2

Two weeks later, trying desperately to leave the house on time and hoping to avoid missing my flight to LA, I head out the door while awkwardly dragging my heavy suitcase behind me. I’m running on less than two hours of sleep because I couldn’t shut my brain off last night, and despite how a few more minutes in bed might have been justified, I want to drop by my neighbors’ place before I leave town.

A small makeshift road runs between the home James and I bought seven years ago and the neighboring ranch just south of us. The day we moved in, somewhere in the middle of unloading endless truckloads of boxes and belongings, Tom and Sharon appeared on our doorstep, bearing a twelve-pack of cold beer and a bag of potato chips. Before the beer was even half gone, Tom had helped James fix all the squeaky kitchen cabinet doors and Sharon had made me laugh enough times that my cheeks ached a little. After that, the road between our homes grew more rutted because of the near-daily coffee breaks Sharon and I shared. Over time, our words grew so honest and easy that it sometimes felt like Sharon was actually my sister and Lacey was merely my cousin, nine times removed.

I let myself in through the kitchen door of their farmhouse, which has been on this acreage for eighty years. Occasionally, when I put my hand over the tarnished black doorknob, I can feel the energy of all those years of backbreaking work, pain, and joy. Tom and Sharon are merely the latest in a long line of eponymous Montana ranching couples who have worked this land, the sort of people who grew up their whole lives knowing what the future held and never spent a second regretting or resenting it. In their reality, there are no weekends off, no holidays, and certainly no 401(k)s.

Inside, Sharon is at the sink chopping stew meat for the slow cooker and petting the cat with her foot. Her sandy brown hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and the early morning light through the window makes her tawny complexion look almost angelic, like she is starring in a coffee commercial.

“Hey, sweetie, are you headed for the big bad world of California?”

“Yup. My Denver flight leaves at two o’clock,” I say, bending down to pick up the cat. “Hello, Mr. Kitty.”

Sharon pauses from her chopping and looks back at me from the sink. “Are you OK? You look like you can barely keep your eyes open.”

Letting my shoulders fall a little, I muster a half smile. “I was up most of the night worrying about forgetting to pack something important. Like underwear. Or toothpaste. Or my sense of humor.”

Sharon turns and leans back against the counter, cocking her head to get my full attention. “Is this what you want?”

I sit down at the kitchen table and let the cat nestle into my lap. “No.”

I sigh rather dramatically, and the sound of it in my own ears reminds me of the absurdity in acting overwrought about having some success. Every amazing what if I imagined is happening, and every satisfying validation of being a real writer is waiting for me. Those things just happen to be a world away, in the strange land of LA, a place where people remain convinced dreams do come true, even for widows and wannabes. I take a deep breath and focus on the good stuff, then silently repeat all the wise atta girl mantras I sometimes depend on.

“I just never really expected any of this to happen. TV shows and stuff. I’ll be fine once I get there.”

Sharon looks at me like a mother hen, worried and proud at the same time. When James died, Sharon was at the house every single day, making sure I hadn’t killed myself overnight and trying to get me to eat something. She helped me to the shower when I could barely get out of bed because of the exhaustion from crying all night. She watched me grieve like my heart was hanging out of my chest and the house itself practically heaved on its foundation when I sobbed. After someone sees you like that, there isn’t much you can hide behind.

Quiet overtakes the room and only the noise from the clock ticking and the cat purring breaks the heavy weight of waiting for Sharon to say something that will remind me why this is OK. Why I belong out in the world, where James isn’t but I remain. Why living a full, successful life without him isn’t a betrayal.

“Kate, this is a good thing. Embrace it. Heck, enjoy it if you can. Maybe even just a little.” She raises her eyebrows and waits to turn her gaze until I nod, signaling that I’m listening.

Stroking the cat once more, I look at the clock. “I better go.”

The cat jumps off my lap to amble into the living room, while I shove the kitchen chair under the table and move to hug Sharon. Grasping tightly for a moment more than necessary, she squeezes around my waist with her thick arms and mumbles something about staying safe in the big city before pulling back and finally releasing me. In the seconds just before I turn to leave the room, I want nothing more than to believe she’s right.

This is a good thing.

Embrace it.

The Stratton County Airport is nothing more than a landing strip that serves a handful of small independent pilots and their planes. There are no gates and no boarding passes. Most of us are here only to make our way to Denver, where one can board a real flight on an actual plane. Today, it’s just me and my luggage plus a few bags of mail piled in the back of Sam Graff’s old Cessna. I crawl in and wave good-bye to Montana for a few days, already missing the way the sun glints off the Blackfoot River in the early evening light. It always reminds me of James, casting his fly rod with a sensual grace that inevitably tore my heart into tiny shards of desire. Even nearly three years later, I miss his body in a way that weakens my breath.

LA is balmy and bordering on too warm when I arrive; even inside the airport terminal, the air feels thicker on my skin. Drastically different from home, where the perpetually dry air does nothing but skim over everyone in dusty gusts. Grabbing my luggage off the carousel, I scan the terminal for the driver the production company promised.

“Ms. Mosely?” A tall college-age kid appears in front of me, holding a set of car keys in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

Pulling my shoulders back to take him in, I tip my head to the side. “Yes?”

“I’m Gavin, your driver. I’ve got a car to get you to the hotel.” When he hands me the bottle of water and drops a full smile, there is nothing to see but his teeth. So straight and white I wonder if he does commercial work on the side. “May I get your bags?”

Apparently, this is how the world works when Hal Abrahms wants you on their show. Pretty men with perfect teeth show up and hand you unanticipated bottles of water while simultaneously anticipating that you may need help with your bags. It’s splendid and slightly baffling.

He leads me out to a large black sedan, shiny and clean like it just came off an assembly line. After loading my bags into the trunk, he holds open the back door and I have to drive my gaze away from his beautiful mouth and the way the sleeves are rolled up on his cheap white dress shirt revealing his forearms, where sinewy muscles run enticingly down to his wrists and hands.

I have a thing for arms. Not biceps, although those are nice, too, but strong forearms are enough to do me in. It doesn’t take much, I guess, for a woman who has been alone for a few years and can count on one hand the times she’s had sex in those same years.

But these forearms are attached to a kid. I force a depressing calculation to consider the age difference. I’m thirty years old, and he looks young enough to need a fake ID. The kind of advanced math required to figure that out makes it easier to focus all of a sudden.

Gavin smiles and tries to make polite conversation during the ride. While I can only see his eyes and the top curve of his mouth in the rearview mirror, the polite grin is still evident from the turn of his upper lip. Before he can tip his head up enough so that I might see his full mouth in the reflection of the mirror, I turn to stare out the window and try to ignore how much I miss these things. Strong forearms. The curve of his mouth when he grins. A man who smiles when you walk into a room.

The hotel they put me up in is hip and overpriced. Gray granite and brushed chrome cover the hotel lobby, along with floral arrangements with flowers in them that look so exotic they are possibly poisonous. A bellman clad in black wool slacks, polished shoes, and a gray cashmere sweater stiffly escorts me to a room, where he casually points out the espresso machine and the in-room sushi menu. Once he leaves, I strip off the casual wrap dress I wore on the plane and pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt. A basket of fancy snacks is on the side table, along with a letter from After Hours with Hal Abrahms, written on the softest stationary I’ve ever felt in my hands. Ripping open a bag of tamari-roasted soy nuts, I toss a few in my mouth while checking my cell. My voice mail notification vibrates with a message from Stephen.

“Kate, tomorrow be in the lobby at ten. I set up for a stylist to meet you and take you out shopping. Go ahead and drop some of that fat advance on a decent outfit. We can’t have you wearing a prairie skirt or flannel on Hal Abrahms.”

I roll my eyes, imagining a chic blonde bombshell in the lobby tomorrow, looking at me aghast and hoping for a miracle.

The next morning, following a rude awakening by the clock radio, a hotel gym workout, and a shower, I hunker down in one of the black leather lobby chairs to wait for the stylist. The hotel is clearly an upstart hot spot, the kind where young industry types hole up while working on big deals or recovering from their latest bender. Those young hipsters who worked deals late into the night at trendy bars are still asleep, so the lobby remains quiet. It’s strange: people in Crowell would already have drunk their coffee, eaten breakfast, and been at work for hours by the time some of these people roll themselves out of bed.

Blowing through the lobby doors, a tall man sweeps in, wearing retro sunglasses meant for James Dean, a pink suit jacket, dark eggplant slim trousers that appear a few inches too short, and a pair of shiny black loafers on his feet—with no socks. I can’t quite get past the no-socks thing, as if the bold color choices aren’t striking enough, but I know his feet must be sweaty and on the verge of blistering.

He stops in the center of the room, a place he is likely accustomed to being, and scans it swiftly before his gaze lands on me. Pulling his sunglasses down to peer in my direction over them, he squints before smiling in a way that makes me want to look over my shoulder for the real object of his attention.

Only a few quick strides and he lands gracefully in front of me before whipping off the shades.

“Dear Lord in heaven, please tell me your name is Kate Mosely.”

“Your prayers have been answered. I am Kate Mosely,” I deadpan.

He fists his hands into the air. “Yes! Sweet Jesus, I needed another pudgy, mousy, mole-covered makeover like a hole in the head! Stand up, girl, so I can see exactly how easy this is going to be.”

Dropping the newspaper I was reading on one of the side tables, I stand up in front of him as he makes a swirling gesture with his index finger over my head, prompting me to make a complete turn for his inspection. I pull and straighten my white tank top over my jeans before turning slowly around like an idiot. When I return to center, he whistles slowly and grins.

“Tight body, that shiny chocolate hair, perfect skin, and blue eyes that knock men to their knees. You’re like nine different fantasies all rolled into one.” He sizes me up again and then shakes his head before winking at me. “For a straight man, of course.”

Before I can utter a single protest or inquiry, he grabs my hand to pull us toward the doors. “I’m Kellan, by the way, your stylist, truth-teller, dream-maker, and local sexpert. Ask me anything.”

Within five minutes, I fall for all of Kellan’s audacious cheek and I wish I could take him home with me, both for my own amusement and for the pure shock value he would bring to Crowell. He is hilarious and forthright, as if he was born without a filter or fear.

At Kitson, he pulls a handful of dresses, which all look flawless. Even though we should stop there, because all I planned on buying was one outfit for Hal Abrahms’s show, Kellan insists we keep shopping. I try to explain that I live in a town of eight hundred in the middle of nowhere Montana, where fashion falls just below everything in our social hierarchy. Then he tosses eight pairs of jeans over the dressing room door at Fred Segal, and each pair makes my ass look so good I start checking myself out in the three-way mirror. After that, I get a little hooked. We even end up at Agent Provocateur, where he hands me lingerie that seems downright naughty, but everything fits like perfection. Almost a waste, since no one will see any of it except me.

By the time he finally leaves me at my hotel’s posh salon and day spa, I’m exhausted, but quickly understand why people love these places. Everyone speaks quietly and delicately, offering water flavored with orange slices and herbal teas with raw sugar. I don’t have to do a thing for myself, wandering around in a bathrobe waiting for someone to tell me what to do next. The staff massages, plucks, waxes, cleanses, moisturizes, and scrubs until I feel both raw and renewed. When they finish, the woman in the mirror looks a lot like a fantastical version of me. My hair is shinier yet still dark, my eyes are smoky, with ebony-colored shadow and dark eyeliner, and my lips are burgundy and glossy. Between that and the fancy clothes, not to mention the extravagant lingerie, I almost start to enjoy it. But only when I think of James, the pleased and ardent look he would have given me in this moment, can I embrace it.