  “But…?”

  “But at the same time, I wish he’d figured out a way to be my dad when I was growing up.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Zach said matter-of-factly. “He missed an opportunity to know an amazing person.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

  “It’s like some guys suffer instant brain damage when it comes to their kids.”

  “Ours did, anyway. It took me forever to figure out what to call him. I mean, Dad? Really? Dad is someone who teaches you to fast pitch. Who takes you to the movies and coaches your soccer team. And Daddy? Please. That’s even more intimate….”

  “I never knew you missed him like that,” Zach said. “You never said anything.”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to seem disloyal to my mom, as if she wasn’t enough. But when I was little, I’d see kids with their daddies, and I’d wonder where mine was. And why wasn’t he with me and my mom. I was lucky enough to have all the Romano uncles
in my life, but I always wanted a daddy. So when we connected when I was in college, I was so ready. It was like I was starved for him. I wanted to be the best daughter I could for him.”

  His gaze lightly touched her from head to toe and up again. Somehow, that gaze felt as intimate as a caress. “Mission accomplished.”

  She felt a flurry of attraction, but instantly stuffed it away somewhere. Her goal was to recapture her friendship with Zach, minus the attraction element. She wasn’t there yet. She hoped he couldn’t tell.

  * * *

  Zach knew the layout of the Indian Wells Correctional Facility by heart, though he still remembered his first visit there, right after his father had been sent up. Zach had been a senior in high school, just a kid still, filled with so much fear, hurt and humiliation that some days, he thought he might explode. If not for the compassion of his employer—Jenny Majesky of the Sky River Bakery—and Nina Romano, he might not have made it through that year.

  He’d always understood that what had happened was not his fault. His father had a gambling addiction. He would have sold his own grandmother just to place another bet, certain that a big payoff was right around the corner. But Matthew Alger didn’t have to sell his grandmother. As town treasurer of Avalon, he found a way to systematically defraud the taxpayers, even though it meant running the town finances to the brink of ruin.

  Everyone—Matthew included—would have understood if Zach had chosen to simply write him off, a man who let addiction consume him and left his son holding the bag. Yet despite his anger and shame, Zach couldn’t bring himself to do that.

  By now, the habit was ingrained. It was what he did, nearly every single Monday. He usually had a light workload on Mondays, a typical day off for people who worked in the wedding industry. No one got married on a Monday. At least, no one who wanted the proceedings documented. Now that he was working on the reality show, Mondays were as busy as any other day, but he still made time for the visit.

  As he drove through town en route to Indian Wells, he took his time past the pretty wood-frame houses in the Oak Hill area and around Avalon Meadows, the older areas of town. Massive chestnut and oaks and maples shaded the boulevards, and the gardens were bright with summer color. The director had asked for some footage of this area to show the contrast between Avalon and the city. When Zach was younger, he used to look longingly at the pretty houses with swing sets in their yards and maybe a barbecue on the back patio. He imagined families living there and how secure it must feel, to have a love like that. As he grew up, he came to understand that the house with the white picket fence was a myth, for the most part. But there was a stubborn part of him that continued to believe that inner kid. There were some illusions that couldn’t be shattered, no matter how many times they were hit.