The week went by like a single day. Blake slept when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, ate when Ashlee brought him food, and made love when he needed to clear his mind. The story obsessed him. He finished it faster than anything he’d ever written. The only time he’d even come close was when he wrote with the producer who shot The Mess of Love. They’d written that in six weeks.
His office was a mess—a beautiful mess full of Post-it notes, charts, and graphs. Plot points were written in red marker on large white sheets. Scene notes scribbled on scrap paper and then pinned to the bulletin board. Discarded scenes clustered together in an origami-like pile next to the trash can. The pictures he’d taken of the house, of Ella, of the water, the bay, and even the slave relic museum were attached to the wall with double-sided tape. He looked at everything now. He’d been living inside this story until this very moment, when reality seeped back into his world, little by little, cracks of light.
He ran his hand across his face. He needed a shave and a long run on the beach. Fresh air. Real food. Sun. And a change of underwear, too. The thought made him laugh as he stood and walked to the wall where the pictures hung. He would save the photos for the director lucky enough to get this screenplay. He wanted it to look exactly like this. And the main character to look … He touched Ella’s photo. Her hand was up, trying to prevent him from taking the picture. Her eyes, those blue eyes with the long lashes, red tipped and flirty. He’d described them in the script without even having to look at the photo.
Returning to his computer, he typed “Fade out” and leaned back in his chair, stretched. He knew it was good. Not in a conceited, too-big-for-his-britches kind of way, but with the innate understanding about how a story worked and when it didn’t. His last two flops … he’d known they weren’t working, he’d just hoped that the audience would be fooled. But this? It worked. It only needed a title, and then he would send it off and get things moving. It would go quickly now. This was what they’d all been waiting for: a great love story. Everybody—producers, studios, agents—would be telling him how much they loved his work … as soon as he’d scored another hit. And this was it.
Ashlee walked in the room. Her yoga pants stretched over her ass like a second skin. Her tank top a scrap of material. She was sweaty from her workout. “You’re done, aren’t you?”
“I am,” he said.
“Let’s celebrate.” She ran toward him and jumped into his lap. “I’ve missed you. You were here and not here at the same time. Now I can have my man back.”
Blake kissed her, tasted the salty sweat of her workout. “I couldn’t have done it without you. The notes. The organization. The food … the…”
“Really great sex,” she said. “I know you couldn’t have done it without that.” She kissed him again.
“Yes, that, too. Absolutely,” he said, and shifted her to move off his lap. “I still need a title and then I hit the send button.”
“Don’t you want me to read it before you send it off?” she asked.
“No.” He twisted a coffee cup in circles on the desk. “You don’t have to do that. I know it works.”
“Oh,” she said, and shrugged. “Just thought you might want a second eye before you hit send.”
“I’m not going to ask you to do one more thing,” he said.
“I want to,” she said. “I want you to ask me to do one more thing.”
“All right then.” He turned back to the screen and keyed in a few letters. “I just e-mailed it to you.”
She jumped up. “I’m on it.” Ashlee was gone, running to her computer in the bedroom while Blake tapped his fingers on the keys. A title. A title.
He closed his eyes. This was the first story he’d ever written without the touchstone of a title hanging on a note above his computer. Behind his eyelids, like an inlaid mosaic, he saw Ella walking, her skirt swinging around her knees and her bangs swept sideways by the wind. The story wasn’t about her, he told himself over and over, but it wouldn’t exist without her. In the end of his story, her lover returned, unharmed and safe, willing to sacrifice himself but not needing to. Her lover spared, washed ashore safely when everyone had thought him gone, swept to sea.
What had Ella said about him? Something about never loving again. “He’s the only one.”
His eyes popped open and the smile he felt move across and then up his face was both authentic and relieved.
The Only One.
He typed the words on the title page and then underneath that, his name and the date. He attached the screenplay to an e-mail and typed his agent’s name in the recipient line. In the subject line he wrote, “This Is It.”
He wanted to call Ella, tell her how she’d inspired his breakthrough, how she’d changed him. But that action came with a cost. Calling Ella would require admitting his lies.
He’d imagined, a few times, how he would go to her and tell her the truth, that he’d mined her story for his own good. For his career. What stopped him was the pain he knew he would see in her eyes, how she would look at him with disgust. That pain wasn’t any worse than thinking he’d never talk to her again, but he knew from experience that his desire to talk to her would fade. Desire always dissolved. He’d even told her that. Her look of disgust would never fade, so he chose the lesser of two evils: never telling her in trade for never seeing her again.
“Blake,” Ashlee called from the bedroom. “Get in here.”
He entered his bedroom, lit by the late-afternoon sun, a warm glow across the bedspread where Ashlee sat in lotus position with her computer open. She looked at him with a curious expression, her eyes drawn downward, her lips pursed out. “Blake?”
“Yes?”
“Did you fall for this girl? The one you wrote this story about?”
“What?”
“Did you … fall for her? Sleep with her?”
“God, no. What are you talking about?”
“The way you describe the main character, this ‘Emily.’ It’s like she’s a goddess. You have her photos all over the bulletin board out there. You describe her hair and eyes like you … really know her.”
“It’s called fiction, Ashlee. Writing. Making it up. She’s just … a girl who lost her husband and designs wedding dresses.”
“Okay, then.” Ashlee continued reading. “This is brilliant, Blake. Really amazing. You’re right. You nailed it.”
“Thanks so much. I’m going for a run. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Uh-huh,” Ashlee mumbled and scrolled through his script. He could see over her shoulder. She was at the part where the boat’s rudder was found.
Blake slipped on his running clothes and when he bent over to tie his shoes, he was dizzy. The room spun like he’d been drinking JD for days. He was so deeply tired that he changed his mind and walked into the living room, flopped down on the couch, and fell into a sleep so deep that he didn’t even notice when Ashlee came in, dropped a note on the desk, and left.
* * *
Nesting. That was the divorce term for their week-on-week-off arrangement, although usually it applied to families who were taking turns living in the house and taking care of the kids, not to a man staying put while two women rotated in and out of his life. Being there, in her house, with her things, obliterated almost all other concerns.
Amber was there the last morning of Ella’s “week.” They sat across from each other at the kitchen table where they cradled their coffee mugs in their hands.
“Either he’s in or out,” Amber said. “He can’t have it both ways like this.”
“You want him to end up with your sister, don’t you?” Ella didn’t feel any heat in the words; it just seemed a fact. “Can’t you just be happy that we are trying to work things out?”
“I am happy for you. If you want Sims back and he’s coming back, I’m happy for you. But I’m not happy that he’s jerking you both around. Keeping you both on a string while he figures out what is best for him.”
“That’s not what he’s doing. He’s been with me every day. We’ve never talked so honestly. We are talking about why it might have happened. Where we went wrong. How we can fix it. We’ve talked about forgiveness and reconciliation and how to prevent growing apart again.”
“Prevent what he did? Like you can get a shot for it? Or wear protective gear?”
“No.” Ella exhaled. “I don’t know what to say to you, Amber. I love him. He’s my husband. We’re talking it through. I haven’t even let him spend the night yet.”
“Well, then where do you think he’s spending the night?”
“At the apartment he rented.”
“Sure thing.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“Listen, there are two parts to every marriage and I know that I wasn’t perfect, either. Relationships are complicated and…”
“Have you considered therapy or anything like that?”
“Maybe … not yet.”
Amber reached across the table and took Ella’s hand. “I know. And I also know that I’m not a relationship expert. Hell, I can’t make one last more than six months. But please don’t take blame where there isn’t any.”
“Can we talk about something else, please?”
“Absolutely. Like me?”
“Like you,” Ella agreed. “Tell me what is going on in Amber World.”
“Well—” Amber leaned back in the chair and smiled. “Now that you ask. Let’s see. Best Day Bakery wants to sell my cookies but I really don’t want to get into that—you know, becoming a full-time baker or whatever. I love just making them for special occasions. What would my parents do? I mean, I’m here to run the family gift shop. It would collapse without me.”
“But you could be the Sister Schubert of sugar cookies,” Ella said.
“Great, so I get famous for making everyone fat, and my parents lose their store.”
“So dramatic,” Ella said. “But you know what this town really needs?”
“Good men?”
“That, and a movie theater and a bookstore.”
As they talked through the options, life appeared as it always had: something manageable that could be solved over a cup of coffee. They talked about friends Ella hadn’t seen or had been avoiding, about Amber’s parents’ need for her to work for them and not go out on her own. They debated the pros and cons of the town’s wedding business and whether Amber would ever want to marry after seeing all the heartbreak of her best friend and sister.
When Amber finally left, Ella returned to her preoccupation with the house. She was so immersed in reunion with Sims, with her soft bed and familiar kitchen, that she called in sick to work. She filled the refrigerator, cooked Sims a few good meals, and caught up on some sleep without Bruiser barking below.
Tomorrow she’d return to Crumbling Chateau and Swept Away. The honeymoon was over, so to speak, but it had been a remarkable high even without Sims spending the night. Some semblance of normalcy was starting to take hold. He’d rented a loft apartment in the new building downtown: fresh and clean, with a view of the square. Ella wasn’t even jealous. She was just content to be in her house for a full week spending time with Sims, talking, and trying to find their way again. She felt hopeful. No, more than hopeful. He’d tried to spend the night every night, but she’d refused. “Not until you come home for good,” she told him. Hope, it was a light and breezy thing.
Her walk to work the next afternoon was glorious, the kind of day when the wind was gentle and the sun held its full blaze behind the clouds. The sidewalk, cracked and uneven, seemed right. Almost everything seemed right. Except when she thought of Hunter.
Ella approached the front door of Swept Away just as Margo walked out. She moved aside to let Ella in. On instinct, Ella glanced toward the shoe section and made sure it was all in order. Far from it. Boxes were stranded in the middle of the floor, shoes were unmatched and discarded on the couch and chair. “God, who had the shoe section yesterday?” Ella asked.
“No one because you called in sick,” Margo answered.
“Why didn’t Nadine or Jackie do it?”
“Because they were busy with their jobs while you weren’t doing yours.”
Ella didn’t give Margo the satisfaction of a reply. She just walked to her section and began to put everything back in place. Dead flowers drooped over the white vase like they’d fainted. Ella threw the rotting stems in the trash. It might be a crap job, selling shoes to bratty brides, but she took pride in it.
Margo entered the section and stepped over a box. “I have a big announcement, so there’s a staff meeting in fifteen minutes in the backroom.”
“Okay,” Ella said.
“You don’t look sick,” Margo said. “That was a quick recovery.”
“It must have been food poisoning,” Ella said.
“Sure thing,” Margo said.
In the fifteen minutes before the meeting, Ella had her section looking exactly as it should. She ran next door, grabbed peonies from the flower shop, and then entered the backroom where the staff waited. Margo entered the room in her white suit, one she only wore for important occasions or interviews with new clients, and clapped her hands. “I have the most fabulous news,” she said. “One that’s not only career changing for me, but will affect the store in the most positive way.”
No one said a word. The four staff members waited while Margo just beamed at them. She stood in front of a desk and leaned back on its edges, her hands behind her back.
“Well, what is it?” Nadine finally asked.
Margo flung her hands out and held up a drawing, a wedding dress in full color on cotton paper. Ella took in a breath; God, she wished she could sketch something that beautiful: the way the bodice held at the waist and then blossomed out like a flower, the lace and threading pattern in expanding echoes through the skirt and to the hemline. The tiny pearls that lined the sleeves and neckline were exquisite.
“This design, my White Diamond, which is named after my favorite hydrangea bush, has been chosen as a finalist in the Vogue Bridal Design Contest. I’ll fly to New York in two weeks to attend a ceremony where they’ll announce the winner.” Margo took a deep breath and placed the sketch back on the desk. “Even if I don’t win, the design will be featured in Vogue. This can only be good news for all of us.”
Nadine was the first to respond. She jumped up and ran to hug Margo. “This is so fantastic.”
Margo clasped her hands in a prayer position and said, “Prayers for all of it.”
Ella couldn’t move. Something was wrong. The wistful need to have drawn something that beautiful turned upside down, inside out: she had drawn that dress. That was her dress. Yes, it was gussied up, as her mom used to say. It had been colored in and brought to life, but it was still hers, the one she’d drawn at the café table with Hunter.
Jackie and Trey had joined in the congratulations, but Ella couldn’t move. She was stuck to her seat, a weight like concrete on top of her.
“Ella?” Jackie called back. “Are you okay?”
For Ella, this was a familiar feeling, one she wished she didn’t know, the same one she’d had when Sims had said, “I’m in love.” A fearful loneliness without a way out. An almost claustrophobic panic.
“She’s been out sick,” Trey said, and then walked to Ella. “Baby, you need water or something?”
Ella shook her head and then stood. She would do this differently. She walked to Margo. “You know that’s my design. We both know that.”
“Wait”—Nadine touched Ella’s elbow—“What are you talking about?”
“That design. It’s mine. You took it, Margo. You know that.”
“No.” Margo’s voice was so calm, like Sims’s, as if the facts were indisputable. “I gave you back your design. I told you—it was too much like mine so I didn’t keep it.”
Ella shook her head. “No.”
“Oh, please,” Margo said. “You’re not a designer. I saw a little drawing you did and then gave it back to you.”
“I have it,” Ella said, and turned to Nadine and Trey and Jackie. “I can show you.”
“Oh, Ella,” Margo said.
Ella felt the crazy coming on, the need to tear apart Margo’s sketch, or throw all the shoes in the river. That wouldn’t get her anywhere. She needed solid ground to stand on, some self-respect. She took in a long breath and walked out of the room, through the dress shop, past the dressing rooms, through the flower pavilion, and veils. She grabbed her bag, put one shoe box back in its place so it lined up perfectly with the others, and then walked out the front door, hollering over her shoulder, “Bye, bye.”
Ella paced through Watersend, back and forth, landmarks familiar and not seen as her mind scrolled through the options. Even if she showed everyone the sketch, they would say she drew it right there, right then. She could call Vogue and tell them, but she’d sound like a jealous employee, a wannabe who sold shoes in a small town.
“Enough,” she said out loud to the sidewalk, to the air, and to the world. “Enough.”
She was exhausted. She was finished with things happening to her. Sims. Margo. Amber. The landlord. It was time to make things happen.
Mimi’s apartment was so quiet that Ella didn’t want to knock. She placed her ear on the door and listened. Nothing. She reentered the stairwell and went back up to her apartment, where the musty smell washed over her. She lit a candle and put on some music—her mom’s favorite—Ella Fitzgerald. She turned the volume to high and put the kettle on to boil. Her sketches were still on the table, and there it was: the dress. She ran her finger over the edges of the sketch, the pearls on the sleeves and neckline. This was hers, even if Margo claimed it as her own. This design was Ella’s alone.
With a hot cup of tea, she sat down and organized her portfolio. Lost in the anatomy of dresses, she divided them by style. She named each dress and sorted them according to waistlines, sleeves, and embellishments. Hours passed. Her mind quieted, the heartache of the day became a dull throb.
When she’d finished, she looked down and saw what had been there all along in the art of her designs: collections. She had three distinct collections. She was, without anyone labeling her as such, a wedding dress designer.
In a long stretch, she surveyed her apartment. She wouldn’t stay. She was going home and staying home. Sims could make his own decisions. It didn’t take long to pack her suitcase, put her few dishes and kitchen appliances in a box. The bedspread and sheets were folded and in a plastic bag when she called Sims and left a message. “I’m moving back into the house for good. You can join me if you’d like or you can stay in your apartment.”
* * *
Blake sat on the metal bleachers at the lacrosse fields, watching his daughter play midfield. Her plaid skirt and navy T-shirt made her indistinguishable from any of the other girls. But Blake knew the way she ran, the twist of her arm when she threw, the holler of joy when something went right. What he didn’t know was how she felt about anything. He’d tried to spend time with her—every day, in fact. They’d had nice times, but still she was quiet. She spoke only when spoken to. He fought hard not to ask too many questions. How are you? What do you feel? What do you need? Do you still hate me?
While the game went into overtime and Amelia sat on the bench (he could not and would not call her Amelie), Blake let his mind wander to the screenplay. The meetings were going well. Reese Witherspoon and Anne Hathaway were both “interested.” A director was circling and as soon as an actor or director the studio loved actually committed to the project, others would fall into place and they’d be off and running. Blake was telling anyone who would listen that he knew the perfect small town to shoot it in.
“Blake.” He looked up to see his ex-wife walking toward him.
“Hi, Marilee,” he said, ignoring the coiffed boyfriend, whose name he really did keep forgetting.
They sat next to Blake and tried to chat. Nice day. Good game. Wicked coach. Blake nodded when appropriate and stared at the field until his cell phone buzzed. His agent. He excused himself and walked toward the tree line at the edge of the field. Marilee’s voice followed him. “Just typical,” she said.
But he was in too good a mood to let it bother him.
“Blake, man, got the call. Reese is in. The studio is putting out the press release this afternoon. You ready for the buzz?”
“Nothing has ever happened this fast.” Blake stared out at the field, at his little girl running the length of it.
“Nothing you’ve written has been this good.”
Hollywood moves so slowly, except when it doesn’t, so let the chaos begin. The casting and the budget. The funding and the fighting. But it had started and that’s what mattered. It had started.
He returned to the bench and watched the end of the game. Everything was brightly lit, outlined in a way it hadn’t been before. He even smiled at his ex-wife. She looked at him, a crusty smile and asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just happy.”
“A little Jack Daniel’s maybe?”
“No, sweetie. Sober as a judge.”
“Even your judge isn’t sober,” she said, turning away.
He was weary of her anger. He leaned down and spoke. “I promise you’ve made me as miserable as you can. We’ve hit our limit, I’m sure. Can we stop fighting now? The day is gorgeous. Our daughter is kicking butt out there. And you look beautiful, just like the day we met in the Palisades. Maybe even better.”
She looked like she was going to cry. “Why do you have to be so charming? Can’t you just let me hate you for a while?”
“I’ve let you hate me long enough. Can’t you just let me be done now?”
“I don’t know.” She turned around and he saw her wipe at her eyes and then leave to join her boyfriend, the nameless guy, at the edge of the field.
* * *
In-N-Out Burger had a line out the door, but it was where Amelia wanted to go for her postgame burger. If they won, it was a celebration burger but if they lost, it was a consolation burger, which is what it was that afternoon. The customers were such an eclectic mix: a hip-hop guy in sagging jeans; two young girls so blond they looked like mannequins; a family with two small red-haired boys, obviously twins, pushing at each other in fun.
Amelia leaned down to the boys, laughing. “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye,” she said.
They looked up at her, all wide-eyed with small little noses that looked like clay globs on their freckled faces. “What?” one of them asked. He looked six or maybe seven, Blake could never tell ages.
Amelia pointed to Blake. “That’s what my dad always used to say to me and my friends when we were goofing off. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”
“Did anyone ever lose an eye?” one of the boys asked.
“Never.” Amelia wrapped her arm around her father’s waist and gave him a little squeeze.
The boys looked at each other with the silent language of twins, then started in again. “Boys,” their mother said, “please stop pushing!”
“Did I really used to say that?”
“All the time.”
“How do you remember things like that?”
Amelia shrugged. “There’s a lot I don’t remember, but my friends and I still say it sometimes for fun, you know, when someone’s doing something stupid.”
“It’s a great line. Wish I remember saying it.” He tried to recall those long ago days when she was small enough to wrestle with her friends or pop her thumb in her mouth. It was yesterday and yet it never happened. He should have been more present. He should have been more attentive. He should have been …
They grabbed their food and sat at an outside table. Regret. It sucked. He took a long swallow of his chocolate milk shake to wash out the bad taste. How many things he would have done differently. He tried Ella’s advice. He sat quietly, watching his daughter eating French fries. “You’re awful quiet,” she said.
“Yes, I guess I am. What a great game you had today. I’m so proud of you.”
“Well, thanks, Dad. I think you’d say you were proud of me if I shot the ball into my own team’s goal.” She punched the side of his arm.
He’d described Amelia to Ella one time, but now that he sat with his daughter, looking at her across the sticky picnic table at In-N-Out Burger, the table where a thousand other people drank their milk shakes and dripped ketchup and rubbed the greasy side of the burger wrapper onto the metal, he saw what he didn’t describe. The way her eyes changed color in the sunlight, becoming almost green. How her hair formed a widow’s peak in the middle of her forehead. He hadn’t told Ella how his daughter’s nose was the slightest bit crooked to the left after getting hit in a kickball game in second grade, how she’d never wanted a nose job to fix it because “everyone will think I just wanted a better nose, and I don’t.” Her cheeks, they were fuller than her mom’s but the same rounded shape, like two tiny plums sitting on top of the bones.
“You know you’re beautiful,” Blake said.
“Wow, Dad. You sure are sappy lately. What’s gotten into you? Are you in love or something?”
He didn’t laugh. It was a legitimate question, he guessed. He smiled at his daughter. “I am,” he said.
“Oh, you are?”
He knew she didn’t want that answer, not really, because who wants their dad in love with anyone but their mom? “With my new script.”
“Ah!” She lifted her milk shake to him and tapped the edges of his paper cup. “A new script?”
“Yup. Reese Witherspoon wants the lead.”
“Oh, Dad. You’ve gotta introduce me. She’s like totally one of my favorites.”
“It’s not a done deal, sweetie.”
“Gross, don’t call me ‘sweetie.’ That’s what Jake calls Mom. It makes me feel scaly.”
“Deal.”
The sunlight filtered through the awning above them, fell in stripes along the table. Amelia twirled her straw for a minute. “Monica is in rehab,” she said.
“Your friend from ballet?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
His daughter started talking to him as if she’d never stopped. She told him about the guy she was dating, and the school play she’d tried out for. She told him about her friends who were in trouble and those who weren’t. And at the end, when dusk had approached and they were still at the picnic table, she told him that she missed him. It might not be everything in the world, but it sure was everything to Blake.
* * *
Ella stood in the kitchen, cooking spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce. A salad with fresh local vegetables sat on the side of the counter and she sipped on a chilled glass of rosé. Mimi sat at the kitchen table, sipping bourbon.
“You sure about this, dear?” Mimi asked again, glancing around the room.
“Yes,” Ella said, and lifted her glass to Mimi. “I’m staying. If he wants to leave, he can, but I’m here.”
“What if he calls the cops?” she asked.
Ella had told Mimi everything, as though she were a living journal. “If he does, well, I guess that answers how he really feels. If he’s only pretending to want to get back together, then let’s get the show on the road,” Ella said.
Mimi laughed. “Who is this new girl, all strong and ready to fight?”
Ella turned the sauce to low and sat at the table with Mimi. “Hunter told me that he had a dog that barked like Bruiser and couldn’t stop, and they found out that he was allergic to his medicine. Have you thought of that?”
Mimi shook her head. “No, that hasn’t once been mentioned. I wonder.”
“I wonder, too. I can take you to the vet tomorrow if you want.”
“Oh, no, I can’t make you do that.”
“Let me,” Ella said. “I’d like to.”
“That would be great,” Mimi said. “I sure am glad you came into my life.”
“Me, too, you.” Ella hugged Mimi before standing up to stir the sauce.
Music rested between them until they both turned to the sound of the front door opening. “Well, now you get to meet Sims,” Ella said.
“God, something smells great,” a voice said, a female voice—a loud, grating female voice.
“Shit,” Sims said as he and Betsy appeared in the kitchen.
What is there to say in moments like this? Surely there was something perfect to say, a witty comment, a smart-ass retort. It was Betsy who opened her mouth first, but the noise that came out wasn’t really a sentence, it was more of a whine that contained a few words like “why” and “her” and “ridiculous.”
“Ella?” Sims said in a quiet voice. He was afraid, she knew, that the crazy would return.
“Yes, Sims?”
“Why are you here?”
“Didn’t you get my message?” She stirred the sauce, sipped her wine. “Oh, and this is my friend Mimi. I wanted her to meet you.”
“What is going on?” Betsy asked in that voice.
Sims pulled out his phone and looked at his messages and then at Ella. “But we agreed.”
“Looks like I changed my mind.” Ella heard her voice, strong and sure. But inside she was being thrashed around in a wave, an undertow.
“You can’t change your mind,” he said. His voice sounded tremulous, uncertain.
“Why not? You did.” She pointed at Mimi. “Please don’t be so rude.”
“Hello, Mimi.” Sims walked to the older woman and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Wowza,” Mimi said with a sip of bourbon. “I wish I could say the same to you.”
Betsy walked to Ella’s side. “You need to leave. You know Sims can call the police.”
“He won’t,” Ella said.
“Then I will,” Betsy said, and she walked toward the phone on the wall, picked it up.
Sims was at her side before she’d dialed. “Don’t,” he said.
“What?” Betsy turned on him. She had tears in her eyes. “Are you telling me that you’re going to let her stay here?”
“No, I’m not telling you that. But I’m not calling the police on my wife. Stop it.”
“That bitch…” Betsy almost hissed the words.
Mimi tilted her head and stared at Betsy. “Maybe now is a good time for you to leave,” she said.
“Me? No way.” Betsy pointed at Ella. “She needs to leave. He loves me. He’s told her it’s over.”
“Really?” Ella said.
“He didn’t?” Betsy’s voice started to slow like it was running out of gas, sputtering. She spun to Sims. “Tell me this is a bad dream. You haven’t told her?”
“Told me what?” Ella asked.
“We’re getting married.” Betsy kept her gaze on Sims, who folded into the chair next to Mimi.
“That’s not it,” he said. “We were not planning to get married.” He looked at Betsy. “I did not say that.”
Ella felt her mouth go dry, a tingle at the edges of her tongue, a metallic taste in the back of her throat. God, please don’t throw up here, she thought. “What happened to ‘I’m so confused’ and ‘I love you so much’ and ‘Let’s talk this through’?”
“He said that to you?” Betsy asked Ella. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” Ella said.
“You son of a bitch,” Betsy said, and ran to her purse, dumped it upside down on the table, and drew out an envelope. She waved the white rectangle in the air, back and forth like a flag. “This was your wedding present. This was your surprise. This was for you…”
Sims stood up and took one step and then dropped back into the chair, exhausted. He drank Mimi’s bourbon.
Betsy drew near, her face twisting, a hot wax version of herself. “Do you want to see it?”
“No,” Sims said. “I want to leave. We can talk about this outside.”
“Talk?” she asked with a weird laugh behind her question.
“I guess not.”
Betsy drew something out of the envelope and held it up to his face. “See this?”
Ella squinted to see it from the stove. John Smoltz. Betsy had John Smoltz. Hell, who would have thought it? Ella busted out laughing. “Are you kidding me?”
“Where did you find it?” Sims reached for the card, but his hand swiped at empty air as Betsy pulled back her hand.
“I went back to the Dumpster the next day and searched the street and curbs and the disgusting back alley. That’s how much I love you. After we couldn’t find it that night, I couldn’t sleep thinking where it might be. I thought maybe one card might have missed the Dumpster.”
“My God,” Sims said, and stood, took a tentative step toward her. “Thank you so much, baby. So much.”
“You’re thanking me?” She held the card high in the air.
Sims looked toward Ella and together they knew what Betsy was about to do, so together they screamed.
“Stop.”
“Don’t.”
But she did. She brought her hands together. Sims lunged for her and Ella closed her eyes as Betsy ripped John Smoltz in half and tossed him into the spaghetti sauce. He sunk into the red sauce, the tip of his bat poking up, his baseball cap submerged. The other half floated and then dipped lower as if Smoltz’s feet pulled him down to the bottom of the pot. They watched him sink in silence. Death by red sauce.
Sims sank to the chair again. “What is with you women and baseball cards? I don’t get it.”
Betsy picked up her purse, but everywhere there were pieces of its innards: lipstick, keys, a checkbook, scattered change, some of it stuck together with gum, a pack of Trojans, a grocery list scribbled in pink pen, a ribbon left over from something, crumpled and ruined. Betsy sobbed as she picked up each item and threw it back into her purse. Ella couldn’t stand it anymore. She started to help.
The purse was full again, and Sims was at the table with his head in his hands. Mimi sat quietly with a closed-mouth smile. Ella looked around at the havoc and said, “You ruined my spaghetti sauce.”
“Sorry,” Betsy said, “you ruined my life.”
And she was gone. The front door slammed so hard that they all jumped even as they knew it was coming. Ella Fitzgerald sang, and Mimi said, “That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
“Who are you?” Sims asked.
Mimi looked up at Ella and then the laughter came. It was tear-producing, hiccupping laughter that neither of them could stop. When they finally took a breath, Sims was staring at them as if they were mad.
“I’m sorry, Ella,” Sims said. “I brought Betsy here tonight to break it off. I was going to tell her that we … me and you … were trying to mend our marriage.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s odd because that’s what I came here to tell you—to break it off.”
“No you didn’t, sweetie. Don’t do that.”
Ella picked up the spoon and fished out the two pieces of John Smotlz. She carried them over to Sims and dropped them in his lap.
“Hell, Ella.” He jumped up, sauce spattering on his pressed khakis, the baseball card disintegrating slowly.
“It’s probably best if you leave now,” she said.
“No. It’s my house. I’m staying. We are going to fix this. I promise. We will fix it.”
Ella looked to Mimi, who still sat quietly with a grin on her face as if she was watching a movie or a show. “You ready to go?” Ella asked.
“Sure thing,” Mimi said, and stood.
They walked toward the door. Sims didn’t say a thing. Mimi, however, had the last word. “You should try a little grated Parmesan with that sauce.”
* * *
Ella took Mimi home and flopped onto the chair. Mimi clicked on the TV. E! News flickered across the screen, silent and full of color.
“My nightly empty calories,” Mimi said as she walked to the kitchen. “So let’s find ourselves something to eat here since your spaghetti was fully ruined.”
“More than ruined,” Ella said. “What was that? Insanity?”
“Love makes us all do crazy things,” Mimi said. “I mean, look at Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. The Greek gods, all of them went crazy for love. It’s just the thing to do.”
Ella laughed, but the pit in her stomach didn’t feel the humor. She punched at the volume button for the TV and the anchor, a blonde so skinny it didn’t look like her body should be able to hold up her boobs and head combined, chatted in a high-pitched voice.
“I’ve got some frozen pizza,” Mimi said from the kitchen. “How does that sound?”
“I’m not that hungry. Besides, I should be getting home,” Ella said. “Wherever that is.”
“No, stay here. Let’s eat pizza, and watch mindless TV. It heals. Ancient healing ritual no one has told you about.”
Ella smiled and it felt very real. “Good idea.” She settled back and stared at the TV. It seemed that Angelina and Brad were having another child, although that didn’t seem possible. Action movies topped the list of hits that season. When didn’t they? Taylor Swift broke up with yet another boyfriend and wrote yet another song about it. Someone had plastic surgery and someone else was pregnant. The dull details in a regular life, but newsworthy in the famous.
Mimi handed Ella a glass of bourbon and Ella took a long swig, but drinking on an empty stomach was not a good idea because there, on the screen, was a man who looked like Hunter. Yes, Ella thought about him all the time, but this was ridiculous, like seeing Mother Mary in an oil stain on the pavement. She leaned closer, and if she had glasses (which she didn’t), she would have put them on. His picture, this man, was in a square on the upper right side of the TV, and the blond anchor was talking about him with the co-anchor who had joined her, a dark-haired man Ella couldn’t see because she was too preoccupied looking at the photo with the words “Blake Hunter” written underneath.
Then she tuned into the words they spoke, blurry, fuzzy, she didn’t understand until she did.
“Yes,” the blonde said. “We’ve all been waiting for this. After two flops—and let’s be honest they were flops no matter how many people went to see them—we’ve all been holding our breath for the next Blake Hunter film.”
The man spoke. “And to have Witherspoon agree so quickly after the last movie, it must be a spectacular script.”
“I for one can’t wait to hear about it. Adam, do you know anything about it?”
“Only what has been officially released today, which is that the movie is called The Only One, is set in the South, and Reese Witherspoon has agreed to play the lead.”
“Thanks for the information. We’ll wait and see what else we can learn and get back to you soon.” Ella looked at her glass and it was empty. It had to be the bourbon. Must be.
The Only One? Isn’t that what she’d called Sims when she’d described him to Hunter? Southern setting? The photo?
The photo. It was of a man who looked just like Hunter, but more … handsome. His hair was longer, almost shoulder length and wavy. He had a goatee and wore a button-down, something she’d never seen Hunter wear. A brother? A cousin? What the hell? The Only One?
Her mind spun around like those damn teacups at Disney World.
“Mimi,” she hollered too loudly for the small space.
“What, dear?”
“Look. Hurry, look at the TV.”
Mimi came to Ella’s side and a smile spread across her face, a recognition. “Well, well,” Mimi said. “Isn’t life so much fun?”
“Fun?” Ella stood up and started pacing the room. “Oh, my God, it all makes sense now. Like anything does in hindsight. Like Sims cheating. Like this…”
“How?” Mimi asked.
“There was something wrong about it all. Like the way he couldn’t sit through the movie. His eyeglasses that didn’t work. He always stumbled over names. He never told me the names of any of his books. He—” Ella looked at Mimi. “He lied to me the entire time. God, Mimi.” Ella poured some more bourbon. “I was so busy weaving my own lies, so engrossed in my story that I didn’t even see Hunter’s … well, Blake’s lies. His made-up life. What kind of idiot am I?”
How could she be mad at him? But she was. She was furious. Mad as hell. Throw-the-bourbon-across-the-room mad. Watch it shatter, splinter, make-a-noise that-would-wake-the-building mad.
“Hunter lied to me,” Ella said as if speaking it out loud would convince her heart of the truth.
“Now there’s a twist.” Mimi smiled.
“Here I was feeling all guilty and thinking I should tell him the truth, call him up and come clean, and all this time he was telling me some crazy story also. He was using me; stealing my love story.”
“Your fake love story. Listen, Ella, not everyone is who they say they are. The world just isn’t so clear. We all have our secrets and pasts, and so he told you he was a history writer and he was really a movie maker?” She shrugged. “I don’t know that it matters so much.”
“He was using me.”
“Really?”
“He stole from me.”
“He did?”
“You are infuriating,” Ella said with a loud exhale. “Yes, he used me to get to a story and he stole the story to use to make money … to … I don’t know.”
“Are you sure it’s Hunter you’re mad at?”
“No. I’m not sure at all. And he goes by Blake.” Ella pointed at the screen, which had already switched to another story. “So you see, everyone, I mean everyone, is taking advantage of me.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Mimi asked.
“Eat our pizza and then some pound cake?” Ella asked with a smile.
“That’s a good start but there has to be something after that.”
Mimi rose to go to the kitchen. Ella didn’t interfere, and she didn’t let Mimi know that she was aware about the Sara Lee masquerade. At least someone got to keep their secret.
“I don’t know what’s next, but—”
Impetuous, she lifted her phone and typed.
Oh, hey there, Blake. Congratulations on your movie deal.
* * *
Ashlee wasn’t home that night, and he was glad. She’d left a note that said, “Guess you forgot about the party tonight. Meet me there if you want.”
He wasn’t meeting her anywhere. He was taking off his shoes, pouring a drink—just one—and watching Entertainment News for any mention of the press release.
His house finally felt a little bit like home. Slowly, his decorator had framed and hung some pictures. Rugs were scattered in random patterns, which he liked. Soft, plush pillows were everywhere and she’d done exactly as he asked—made sure it didn’t look anything like his old house. The view was incredible. Even now he looked out over the water instead of at the TV, until he heard his name and turned to watch the hostess announce the movie, talk about the expectations.
There were so few moments of celebration in the entertainment world. That’s what no one really knew. All the work, all the loneliness for just this thirty-second mention on TV. Then more work. Then the release and the holding of the breath for reviews and opening week financial statistics. The world saw the moments of celebration (and defeat) and so they believed that was all there was to it. The viewers didn’t think of any of them as real people, humans with heartbreak and friends and lovers and children. They were tabloid fodder, outfits and hairdos, success and failure. And he knew this, because if viewers (and reviewers, which anyone could be on the Internet these days) saw them as real people in a broken world, they would never write the way they did.
Viewers never saw the tossed ideas, the dark nights, the fear of never creating again. But in this moment, Blake absorbed the goodness of it all and in a motion he gave very little thought to, he reached for his phone. He wanted to tell Ella. That’s the one person he wanted to share all of this with.
He lifted the phone and saw text messages rolling in from everywhere: friends, enemies, all wanting to say “Oh, congrats, man, just saw the news.”
But he grabbed the second phone and saw Ella’s text:
Oh, hey there, Blake. Congratulations on your movie deal.
Right there, without Ashlee in the house, with his name and news still echoing in the well-decorated but empty room, he understood that he was falling in love with Ella Flynn and that Ella Flynn would hate him for the rest of her life, just like everyone else he’d messed over.
Why had he lied to her? For what? Kept the lie going? For this moment alone in an empty house to hear his name on TV? What a fool. He stared at his empty glass and felt the emptiness inside. What had Ella called it? A gap. A crack, he’d said, quoting Leonard Cohen, trying to sound smart and sophisticated. What an ass he was.
* * *
Ella woke on Mimi’s couch, blurry-eyed with a dull bourbon headache. She sat up and slowly remembered everything.
She’d been had. Again.
But so had Hunter. This guy, whoever he was—Blake or Hunter—the man she thought was a friend, had stolen her fake love story for a film. And yet it wasn’t her love story at all. He’d stolen some alternate life she’d imagined. How could you steal something that wasn’t real to begin with? Like stealing air or dreams. What he’d taken didn’t belong to anyone.
She couldn’t make much sense of any of it. Margo took her design. Sims took her heart. And Hunter took her story and made it into a movie. A movie! He didn’t even try to hide it. The Only One. Not only a thief, but also a brazen one. She had to give him credit—he had nerve for sure.
But what about their friendship?
What about the connection she’d felt?
God, what a fool she’d been.
The worst part was that the first person she wanted to talk to about the mess was Hunter, and there was no such thing as Hunter.
Her eyes were still dusky with sleep, but she could see that there weren’t any messages on her phone. She deleted Hunter’s name and number as if he’d never existed. As if a swipe of her finger on a delete button could erase him and all he’d become to her.
She gave too much of herself away. She did it too easily and too often. It would stop now. Ella snuck quietly out of Mimi’s apartment. The stairwell was still dark. Of course it was. Why would the landlord do anything she asked? A single lightbulb dropped a circle of light onto the floor. Ella stepped over it like it was a puddle.
* * *
Fog spread across the landscape and softened the edges of her house. The wisteria was in full bloom now. Ella closed her eyes and smiled, inhaling the scent. Hunter was right. It was exactly between gardenia and rose, the idea of the smell, not too much and not so little that you had to get right into the bloom. Along the top of the brick wall, two cardinals—a male and a female—sat looking down at her, quiet and still. She glanced at the birdfeeder: empty. Ella opened the container at the end of the bench and filled the feeder. “Sorry,” she said. “It won’t happen again. I’m home now.”
She entered the house with a few careful steps. Inside, a single light cast a warm glow over the living room where Sims lay asleep on the chaise, an empty glass beside him on a table. Ella didn’t wake him. She walked into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. She turned on some music—Elvis Costello just for fun—and scanned the refrigerator for food. Sims’s bachelor fridge contained three eggs, a half-carton of milk, half a stick of butter, some wilted lettuce, and foil-covered leftovers that Ella couldn’t identify. Condiments lined the door, along with expired salad dressings, sauces, and Coke bottles. She grabbed the eggs and placed them on a towel on the counter. After finding a loaf of bread in the pantry, she toasted two slices while she scrambled the eggs with butter. She snapped a sprig from a fragile rosemary plant growing on the windowsill, and chopped it up before tossing it on top of the eggs. A simple meal had never tasted so good.
“What are you doing?” Ella turned to see a groggy Sims enter the kitchen.
“Eating, drinking coffee … you know,” Ella said.
“I mean, what are you doing here?”
“I live here,” she said. “And you?”
He walked toward her, rubbing his face and stretching. “Well, then,” he said, in that I-just-woke-up voice she knew so well. “I guess that means we live here together. And you know what that means…” He trailed off.
“I thought I did.”
Sims responded with something like enthusiasm in his voice. “God, I’m so glad you’re back. I didn’t sleep all night and finally I just got up and went to your favorite chair. I thought, If I just stay here and wait, she’ll come home.”
He drew closer. Ella took two steps back.
“I’m so sorry, Ella. I am so sorry. You’re all I’ve ever wanted. All I’ve ever needed. I don’t know what I can do to make up for this hell, for what I’ve done. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Anything.”
“I don’t know, Sims. But I need more than words.”
He reached for her then and drew her close, wrapping his arms around her. She fell into his chest and he held her there, running his hands through her hair, mumbling into her neck. “It was like I lost my mind.”
At first she thought it was him, but then she understood that she was the one trembling. This, right here, was what she’d dreamed about. All those weeks in that apartment, slipping shoes onto bridesmaids’ feet, eating food she cooked off a hot plate. This is what she’d wanted. Exactly this. Even the words he was saying. It was like she had scripted them.
Ella drew back and looked at her husband’s familiar features, his blue eyes, his etched forehead. “I don’t know how to do this, Sims. I don’t know how to pretend nothing ever happened. Things happened. Terrible things. My heart is a mess.”
“I know.” His eyes were dry, but his voice held pain. “I’m a mess, too.”
“What happened, Sims? Tell me what happened.”
“That’s what I need to figure out. And I will. I promise. But I love you and you alone.”
“No.” She backed up. “No, I don’t think you do. If you had, you wouldn’t have done what you did.”
He shook his head. “That’s not true. I loved you even while I was with…” He stopped short of Betsy’s name. “I just got lost. That’s all. You have to forgive me.”
“Have to?”
“Yes. You’ll kill me if you can’t.”
“I already killed you,” Ella said quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing … it’s just … nothing.”
He held her close again. “Anything you say, I’ll do. I just can’t live without you. It’s like it was all a terrible dream.”
“No,” she said. “It was all very real.”
He backed away. “I am going to win you back. There’s enough love here to save us. I know there is.”
“But I don’t want that kind of love—the kind with limits and secrets and love-by-half. I don’t want that. I loved you completely and still you were able to go be with Betsy. As if what we had was cheap. As if our marriage wasn’t enough.”
“It’s not that. It’s everything. I will show you. I made a mistake.” Her husband, the man she loved, took her by the shoulders and looked at her so intensely she needed to look away. He pulled her to him and kissed her. His hands ran up her back and nestled into her hair, pulling her even closer as if he needed to feel her body contact his on every surface. He clung to her as if he was a drowning man.
Hunter was wrong. Love was not just an idea. It was real. It was a man. A woman. A marriage.
After a while, Sims let go and pulled back. This time he had tears in his eyes. “I have to go to the marina, but then I’m coming home. We’re going to start over.”
Ella faltered. “How are we supposed to start over?” she asked.
“We’ll find a way. We have to.”
It wasn’t until she heard the front door click shut that Ella realized that she wasn’t doubting his love. She was doubting her own.
* * *
She spent the next days in a haze of organization. With the music on high, Ella weeded the garden, adjusted the kitchen, and the closets. She dusted and swept, vacuumed and polished. She scrubbed everything with Lysol. She washed every dish in the kitchen and soaked the pots and pans in lethally hot water. The slipcovers were sent to the dry cleaner. The pillows, too. She bought a smudge stick and walked through the house, trailing smoke behind her. Betsy was like a ghost that needed exorcising. A virus that had infected her home.
In between, in the hours when cleaning became too much, Ella sat down and worked on her portfolio. Spreading her sketches across the kitchen table, organizing them, she could see how they worked together, how they formed a collection. It was as if the designs had gathered themselves into groupings almost without her knowledge. Yes, she had intended that some garments appear flowing, others more structured, and others casual. But only now, looking at them collectively instead of focusing on one particular design or one particular detail—the stability of a shoulder, the hang of a skirt, the paneling of a bodice—could she see that the collections each had a distinct personality. Flirty. Sexy. Classic.
White Diamond. That’s what Margo had named the hijacked design. Margo probably had no idea that she’d named her design perfectly, that hydrangeas represented “heartlessness, arrogance, and vanity.” Yes, exactly.
Ella lifted the sketch and held it up to the light. It was obvious it was hers (her hand strokes were distinct), although she supposed that anyone could say she’d drawn it only after seeing Margo’s entry. But would they say that if they saw the entire collection? If they saw all the designs that preceded this one?
* * *
After the weekend, Ella started her letter to Vogue.
She was in the kitchen. Sims was home, too. Monday morning had arrived with a thunderstorm so brutal he delayed the opening of the marina. The rain slammed hard against the windows, but Ella barely heard it. She had to act quickly. Only one more week until the contest was closed, until the winner was chosen. She would do the first draft by hand before she typed it up, found her way into the words. She didn’t want to sound like a crazy person, but she did have a legitimate grievance. This was her design. Her creation. Her life.
Sims came into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and yawning. “Come back to bed. It’s the first time in weeks that I don’t have to get up at five A.M.”
“I’m … trying to write a letter.”
“To who?”
“I’m writing to…” Ella stopped. Why hadn’t she told her husband? “I guess I didn’t tell you about Margo,” she said.
“What about Margo?” he asked.
“What she did to me.”
“What did she do?” Sims nuzzled the back of Ella’s neck, ran his fingers across her collarbone, and then slipped his hand under her shirt. “Come back to bed.”
“I want to finish this. I’ve been thinking about it all night. What to say, how to say it.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he said, and slid his hand further down, running his finger along the waistline of her jeans. “I can’t get enough of you.”
Ella twisted in her chair to lift her face to his, but not to kiss him. “Not now, Sims. Let me finish this.”
He made a small huffing noise and walked off to the coffeepot. She had to smile. It was true. He couldn’t get enough of her. They’d made love every morning, every night. A starving man finding his way to food. Her, too. She’d needed to feel his body next to her, near her. But right this minute she needed his ear, which he seemed unable to offer. She tried again. “Margo stole my design,” she said.
“Your what?” He came to her side, glanced at his cell phone, and scrolled through a list of messages.
“My dog. She stole my dog and gave it to a bridesmaid in the shop. And then she did a cartwheel through the store and ran off with one of the groomsmen.”
Sims looked up from his phone “I’m sorry she did that. I’m sure you’ll work it out.” He walked off, still talking. “I’m headed out. Seems the workshop flooded. I have to get a crew in.”
“Okay,” Ella called after him. “Be safe.”
If it were someone else, anyone really, she would have laughed. This was the man trying hard to win back her heart? Well, it didn’t seem funny at all.
She would focus on her work.
Editor-in-Chief
Vogue Magazine
Re: Wedding Design Contest
Dear Judges:
My name is Ella Flynn. I live in Watersend, South Carolina, and work for the premier wedding destination shop in the southeast: Swept Away. During the months that I worked there, I designed at least twenty dresses, not one of which I’ve shown to anyone but the store owner, Margo Sands. A few weeks ago, she saw one of my designs, the Wisteria, and asked if she could look at it, even make a copy of it. She then took this design and redrew it, renamed it the White Diamond and entered it into your Wedding Design Contest. I understand it is now a finalist.
I know this must seem a preposterous claim, but sadly, it’s true. For the integrity of your esteemed magazine, and the validity of the contest, I urge you to look closely at my claim. I am enclosing some of my other sketches and designs to show you the similarity between my drawings and White Diamond. You will notice the drawings are too similar to be coincidental, and the embellishments are exactly the same.
You can contact me at any of the below numbers.
Sincerely,
Ella read the letter four or five times before typing it up. She designed a logo, drawing a peony and writing “Ella” in script font across the flower. It looked official. Would it be enough?
She needed a second pair of eyes on the letter. Really, there was only one person to read it, and he was in L.A., out of her life now. So, Mimi, then. She’d have Mimi read it.
Ella visited Mimi every day. She liked looking in on her friend and her bedraggled little dog, especially now that he had stopped barking. Almost stopped barking, that is. It seemed that Hunter was right; Bruiser was allergic to his medicine. At least that wasn’t a lie.
Mimi would have something to say about the letter. Something smart and practical. She could count on Mimi.
But the woman who answered the door was just a shadow of her friend. She looked paper thin and worn, like she would tear apart if she were touched. Her face, faded to pale, was wet with tears. Her hair, that white coif that usually puffed out from her head like a pom-pom, was flat, stuck to the side of her head. And her clothes—usually so carefully chosen—were just a pair of drawstring pants and a sweatshirt worn at the edges.
“Oh, Ella,” Mimi said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s wrong?” Ella looked inside for clues.
“Bruiser.”
“He’s not barking,” Ella said. “That’s good, right?”
“No, it’s not good. He’s not barking because…” Mimi stepped back and pointed at the back of the room, where the oversized dog bed dominated the corner.
Ella understood before another word was spoken.
“Oh, Mimi,” Ella said. “I’m so, so sorry. What can I do?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Let me call the vet,” Ella said. “Where’s his number?”
Mimi shuffled to the refrigerator and took down a piece of paper. “Here.”
Ella forgot about her letter, which she dropped on Mimi’s coffee table. She forgot about everything but Mimi’s grief, which seemed as large as she was small. Mimi crumpled into her chair, the one where she sat every time Ella visited, the one where she ate pound cake and drank bourbon, the one from which she offered advice and consolation and took in Ella’s secrets like a vault.
After Ella called the vet they sent a tech, Floyd something or other. His dark hair curled around his ears. He wore pale blue scrubs and a nametag that hung crooked from the left pocket. He was past a teenager, but probably still in college. He had the look of sympathy, his eyes downcast and his hands clasped behind his back. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I know this is so difficult. I’m here to help. I will wrap him up and take him and then…”
“Then what?” Mimi asked in a whisper. “My God, then what?”
“We can have him cremated and if you want … we can give you the ashes to keep forever.”
“No!” Mimi said. “You can’t cremate him. You can’t.”
“I know it’s terrible to think about.” Floyd touched Mimi’s arm. “It’s the good-bye that’s the terrible part. I know.”
“I want to bury him,” Mimi said, and closed her eyes. “Somewhere beautiful.”
“I’ll find a place,” Ella said. “I will.”
“Well, let me take him for now.” Floyd had kind eyes, soft and aware. He was perfect for his job.
“I’ll come with you,” Ella said, and then, leaning down to Mimi. “Stay here. I’ll be right back. We’ll honor Bruiser. We will.”
Ella was awash in grief. Bruiser. Mimi. Her mom. Her marriage. Her job. Hunter’s false friendship. It was a porous pain that acknowledged all the hurt that came from being alive, from trying to live a good life, from just being human. It was then that Ella realized all the energy she had put into keeping this precise knowledge at bay. That pain came no matter what. That life offered to everyone their own grief and despair. It was a part of living, a part of everything.
Floyd lifted Bruiser so gently, as if he were still alive. Ella held the tears until they were in the stairwell. When they reached the sidewalk, Floyd turned to Ella. “I’ll take care of this. Okay?”
“Can I pick him up later? I’m going to find a nice place to bury him.” Ella spoke through tears.
Ella knew this much: She owed it to Mimi to do the right thing for this ornery little guy, for all loss to be acknowledged. She touched his tiny little head, and all the warmth was gone. She lifted his little face and touched the tip of his black nose. “Rest well,” she said. Whatever that means.
Floyd nodded and she saw his own tears, little ones, private ones, in the far corners of each eye. He gently placed Bruiser in the back of a van.
Floyd drove off. Ella let herself cry a little longer. She sat on a bench at the edge of the sidewalk until she felt almost empty. Far off, a seagull cried out.
If only she could call Hunter.