by Susan Wiggs
She slumped back on the sofa, feeling dazed. “That was . . .” Her voice trailed off when she couldn’t find the words.
“Yeah,” he said, tugging his jeans back on with a lazy, contented smile. “I know.”
She pulled her dress on over her head. She’d bought it at the hotel boutique in L.A., but the only thing he’d seemed to notice about the dress was how easily it came off over her head. Then she tucked herself against his shoulder and gazed at the large screen on the opposite wall. He replayed the end credits, which rolled to a song they both loved, “Everybody’s Got to Learn Sometime” by Beck.
“Tell me about L.A.,” Fletcher said.
“I was going to, but I got distracted.” She tried to smooth her wild curls. “So many meetings. So many people I had to get to know. It’s a little scary.” She told him about the concept for the show the production company had in mind.
“Unbelievable. You’re going to be working on your own TV show.”
She laughed, but at the same time, excitement fluttered in her chest. “It’s early days. Actually making it happen is still a very big maybe.”
“After watching your film, I’d call it a sure thing. Seriously. You’re really talented.”
She planted a long, hard kiss on his mouth. “What I learned at all those meetings is how much more than talent I need in order to make it in TV.” She talked about the agent and attorney, the whirlwind of creativity that had exploded in her meeting with a group called the writers’ room. “There was this incredible energy in that room. I really think they expect this to work out.”
He absently rubbed her arm. “Sounds amazing. What’s next?”
She paused, took a breath. “They want me to work with their writing and production team. Then we’ll shoot a pilot.” She felt light-headed just talking about it. “I’m freaking out, Fletcher. I’m trying to be realistic. Most projects fail in development and never see the light of day, so I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Are you kidding? You deserve to have your hopes as high as you want.”
She climbed into his lap and straddled him on her knees. “You are the sweetest guy. How did I get so lucky?”
He kissed her. “By being you. When do you go?”
And there it was. The hard part of this. “I leave week after next. And . . .” She moved her hands on his shoulders. “They’re giving me a stipend to move out there, and setting me up with a furnished apartment. I’ll be living in Century City.”
“For how long?” he asked, and she could feel his muscles tensing. Then he answered his own question. “Indefinitely.” His voice was very quiet.
Annie heard what he wasn’t saying even more clearly than his words. She climbed out of his lap and settled next to him. “This chance—in L.A. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve been working for all through school.”
“And what you want is in California.”
“Yes.” Her stomach tightened with nerves. “What about us? Will there still be an us?”
He was quiet, staring at the frozen screen at the end of her film. Then he said, “You’ve made a lot of plans before asking those questions.”
She felt a terrible sense of foreboding. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
“Then we’d better figure out how to stay together.”
“You could come to California,” she said.
“Law school, remember?”
“Of course I remember. I think it’s wonderful. And . . . when I was on the plane, I kept thinking about how this could work. California has law schools. Good ones. Like UCLA or USC. Pepperdine.”
“No doubt. But I have other plans,” he said. “California’s not in those plans.”
“At least be open to the possibility.” She hoped she didn’t sound desperate or whiny. “I know it’s a long way from here, but your father seems to be doing great, and those schools—”
“Are fine, like you said,” he agreed.
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m not interested in those schools.”
“But we could—”
“I’ve been accepted at Harvard.”
She stared at him, shocked. “Harvard Law School.” Suddenly the West Coast schools lost their sheen. “Holy cow, you never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
He was right. She hadn’t. Why hadn’t she asked? Was she so focused on her own plans that there was no room for his? Please, no, she thought. Please don’t let me be that person.
“Listen,” he said, gently taking her face between his hands. “There are TV productions on the East Coast. In Boston, even.”
“Not like this. Nobody in Boston is offering me a shot.”
“Your film got a million views. Any production company would be impressed by that.”
“But only one offered me my own show.”
“Right. So let’s just say I tell Harvard no thanks, follow you to California. You said yourself most shows don’t make it. The whole thing could be over in a couple of months. I blew off Harvard for what?”
“I’m not asking you to blow off Harvard.”
“You just did.”
She had invested so much in NYU, far too much to ignore this opportunity. “And you asked me to blow off The Key Ingredient. I’m going after a dream I’ve had all my life.”
“And you’ve only known me for a few years,” he snapped.
“You said it. Not me. And that’s not what I meant. It feels as if we’ve known each other forever.”
“Annie.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “You know what you need to do. And so do I.”
“Yes.” The reply came swiftly, but so did a crushing regret. “Fletcher—”
“I wouldn’t ask you to choose. And you wouldn’t ask me.” Leaning forward, he gave her the gentlest of kisses.
That kiss. It was too gentle. It felt like sadness and regret. It was the kind of kiss that meant good-bye.
“So we just . . . what? Call it quits, just like that?”
“I’m not following you to California. And I won’t ask you to blow off this opportunity.” His eyes narrowed.
“You’re being intractable.” So am I, Annie realized. Because he was right. She was not about to walk away from a chance like this.
“I’m being realistic.”
She was angry, too, simmering with frustration. They weren’t starry-eyed teenagers anymore. She and Fletcher were adults now, putting their lives in order. Their plans put up a roadblock, and neither could see a way around it. Her chest hurt. Her throat hurt. Everything hurt.
She looked steadily into his face, and it was far too easy to understand what was happening. They were both starting something brand new, something that would take their entire focus. They were falling apart—again.
“Don’t call me,” she said. “Don’t write or e-mail or send me a text message. Let’s just . . . leave it.”
“Is that what you want?”
Men left. That was what they did. The only way to keep that from happening was to leave first. Before he bailed on her. Before he had a chance to break her heart again.
“Yes,” she said, hoping he didn’t hear the waver in her voice. “It is.”
17
Now
It’s the circle of life,” said Annie’s mom, bringing a basket of dirty clothes to the laundry room just as Annie was transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer.
“What?” asked Annie. “Laundry?”
“With four kids in the house, yes.”
“Does it bother you, doing the family’s laundry day in and day out?”
“It’s a chore like any other. A labor of love. Beth works so hard at the school, and your brother is out working from dawn to dusk.” Annie’s mom sighed. “I wish he’d gone to college.”
“He always hated school,” Annie reminded her. More memories poured into her from some invisible cloud: Kyle walking to school each day like a condemned man to the gallows. Their mot
her’s lectures about grades. Arguments about his conduct while Annie poked her nose in a book and pretended not to hear.
If you don’t do better in school, you’ll end up just like your father.
So? At least he’s happy.
“College isn’t for everybody,” Annie said. “Especially Kyle. Remember how he could never sit still? He’s still that way, always doing something with his hands. He has a great family and he takes good care of them.”
“I suppose.”
“What do you mean, you suppose? Doesn’t he take care of them?”
“He loves them all, and he’s a good man. A good family man. A family man who plans to grow marijuana.”
“I think it’s cool,” Annie said. “Once the law changes, he won’t be doing anything different from what the Mitchells are doing with their whiskey making.”
“I know, Annie. And I’m not worried about the pot.”
“Then what, Mom? What are you worried about?”
“Money. When it comes to finances . . .” Mom’s voice trailed off.
“Not so good?” She caught a flash of panic in her mother’s eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, Annie. I don’t want to burden you or make you worry.”
“Too late. I’m burdened. I’m worried. Come on, Mom. Spill. How bad is it?”
“Let’s go up to my studio. I’ve got it all on my computer.” She smiled at Annie’s expression. “Don’t look so surprised. I put the ledger books away a long time ago. We’ve gone all digital.”
Annie followed her mother up to the loft above the garage. The office cubby was separated from the art space by a tall shoji screen, because Mom didn’t like distractions when she painted.
Her mother had kept the books for the farm all her life. She was good at it, and she didn’t make mistakes. It turned out Annie was good at it, too. She realized this when Mom showed her the latest digital spreadsheets. As a producer on her show, Annie could look at financials with a practiced eye.
The Rush financials were bleak. The maple syrup operation made a small profit. The logging and cider brought in their fair share, but after all the bills, expenses, and taxes were paid, there wasn’t much left over.
“Oh, boy,” she said.
“The farm has always run close to the edge,” Mom said. “We never would have made it this far if . . .” She stopped, darted a glance at Annie.
“If what? Come on, Mom.”
“If your dad hadn’t been supporting us.”
“The child support, you mean.” Annie had always had a love-hate relationship with the concept. She was the child. The check had been her support. But what she had really needed couldn’t be delivered by check.
“He sent more than that. He still does, to this day. It’s kept us afloat. Small producers have never gotten rich off of maple syrup.”
“Is that what you want?” Annie asked. “To be rich?”
Mom burst out with a hearty laugh. “I’d better not want that. Because then it would make me a big fat failure.” She shook her head. “All I’ve ever wanted is for our family to be comfortable and secure. And we have been.”
Annie touched her hand briefly. “Thanks to you. I’ll probably never know how hard you worked to keep things together after Dad left and Gramps died.”
“I didn’t ever want you to worry. I don’t want you worrying now.”
Annie moved the screen aside and stepped into the main part of the studio. Skylights flooded the space with light, and the entire place was filled with her mother’s paintings, on the walls, leaning stacks on the floor, propped on easels of different sizes. Annie was used to her mother’s landscapes and beautifully rendered still lifes, portraying the bucolic charm of farm life. The paintings on display now were totally different.
“What’s all this?” she asked, looking around the room. She breathed in the oily scent of paint as she studied the work. The big canvases were alive and hectic with wild abstractions on fire with color and feeling. They were alive in the way Mom’s precise renderings of country life had never been. The work had a peculiar energy that excited Annie.
“I’ve been working on some different pieces,” her mother said. There was a nervous flash in her smile.
“Why haven’t I ever seen these?”
“Most of them came to me while you were sleeping. I was imagining what might be going through your head.”
“And you think it was that?” Annie was fascinated.
“That’s probably what was going through my head.”
“Well, I think it’s fantastic.”
“You like?” Her mother’s face lit up. “I have others. I did a series of abstract pieces when Gran died. It was such an emotional time for me.” The older paintings were stored on a rolling rack. The newer pictures expressed exaggerated emotions with lyrical sweeps of intense color that were both mesmerizing and hard to look at.
“I’ve always known you’re talented,” Annie said. “These are extra special.”
“Thanks. That’s really nice to hear.”
“Have you ever thought about having an exhibit? Or a show or something?”
“Honestly? I think about it all the time.”
“And?”
“And . . . what? It’s just a fantasy. I’m self-taught, Annie. My only fine-arts training comes from art lessons on PBS, and lately, YouTube videos.”
“With your talent, you don’t need more education.”
“Suppose I want more education?” Mom said.
“You should go to Pratt,” Annie suggested. “You were accepted there once and you didn’t go. Maybe now’s the time.”
Mom laughed again. “I just finished telling you how broke we are. And now you want me to go to the Pratt Institute.”
Annie browsed through the other paintings. They were carefully cataloged in chronological order, showing how her mother’s work had changed over the years. The early work was beautifully crafted and exuded charm, depicting an idealized world. There were hints of her inner fire in her renderings of sky and cloud and water, and it was fascinating to see the progression toward abstraction. She was looking at her mother through new eyes, not just as her mom, but as an artist with talent and vision and something to say.
“It doesn’t matter what I want” she said. “What matters is what you want. Looking at these . . .” An unexpected welling of tears caused the colors to meld and waver in front of Annie’s eyes. “You’re amazing, Mom. You’ve had this incredible gift all your life, but you’ve spent your time devoted to us—Kyle and me, your parents, the farm, now the grandkids. We never really noticed, because you’ve been so quiet about it.”
“Was I? That’s probably because I don’t have anything to complain about.”
“You were so young when Dad left.”
“I’m glad you think thirty-nine is young.”
“You never dated. Most women remarry after a divorce.”
Mom looked wistful. “Some of us find love only once.”
Annie wanted to help. She was good at helping, wasn’t she? The farm, the family—had she abandoned them, heading off to L.A.? She mulled it over as she carefully drove into town to go to the market. The shopping list was a mile long. With eight people in the house, they always needed supplies.
The local shop was familiar, and full of faces from the past. Annie smiled and told people she was feeling fine and happy to be home. She wondered what they were really thinking. Did they pity her, the woman whose husband had divorced her while she was in a coma and woke up with nothing?
She nearly collided with another cart in the cereal aisle, and looked up to see Celia Swank. “Oh, hey,” she said. “Hi there.”
“Annie.” Celia offered a tense smile. She had been the most beautiful girl in high school, and she was still beautiful, her silky hair expertly done with blond highlights, her nails shell pink to match her lipstick, her teeth preternaturally white. She was wearing skinny jeans and an expensive-looking silk top, carrying a designer bag
. “It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, I’m . . . It’s good to see you, too.” Was it? She was still relearning social cues.
“I heard you were injured. I’m sorry to hear about your cooking show. That must be such a loss for you.”
“Yes, it is,” Annie admitted. The Key Ingredient was her show. Her show. Was she just going to surrender? Suppose she wanted to reclaim her show? What would that look like?
“We should get together,” Celia said. “Catch up.”
Ten years before, Celia Swank had been no one to Annie, just a girl she knew from high school. Celia had the life Annie would have had with Fletcher, but she’d thrown it away. It made Annie mental.
“To be honest,” Annie said, “I’m not sure we’d have much to talk about.”
Celia’s eyes narrowed. “We could always talk about Fletcher.”
“Why on earth would we do that?”
“Both of us are his exes,” Celia pointed out. “Both of us failed.”
18
Then
For a guy who got himself into Harvard, you sure are a dumb-ass,” Fletcher’s father said. He took two cold beers from the fridge and handed him one. Three years after the accident, Sanford had turned into a different person. He was still that big kid with his big ideas, but something about the trauma and recovery had changed him. He acted more like a father now than he ever had when Fletcher was growing up.
“What am I supposed to do?” Fletcher asked. “Follow Annie to California and . . . what? Carry her purse around for her? Drive her places? Get a job as a grease monkey?”
“Fine,” his father said, taking a swig of beer. “Be that way. Wallow in misery, and then when you’re my age, you’ll look back and wonder what happened to your life.”
“Is that what you do, Dad?”
His father roared with laughter. “Me? Dude. Honestly, I look at you and I feel nothing but gratitude. Look at our life. We did good. We’re doing good. I’m not miserable. I’m the opposite of miserable.”
