by Rachel Hauck
“Your friend needs a new shelf to display her awards,” Karli said.
“Exactly. Colette is also widely known in the demographic you want to reach. Aubrey brought in the youth and health conscious. Colette will bring in the middle-agers and seniors, not to mention that her name and fame extend to Latin America and Europe.” Now he was cooking with gas. He loved this idea. He hit the button on the projector and displayed his first slide. The presentation was rough, but solid. It was the best he could do on the airplane. He really owed Taylor for this plan. “Colette’s character, Vivica, is famous for tossing water in people’s faces.” Jack launched the Internet on his laptop, bringing up images of Colette-Vivica splashing water in people’s faces. Colette’s face launched on the screen. “We have so many options to explore. Serious, humorous, parody—”
“Jack, we want people drinking our water, not tossing it in people’s faces.” Lennon chuckled. His team echoed, laughing in harmony.
“Exactly. She almost tosses FRESH Water, but—” Jack peered around the table, controlling the pace of the discussion, giving himself time to think. “When she realizes she’s about to toss FRESH, she puts it down and goes for the stale drink on the bar or the fizzed-out tonic water on the end table.”
Lennon grinned. “Go on.”
Next slide. “Colette winks at the camera. ‘I’d never waste FRESH on a face like that.’ ” Okay, corny, but it was a start. “Maybe we get one of the other cast members to play the part.”
“Jack, this is great, but Colette is . . . old. Won’t that date the product?” Karli said. “Date us?”
“No.” Because maybe or even possibly was not an option. “Because we already have the youth up to thirtysomething.” He rattled off data they already knew. “Now we go for everyone else. Americans are sentimental. We’re tired of losing our favorite shows to reality programming. Tired of media and whoever telling us who we are is not good enough. Colette embodies what we love about ourselves. Karli, she was the number one personality on daytime television for three decades.”
“Well, her character Vivica most certainly was.”
“The anniversary of the show is coming up and there’s word that Greer is writing a memoir. There’s a tie-in right there. Buzz and built-in media without FRESH spending one extra dime.”
Lennon exchanged glances with Karli. “I like it.”
“You sold me, Jack,” Karli said. “You and 105 think on your feet. Literally.”
“It’s the way we roll. Hops and I value you as a top client.” That wasn’t entirely true on Hops’s part, but Jack wasn’t here to discuss London and another client’s foundation, was he? “105 and FRESH are a great team.”
“Okay, let’s wrap this up. I’ve a tee time.” Lennon took command of the meeting. “It’s Alpine or 105. Karli?”
“105.”
“Anderson?” Anderson Ladd was head of production.
“Lennon, our CFO isn’t here,” Anderson said. “We weren’t supposed to have a pitch, be taking a vote. We made our decision.”
Note to self: Buy Anderson a nice set of golf clubs. Win him over.
“That’s not an answer to the question, Andy,” Lennon said. “105 or Alpine?”
Anderson sighed. “Jack, are you sure we can get Colette Greer?”
“She’s my wife’s aunt. What do you think?” So he stretched perceptions. She was Taylor’s aunt. That part was true.
“I don’t know—” Anderson pushed away from the table. “I’m not sure I see this Colette Greer thing. Is this the campaign we want? I liked what Alpine brought to the table.”
Jack launched into sales mode, the place he soared, where he found his passion. Convincing clients he was worth the risk. It was the only time he felt he was worth anyone’s trust.
Except that day on the beach with Taylor.
The debate spiked among the team members until Lennon raised his hands for silence and called for a vote.
One by one, each person at the table voted for Jack.
Lennon came around to shake Jack’s hand. “It’s good to be back in business with 105.”
“You won’t regret it.”
As the room emptied and Jack packed up his computer, the joy of his victory quickly faded. So Doug Voss was still going after Taylor. She seemed to stop him in his tracks when he came to their apartment, but what if she had encouraged him privately in some way?
Otherwise, why was he pressing her?
At his rental car, he tossed his gear into the trunk and scanned the messages from Voss. Every one of them tried to entice her to join him in LA.
NO ONE HAS TO KNOW
IT’LL BE LIKE OLD TIMES
Getting in the car, Jack sat back, thinking, his waning adrenaline leaving him exhausted. He ached to just sit and be, eat a sandwich at Bread & Company, and think.
But he needed to swap phones with Taylor. More than that, he needed to see her. Talk to her.
Are you having an affair with Doug Voss?
Freedom to share his heart, his fears, was not his bailiwick. But if he truly loved Taylor, he’d have to learn. Or he just might lose her.
Jack wrestled against the sting of tears. He hated crying. Worse, he hated this feeling in his gut, the free-falling sensation of rejection with no emotional limbs to grab onto.
Yet he knew from experience that if he acted rejected, Taylor would reject him.
How he’d learned to deal with devastation in the past was to play in the neutral zone. Be cool. Act casual, as if he didn’t care his father didn’t want him. Or that the older he got, the more he moved from foster home to foster home. Until he landed at the Gillinghams’. But that, too, was not without its hurdles.
But Taylor? He couldn’t pretend he didn’t care. Couldn’t be his own island. Because he loved and wanted her. Needed her. And deep down, he believed she felt the same way.
Firing up the Mustang rental, Jack aimed for Heart’s Bend, the morning sun behind him. He’d have to come back tomorrow for golf with Lennon, but if he wanted to change, to stop running from fear of rejection like he always had, why not start today? With his wife. The love of his life.
Chapter Thirteen
JIMMY
So, he’d met Taylor. The granddaughter of Peg and the daughter of DJ, the little tyke he’d told Doc about this very morning over coffee.
The boy grew up to be Drummond Branson Jr. A fine kid. A good football player. An upstanding Heart’s Bend citizen as far as Jimmy knew.
Jimmy slowed for the turn home, resting his hand on the gear shift. Seeing that girl did something to him. He’d not seen Peg for some years before she died. Taylor was the closest he’d come to the Clemsons, or to Colette, in a good long time.
Now folks’ sudden interest in his chapel jarred his memories. Awakened his sleepy ole ticker.
He’d heard the whoosh-thump again this morning and the sound rattled his bones, shooting him out of the chapel into the open air and sunshine.
Lord, have mercy. What was that sound?
He didn’t know if Taylor heard it, but he could’ve sworn she’d lost some of the rose from her cheeks by the time she came out.
Jimmy hoped it wouldn’t scare off the buyers. Or that if Taylor had heard it, she had the brains to keep it to herself. Just like he’d done all these years.
No one would want a haunted wedding chapel.
At the turnoff to his place, he just kept on going, cresting at the next hill, taking the bend in the road, and driving from his present into his past.
NOVEMBER 1948
FRIDAY NIGHT UNDER THE LIGHTS
The cold complicated things. Jimmy couldn’t hang on to the ball. His numb fingers refused to cooperate no matter how much he warmed them between plays.
The Rocket defense was on the field now giving it to Lipscomb. At the referee’s whistle, Jimmy braved a glance into the stands, searching for Colette through the glare of the lights.
Since their first conversation at Clem’s house two mont
hs ago, Jimmy found it nearly impossible to speak to her. The fellas—Spice, Bradley, the Greaves brothers, and the rest—all vied for her attention. Peg’s too. They were a shot of life to the same ole Rock Mill High crowd.
Then today, after lunch, he had spotted her alone in the hall. Blessed be. The Great Divine had parted the sea of male attention to give Jimmy half a chance.
His heart doing the jitterbug, he approached, asking if she would be at the game tonight.
“It’s our last one.”
“Of course.” Her smile made him weak. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
“Will you root for me?”
“S-sure. We’ll all be rooting for you.”
With her confession tucked into his heart, Jimmy felt like he could do anything.
But much like the rest of the football season, tonight did not go his way. The hero he’d been in the opening game was a distant memory. If he didn’t possess the game ball as proof of that magical night, he’d doubt it ever happened.
“Westbrook, you playing in this game or what?” Coach nabbed him by the shoulder pads and shoved him toward the field.
With one last sweep through the stands, Jimmy spotted her in the middle section. When she waved, his heart moved against his mountain of doubt.
“Westbrook! Get me a touchdown and end this thing.”
“Yes, sir.” He tried to contain his smile but failed. So what? He didn’t care. This play was for her.
Jimmy bent into the huddle as Clem called the play, but his mind was on Colette. He didn’t know how empty he was until he met her. She touched him. Filled him. Made him understand all those silly songs. Sometimes when he saw her in the hall, he couldn’t breathe. He daydreamed about her over breakfast. So much so Dad popped him on the side of the head just the other day.
“What’s wrong with you? Did you hear what I just said?”
“Yeah, Dad, you’re working late. Stop with the head hitting. I need all the brains I can get.”
He’d heard talk of love in the locker room, though it sounded more like lustful shenanigans. Boys bragging about getting under a girl’s blouse or making their way up her thigh.
Jimmy wanted those moments too. He sure did. But he wanted them with Colette, and only Colette. In the right way. He wanted to talk to her, hear her voice, sniff her perfume, ask her a million questions. Then he’d taste her lips and feel the curves of her body against his.
“Listen up, fellas,” Clem said to the huddle. “This is it. No time left on the clock. Coach called a left side sweep, blue nineteen.” He put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “You got it? Left side sweep—”
“Blue nineteen. Got it.”
“Break!”
Jimmy lined up behind Clem feeling alive, ready to go. They knew this. They’d practiced it a hundred times. Easy as pie.
Down by four with six seconds remaining, once more he had a moment to shine.
Try to end the season the way you started.
Clem called “blue nineteen” and Jimmy went into motion, his breathing deep and even. Despite the cold he moved with speed and precision.
Sweeping around Clem, running to the left side, he raised hands up, reading for the ball. He had space in front of him, a gaping hole in the defensive line. He was open. Wide. Open.
But the offensive line didn’t hold and Clem scrambled away from the defense. The play was busted. Clem looked down field to pass, but every receiver was covered. Jimmy broke from his route, running for the end zone, waving his hands in the air.
I’m open, Clem. I’m open.
Clem spied him and released the ball, spiraling it perfectly toward Jimmy, placing it right over his shoulder. Jimmy reached for it, exhilarated when the cold leather hit his palm.
The rest was a blur. The ball bounced from his hands and he swore a blue streak as the Lipscomb safety slammed into him. He went careening down to the field.
The ball . . . the ball . . . His hands flailed in the air. But he couldn’t . . . grab . . . hold.
As he crashed to the ground, the safety scooped up the ball and started to run. From his prostrate, humble position, Jimmy watched the player from the other team become the hero, running down the sidelines, a horde of Rock Mill purple jerseys chasing him while he scored a touchdown.
The visitor stands exploded. The whistle blew. Lipscomb had won.
Jimmy rolled onto his back and stared up at the lights. His humiliation was complete.
Clem angled over him, offering his hand. “My fault.”
“How you figure? You threw a perfect pass.”
Refusing his friend’s hand, Jimmy shoved up on his own. He didn’t want help. He didn’t deserve it. He’d let the team down.
“Come on, let’s go get warm. Hear the coach yell.”
But Jimmy didn’t follow Clem to the locker room with the rest of the head-hanging team. Instead, he sat on the bench, hiding under his helmet, as students, parents, friends, and fans funneled out of the stands, disappointed.
Over and over, Jimmy replayed the pass and the drop. How did he not catch it?
The stadium lights went out. Still Jimmy sat, unmoved.
“Hello?”
He jumped at the sound of her accented voice, swerving around to see her standing behind him. “C-Colette. What are you doing here?” He gazed at her through his face mask, his heart sinking. She had seen his failure.
“Bad luck on that play. That bloke ran straight into you,” she said with her long vowels and lyrical consonants. “I don’t understand much about this game, but surely that must be a penalty.” She lowered herself next to him, hooking her hands over the edge of the bench, a touching intensity in her expression.
Jimmy laughed. “He’s allowed to do that, and if anyone deserves a penalty, it’s me. I should’ve seen him coming. I should’ve caught the ball.”
“What of your teammates? Shouldn’t they run him off or something? Do they call it tackling?”
“Yes, tackling, blocking . . .” He peered at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping you company. No lad should sit alone after such a blunder.”
“Blunder? That’s putting it mildly.”
“Your shoulders are all rounded and sad looking.” She smoothed her hand down his arm, igniting an inferno in his chest. “It’s awful to be alone when you’re blue.”
“If feeling sad gets you next to me, I’ll be sad every day. All day.”
Her light, airy laugh nearly made him forget his blunder. “Jimmy, I’m not worth all that, now, am I?”
“You should be getting home. It’s late and cold. And yes, you are.”
She leaned to see his eyes behind his helmet. “Are you going to take that contraption off? Or will you sleep with it on? It won’t change anything, you know.”
Jimmy tugged off his helmet and smoothed his hand over his wild, sweat-soaked hair. “Where’s the gang? Shouldn’t you be with them at your aunt and uncle’s?”
“Aunt Jean’s making hot cocoa. Wouldn’t you care to come?”
“I was thinking of making popcorn at home, maybe listen to the hi-fi.”
“Oh—” Even in the darkness, Jimmy could see the sparkle in her eyes dim with his subtle put-off. “I was rather hoping you would come.”
“How about you come to my place? It’s just me and my dad, kind of quiet, but—”
“Will there be hot cocoa?”
Hot cocoa? He had no idea. Did they have chocolate in the house? Dad was turning into a pretty good cook, but chocolate? “Yes, absolutely there’ll be hot cocoa.”
“Then I’d love to come.”
Jimmy stood, offering her his arm. “Shall we? And sorry, I’m a bit smelly.”
She laughed softly, hooking her arm into his. “Clem’s taught me that most boys are a bit smelly.”
“I’ll get my gear from the locker room and get cleaned up, promise.”
“No worries, Jimmy.”
Jimmy. She’d said his name. Jimmy. All his failures faded
away with the sound of her voice.
Chapter Fourteen
TAYLOR
A little before noon, Taylor slipped into Granny’s driveway with a bag of fries from the Fry Hut, a fifty-year-old Heart’s Bend icon, like Ella’s and Donut Haven. A large Diet Coke sat on the seat next to her, buckled in because old cars with bench seats had no cup holders.
Her big sister, Emma, waved to her from the front porch steps.
“What are you doing here?” Taylor stepped out, fries tucked under her arm, grabbing her soda from the lap belt. She hadn’t eaten all morning, and by the time she left Jimmy’s no-wedding chapel, still a bit awed by the place yet shaken by the sound she’d heard, she was beyond starved, craving a fast-food fix from the Hut.
Simple name, great food.
“Can’t I play hooky from work to see my sister?” Emma sat against the left side column supporting Granny’s veranda. “How’d it go?”
“There are no words. Have you seen that place? Incredible. It has this vibe about it.” Taylor omitted what kind of vibe. She didn’t want to endure Emma’s questions. “The natural light was amazing. Didn’t use any lamps or reflectors.” Taylor hesitated at the trunk, deciding to haul her gear in later. She had hot fries in hand that needed devouring. “The inside was breathtaking. Slate floor, arched, wood-trimmed ceiling. But Coach was the one who . . .” What? “Gave it life.”
She’d convinced herself the whoosh-thump came from tree limbs bouncing against the slate roof. Now, she wasn’t sure.
“I can’t wait to see the shots.” Emma reached for a fry before Taylor’s backside hit the clapboard step.
She settled the fries between them. They were hot, salty, and fabulous.
“These have to be in heaven.” Emma waved a long, golden fry at Taylor.
“I thought we didn’t eat in heaven.”
“What about that supper, at the wedding?”
“Where’s that again?”
“I don’t know, end of the Book somewhere.” Emma waved her fry around. “I think we won’t ever be hungry.”
“That would be nice.”
“But these fries have to be there. They are heavenly.”
