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La Costa and Felicia broke for lunch on the deck, beneath the bright summer sky and a commotion of beachgoers, vacationers, and residents dotting the shore with their colorful towels, umbrellas, and watercraft. There was a simple lunch consisting of a spring greens salad and croissant sandwiches with spicy deli meats, basil, and melted provolone. Fresh fruit—a medley of melons and berries—accompanied the meal for good measure, but the highlight, La Costa’s famed peach pie, was cooling on the kitchen counter for later.
“I thought you’d enjoy a change of scenery, so I’ve had our lunch set out here,” La Costa said as the two walked onto the gray-washed planks of the stunning deck, greeted by the screams of seagulls and children laughing. A large patio table and two chairs were waiting. A handsome young man in his twenties had just finished pouring the ice waters and placing the pitcher in the center of the table.
“Thank you, Florian,” La Costa said.
He was her personal assistant, an intern from USC with aspirations for a major in musical arts. As it was, it took a small army of individuals behind the scenes to help her do what she did with seemingly effortless ease. La Costa called on him whenever she could, to delegate the necessary mundane tasks that would otherwise eat up her precious writing time. “Enjoy your lunch, Ms. Reed,” he said. “Coffee is brewing. I’ll check back with you to see if you need anything done for the book promos running tomorrow.”
Felicia’s eyes widened. “Does he cook?”
“No, this is all catered. But he is a whiz with technology and keeps my calendar and my social media presence humming, as they call it. I’d be dead in the water without him!”
Felicia smiled, and La Costa handed her a plate. “Dig in.”
The tape recorder was turned off as they enjoyed a delicious meal, talking about things like motherhood, demanding work schedules, and slipping into middle age with as much aplomb and grace as possible. Felicia, a seasoned sixty-something, regarded her short-cropped platinum hair as a badge of honor. “You just come to know things, don’t you? I mean, by the time you come into a certain age,” Felicia said wistfully as she surveyed the vast horizon where the water and the sky met perfectly, uncluttered, with not a single cloud in sight.
“I do believe that you’re right. However, I would like to think that life still has much to teach us, no matter what manner it has brought us to where we are today,” La Costa said. She drew in a long, full breath and exhaled. “I have nothing but gratitude for my scars, you know? Wouldn’t change a thing if I could.”
Felicia pressed her palms together and sighed. “Exactly! And that, my dear, is what people want to believe for themselves as well—what you write about in your books, your heroines—they speak to women and encourage them.”
“I truly hope so,” La Costa said, modestly.
“Shall we continue, then?” Felicia said, reaching for the recorder and her notes. “Out here, or inside?”
“Let’s go back inside,” La Costa said. “I have some more photos I’d like to show you.”
Moments later, the two were seated at a large oak dining table, where La Costa had scads of photos strewn about, taken from photo albums, faded with age. A few framed photos were taken from a wall in her den, and a stack of notebooks and journals lay about like old friends, in neat piles that were arranged in chronological order.
“Coffee or tea?” La Costa asked Felicia, whose eyes widened at the colorful array of artifacts and memorabilia on the table and the sheer magnitude of the care that La Costa had taken to collect and preserve her memories.
“Tea, please. Thank you. I can’t wait to jump into all of this. Where do we start?”
La Costa chuckled. “Well, with what came next—there’s always another chapter waiting around the corner. Mine was when I met my guardian angel.”