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Oh, God…
As the engines roar, and the plane taxis down the runway, I’m gripped by the third Hollywood truth: When bull-shit fails, backpedal like hell and disassociate yourself from the lie as fast as you can.
I hate to fly. I really, really hate it. I can’t believe I tried to make myself buy into this crap. Forget aerodynamics. Huge, phallic-shaped metal objects that weigh hundreds of thousands of pounds are not supposed to swim weightlessly through the air thirty-five thousand feet above the clouds and the earth.
The words Let me out of this death trap! gurgle up in my throat, but even if I could find my voice, it’s too late. The plane lifts off. The G-forces press me into the seat like invisible hands hell-bent on pinning me down.
I hug myself and squeeze my eyes shut. My breath comes in short, quick gasps.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!”
“Are you okay?” the cowboy asks.
I nod, vigorously, and realize I was probably muttering Oh, God under my breath. I hope I didn’t sound like I was having an orgasm.
Biting the inside of my cheeks to keep other words from flying out, I draw in another deep breath through my nose. Come to think of it, I hate the smell of planes—that blend of humans, jet fuel and airplane food—almost as much as bus odor. Still, the scent, pleasant or not, is a touchstone, an anchor to the here and now, and I latch onto it like a life preserver, hugging myself tighter.
“Takeoff’s my favorite part of the flight.”
Huh?
I open one eye and look at the cowboy. Not only is he taking up both armrests, he’s listing in my direction.
He’s so much bigger than Chet, who was lean and fair and Hollywood fabulous. The cowboy is dark and good-looking if you like a raven-eyed, five-o’clock-shadow, feral-looking, Tim-McGraw sort of man. I shift away from his manliness.
“There’s always so much possibility when a plane takes off.” He has one of those piercing, look-you-in-the-eyes kind of gazes. “It’s so symbolic. New places. New beginnings. New opportunities. What’s your favorite part of the ride?”
My favorite—? Why is he talking to me? “I hate to fly.”
“Really.” The word is a statement laced with a hint of sarcasm. “How can anybody hate to fly? Think of all you’d miss letting fear rule your life.”
Who in the hell does he think he is? Anthony Robbins?
“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m certainly not letting fear rule me. Otherwise I’d have my feet planted firmly on the ground rather than hanging out up here in the clouds, thirty-five thousand feet above—”
The plane dips into an air pocket.
“Oh, God!”
The words are a whimper, and I melt into my seat, too scared to be thoroughly mortified for being such a big baby.
Okay, maybe I’m a little mortified. Because he’s still staring at me.
Oh, leave me alone. I close my eyes again, feeling the first waves of the Dramamine. That foggy, far-off haziness that clouds the head before it closes the eyes is creeping up on me.
“Okay, you get partial credit for being here,” says the wise guy.
Partial credit? Like I care. I swallow a yawn.
“But to get full credit, you have to tell me your favorite part of the flight.”
I’m tempted to tell him where to put his favorite part. To leave me alone so I can go to sleep and wake up when we’re safely back on the ground. But this guy is persistent. It’ll be a long, uncomfortable flight if I piss him off. I revert to Hollywood truth number four: Tell them what they want to hear and they’ll go away.
“My favorite part of the flight?”
He nods.
My mouth is dry, but I manage to say, “When they open the door at the gate. Now leave me alone so I can go to sleep. My Dramamine is kicking in.”
“Come on,” he says. “You can do better than that.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s a cop-out. Opening the door at the gate is not part of the flight. The flight’s over.”
“Well, it’s certainly better than the take off—”
I gesture at the air to indicate the turbulent departure, only to realize we’ve leveled off and are cruising at that smooth, steady pace that’s almost bearable.
He smiles and takes the in-flight magazine out of the seat pocket. “Sleep well.”
MIRACULOUSLY, I do manage to sleep most of the nonstop flight. My eyes flutter open to the sound of the flight attendant’s announcement asking everyone to secure their tray tables and return their seats to the upright position as we prepare to land in Orlando.
I stretch and rub my stiff neck.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” says the cowboy.
“It’s not over yet.”
Vaguely wondering what a guy like him was doing in L.A., I retrieve my purse from under the seat, pull out my Lancôme Dual Finish compact and the red lipstick I got in the free gift when I purchased the powder. Something to distract me while we get this last part of the journey over with.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching me primp.
“Are you visiting Orlando or coming home?”
“Neither.” I blot my lips and check the mirror to make sure my lipstick is on straight. “I’m from a small town over on the east coast.”
“Cocoa Beach?”
I shake my head. “Sago Beach.”
He nods. “It’s pretty over there. Visiting family?”
I snap the compact shut, drop the cosmetics into my purse and look him square in the eyes, ready to give him the polite brush-off. Only then do I realize just how cute this guy is. Nice face. So totally not my type.
For a split second, I hope I didn’t do something repulsive while I slept, like drool, or snort, or sit there with my mouth gaping open.
I could only do things like that around Chet. My foot finds the bag with his ashes, and I blink away the thought. It doesn’t matter how I appeared to the cowboy while I was sleeping. Rubbing the place where my wedding ring should’ve been with my thumb, I say, “I’m moving back.”
“Welcome home.”
“Thank you.”
Home. Hmm. I suppose Sago Beach has always been home, even when I was away.
Hollywood certainly never was.
It was something I had to get out of my system—like a bad boyfriend who treated me unkindly and sent me running back to my mother. Only this bad relationship lasted seventeen years and cost me my husband and my youth. Chet was really the one who wanted to live there because it was good for our careers. But come to find out, I can take my career anywhere. Just like now that I’m bringing it back home to my mother’s salon.
“The name’s Max Wright.” He extends a hand. I shake it. “What’s yours?”
“Avril.”
The plane hits another air pocket. I grope for the armrests. In my panic, I end up grabbing his arm and releasing it as if it burns.
“Sorry.”
He smiles, a little half smile, and I like the way the outer corners of his eyes tilt down. “Just relax, Avril. The worst part is over.”
Hollywood truths one and two kick in and I want to believe him.
Yeah, now that I’m home the worst is just about over.
I believe that for about fifteen minutes—until we deplane and make our way to baggage claim, where my mother and half the population of Sago Beach are standing under a banner that proclaims Welcome home, Avril!! Sago Beach’s very own beauty operator to the stars.
CHAPTER 2
I want to die.
Truly, I do.
Because I hate surprises. My mother knows it. Still, once she gets an idea in that red head of hers, she tends to forget everything outside the scope of her plan.
The surprise banner-flying airport welcoming committee—a collection of at least twenty of Sago Beach’s finest—has my mother’s name written all over it.
The scene unfolds as the escalator carries me from the main terminal down to baggage claim, and I reconcile that, ready or not, this is small-town life. It’s nothing like Hollywood, where you’re invisible unless you’re the It Girl of the Moment.
I have two choices: I can either turn and hightail it back up the escalator, or suck it up and greet them like a decent person. It only takes a split second to decide that despite the embarrassment factor of seeing my name along with the words Sago Beach’s very own beauty operator to the stars, emblazoned in bright letters on a long sheet of brown craft paper, I’m touched that these people would take the time to make a banner, much less come all the way to Orlando—a good hour’s drive from the coast—to make me feel welcome.
Ready or not, I’m home.
“All this is for you?” Max smiles and a dimple winks at me from his left cheek.
I hitch the tote with Chet’s ashes upon my shoulder, feeling oddly sheepish and a little unfaithful that all of them will see a strange man talking to me.
“Beauty operator to the stars, huh?” He whistles. “I didn’t realize I was sitting next to royalty.”
“They’re good people,” I say, suddenly protective of the folks, who, just a moment ago, embarrassed the living daylights out of me.
“I can see that. They’re really glad you’re back.”
The escalator reaches the bottom, delivering us to the baggage claim, and my friends and family surge forward.
“Nice to meet you, princess,” he says.
Princess? Normally, I’d spit out a snappy retort, but with my welcoming committee rallying around me, I don’t want to encourage any further conversation with Max. That would only lead to questions from the fine people of Sago Beach. Especially Mama.
I do the next best thing. I pretend I didn’t hear him as everyone envelopes me.
Mama is at the helm, of course, hugging me first. Her hair is the same rusty-carrot shade that it’s been for as far back as I can remember. It’s long and big, as if Dolly Parton had a run-in with a vat of V8 juice. She’s a beautiful sight, and I feel so safe in her slight arms that I want to cry.
There’s Justine Wittage and Carolyn Hayward, Mama’s longtime customers, Bucky Farley and Tim Dennison, among others in the crowd, who hug and kiss me and say, “Oh, darlin’ ain’t you a sight?”
My old friend Kally is conspicuously absent from the fray. It gives me a little pang that she didn’t come, but we haven’t exactly been on good terms the past five years or so.
“I suppose you’re too good for us now that you’ve been hobnobbing with them movie stars?” Marjorie Cooper, Sago Beach’s token busybody, smiles her wonderful gaptoothed smile.
“Of course not, Margie, I’m still the same girl you’ve always known.”
“I know ya are, hon. I’m just yanking your chain.” She enfolds me in a hug that threatens to squeeze the stuffing out of me. “It’s so good to have you home.”
Finally, after everyone has a chance to say hello, they decide to head for home.
“No sense in you all standing around and waiting for the baggage,” Mama insists. “Y’all go on back home.”
This incites another round of hugs and welcome-homes and I feel a twinge of guilt that they all made the two-hour round-trip for less than five minutes of togetherness.
“We’ll see you soon,” says Bucky Farley, who has lingered behind the rest of them.
“Bucky, you go on now and get out of here. We’ll manage just fine.”
Mama growls the words like a tiger. I wonder what’s got her back up all of a sudden. For a split second, I wonder if she’s going to object to any and all men who show interest in me. Not that I’m interested in dating Bucky. He’s not my type at all—not quite old enough to be my father, more like an uncle.
If there’s one thing I don’t need it’s my mother screening my friends. But she loved Chet. We’d been a couple so long, we were like one person. It would take everyone a while to get used to me being on my own.
Mama links her arm through mine as we move to carousel number four to get my bags. I glance up and see Max standing alone across the way. He smiles and tips his hat.
“Who is that?” Mama blurts.
I shrug nonchalantly, looking everywhere but in his direction. “He sat next to me on the plane.”
“Handsome.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“He certainly noticed you. Look at him staring.” So much for the Bucky Farley theory. “Did you give him your number?”
“Mother.”
