18. Alana

EIGHTEEN

Alana

And sometimes you love a person

just because they feel like home.

~ Bridget Jones's Baby

S tevens gets back to unpacking my groceries. It should feel odd or intrusive, but he’s moving through the kitchen with such unassuming ease I nearly forget he’s never been here before. That is until he asks his next question.

“Where does this go?” He holds up a large container of plain Greek yogurt.

I laugh lightly. “The fridge. Where do you keep your yogurt?”

“I guess I meant to ask where your fridge is. All I see are cabinets.”

I laugh out loud. Not at him. Then I walk past him and open the refrigerator, which does have a cabinetry front to make the aesthetic of the kitchen more streamlined.

“Ahh. Camouflage. I’m a fan of cloaking in nature. Not so sure how I feel about it in kitchens. At least your stove is out in the open, not hiding in plain sight.” He smiles at me .

I smile back. We’re closer than we even are in the helm of Joel’s boat. And those times have been out on the ocean. I’ve never caught the way Stevens smells, but it hits me unexpectedly now. He’s like the ocean breeze, salt and crisp, but with something soothing like a cup of tea or a bedside candle in the undertones.

I walk back to the last paper bag on the counter and grab out a box of frozen brown rice.

“Heads up,” I say, tossing the box in Stevens’ direction. He reaches out and catches it, reads the label and sets the box into my freezer.

Unpacking groceries usually serves as a reminder that my week is about to take flight. Tonight feels like an extension of a much-needed vacation.

We work side by side, unloading the rest of the items into my cabinets, fridge and walk-in pantry.

“This place is as big as my entire living room,” Stevens says, emerging after setting some raw nut butter and rice cakes on the shelf in my pantry.

His tone is so neutral, I don’t feel self-conscious in the least.

I attempt to diffuse the disparity between us by saying, “Well, in my Hollywood apartment, I don’t even have a pantry.”

Somehow, mentioning that I have an entire separate residence doesn’t level the playing field in the least. But Stevens takes it in stride.

“Well, my other dwelling doesn’t have a pantry either.”

“You have a second home?”

He smiles a smile that should be on billboards, only it’s so homey and directed only at me, his new friend—at least I think we might be friends now.

“My other home: the ocean.”

“Ahhh.” I laugh a little. “I forgot you’re a merman.”

“How did you find out?” He chuckles good-naturedly.

“Brigitte dubbed you that the day we bumped into you in the cove. ”

He smiles. I imagine he’s secretly entertaining the thought of being a merman. Something nearly boyish crosses his face for a moment. It’s a nuance of an expression actors work years to master.

“You being a merman would explain how you stay underwater so long,” I add with a wink.

“You’re on to me. Promise me you’ll keep my scaly secret.”

“Cross my heart.” I make the X motion on my chest, then I walk to the fridge and open the door.

“Let’s see. We have …” I read the labels Marta put on each container. “Chicken breast with green beans and a balsamic glazed couscous, halibut filet with citrus salsa and asparagus, or a mixed green salad with slivers of lean strip steak and roasted sweet potatoes.”

“No pizza?” His face is serious, but I can see the mirth in his eyes.

“Pizza is a rarity.”

“Any of that sounds good. But I don’t want to take one of the meals you already had planned to eat this week.”

“It’s fine. I can get more where this came from. And I can always resort to soup. Besides, I’ll more than likely be in Hollywood a few nights this week.”

“You could always feast on that bucket of plain Greek yogurt.”

I laugh. “That will last me a week of breakfasts.”

“Surprise me,” he says, tipping his chin toward the fridge.

He’s certainly surprising me. I watch as he plops onto one of the barstools, pivoting and extending his long legs out to the side.

“Should I help cook?” he offers.

I point to the microwave-convection oven and smile. “I’ll do the honors.”

I pour each of us a glass of sparkling water, and when both meals are warmed, I lead Stevens out to the deck.

“I’m assuming you’re fine with eating outside,” I say.

“This is great. I usually eat in my kitchen at a small table. Once a week I have a meal with my parents, and then one other night I try to bring business to my sister by popping in on her.”

I take a seat in one of the oversized wicker chairs in front of the outdoor coffee table at the end of my porch where we’ll have the best views of the ocean. Stevens takes the seat next to mine. Our backs are to the wall, treetops, rooftops and the wide expanse of the ocean spread out in front of us.

“Your sister?” I ask, trying to reconcile the idea of Stevens having a family.

He seems so self-contained—so content in his own skin. I don’t know what I imagined about him before. My thoughts were usually spiraling around getting to LA or unwinding from being there. But now, I see him as a whole person, with a life apart from substituting as my water taxi pilot. Maybe I saw pieces of him in that light before, but not like I am right now.

“My sister owns Mitzi’s Tacos. Her name is Mitzi … of course … which would be why her place is called Mitzi’s Tacos. You don’t meet a lot of Mexicans named Mitzi, I don’t think. I never have, anyway. But she loves tacos and food in general, so she went to culinary school in LA and worked at taquerias there while she was taking courses. She’s always known she wanted a restaurant.”

I hide my smile at the awkwardness that made Stevens rattle on more than usual. These bouts of nerves seem to surge occasionally, like he remembers my life outside the boat or this house and has to work his way back to being at ease around me. I’d do anything to alleviate that for him, but I think I’d only make matters worse, so I let him work it out.

“So, are her tacos any good? Or do you just eat there to support her?”

“They are excellent. Local Mexicans eat there and tell her they think her food is authentic. She always comes to family dinner bragging about anytime someone Hispanic compliments her food.”

“I’d love to try her tacos sometime.”

“I think I know a guy who could make that happen. ”

I smile over at him. “You’d have to bring them here.”

“Or you could wear those huge sunglasses and maybe a wig and a trenchcoat,” he suggests.

I can’t tell if he’s teasing or being serious.

“Yeah. That getup wouldn’t stand out at all,” I joke.

“Not a bit. People come to Mitzi’s in trench coats and shades all the time. She’s got a real Singing in the Rain vibe going on.”

I snort-laugh and then immediately bring the back of my hand up to my nose as if I can suck back the fact that I just sounded like a pig learning how to breathe.

“Classy.” He smirks at me.

“I can’t believe you made me snort.”

“Oh, I made you? I think you managed that on your own.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

He nods. I try to remember the last time I had this much fun or truly relaxed with someone. Brigitte. But with a man? Maybe never.

The next day, I’m sitting on my porch in the same chair I sat in for my unexpected dinner with Stevens last night. I’m reading Sally Field’s memoir, In Pieces, when the phone rings. I set my book aside and answer Phyllis’ call.

Phyllis doesn’t even say hello. She starts in with, “The guests just checked out at Mila’s Place an hour ago and she doesn’t have any reservations tonight. I’m joining Mila for lunch and you are too.”

Despite her warm and humorous demeanor, Phyllis can be as commanding as my mother. When she summons you to lunch, you clean up and go.

“What if I’m busy?”

“Cancel. You’re on the island. You answered your phone. That means you’re free. Don’t play games with me, Alana. We are overdue for lunch together. ”

“I’ll be there in a half hour.”

“Don’t make me drive up there and get you, because you know I will.”

“Believe me, the last thing I want is for you to drive up this hill. I’ll be down in a bit.”

We hang up. I set my book aside, slip into the pair of sandals I keep near the door and take a leisurely walk down the hill past the other larger properties surrounding mine. I know who most of my neighbors are. A few of them may know it’s me who lives in my home, but we don’t really interact outside the occasional wave when we collect our mail or see one another out on the street.

In the neighborhoods below ours, darling beach bungalows and a few larger homes dot properties. Picket fences frame the small front yards. No one needs much of a yard when the beach is only a few blocks away. I pass the Corner Market and turn toward Mila’s Place, a bed & breakfast owned by Phyllis’ niece.

Phyllis is on the porch swing waiting for me.

“There she is! There she is.” Phyllis comes down the porch steps and pulls me into a hug. “Oh the beauty! If Hollywood hadn’t already snatched you up, they would do it today. Tell me how you are, Alana. Is it junket time for that next picture of yours?”

“We just got through that this week.”

“Through it? No. No. We both know that’s only the drop of the flag at the races. You’re in the thick of it for a few months now, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And my next film starts production only a few weeks after the release of Blasted .”

“Oh, this business. They’ll eat you alive if you let them.”

“You didn’t let them,” I smile over at her.

“Nearly, dear. Nearly. But, I made it out by the skin of my teeth. And here I am—a testament that you can survive fame and live to tell about it. Of course, I wasn’t famous like you. Never a household word. Not where there was a feeding frenzy whenever I showed my face in public. No. I didn’t have to mess with all that nonsense.”

“Nonsense, huh?”

“Give me a better word for it, and I’ll use it.”

“I can’t find one off the top of my head.”

“And that’s coming from you, the wordsmith.”

“I’m not a wordsmith. I just like playing word games.”

I think of Wordivore. There’s a real possibility he’s right here—on this block, as we speak, or even next door for all I know. The idea thrills and overwhelms me in equal parts.

Mila steps out onto the porch. There’s a glow to her these days—something peaceful and magnetic. She’s always been sweet and welcoming, careful about keeping my anonymity and privacy. And she never overstepped the fact that her aunt and I are close. I respect her for that.

“I made chicken salad,” she announces. “It’s my recipe with grapes and celery, not the savory one.”

“I like them all,” Phyllis says with a flourish of her hands. “And this one needs to eat.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze before leading us up the steps to the inn.

I smile at Phyllis. Always trying to feed me.

“How about we eat out on the back terrace?” Mila suggests.

“Perfection! Perfection!” Phyllis says, not waiting for me to chime in with an opinion.

“So, dear, tell us what’s new,” she says to me as we all pull out seats at a pre-set table. The sandwiches are on a tea tray in the middle with bowls of fruit salad and a green salad flanking the stand.

“Wow. This looks amazing. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“She did,” Phyllis glances at me with a faux warning. “Her favorite aunt is here for lunch. Don’t dissuade her, dear. I love being pampered.”

Mila and I laugh .

“You sure you don’t want to get back into acting?” I offer.

“Are you kidding me? No, thank you, and that’s that. I adored my time in the biz. Most of it. Even took a husband from the experience as a parting gift. Lost him just as quickly, as Hollywood romances go. You know.”

Mila and I share a look. This is the most Phyllis has ever spoken of her love life—to me anyway.

But, as quickly as she opens the can, she seals the lid back up.

“So, how about you? I see the tabloids.” Phyllis takes a sip of her iced tea and raises one eyebrow as if she knows better than to believe what she reads.

“Well …” I start in.

“Is this your mother’s idea of a promotion for the film?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Just as I thought. Well, give me something juicy then.”

“I don’t have anything too juicy.”

“Oooh.” Phyllis rubs her hands together. “Not too juicy means it is juicy.”

A few veins show through the silky skin, one of the only signs she’s old enough to be my grandmother.

“There’s this guy online,” I admit.

“Online dating?” Mila asks with a softness to her eyes. “Isn’t that a bit tricky for someone as high-profile as you?”

“Dating at all is tricky for someone in my position. But we’re not online dating. We’re playing a word game. And we chat.”

“Much better,” Phyllis says before taking a solid bite of the croissant sandwich in her hand. She quickly chews and adds, “A man who plays word games isn’t online for only one thing. Plus, he’s bound to have a good vocabulary.”

Mila chuckles. “I think you get more ridiculous with age.”

“I get more honest,” Phyllis corrects her. “Now tell us about this man.”

“Well …” I trust them. I may as well say it. “It turns out he lives here.”

“On Marbella?” Mila’s face is giddy with excitement .

“Yes. Can you believe it?”

“What are the odds?” Phyllis says.

“I know. I’d almost wonder if he arranged it all, you know? Like maybe he found out where I lived somehow and then figured out who I am on the game. But there’s really no way he could have. Maybe someone could discover I’m here. But no one knows my gamer tag. It’s a bonafide coincidence. We’ve been playing forever, chatting more and more over time. Our discussion about where we live came out of left field this week.”

“You just found out?” Mila’s usually calm demeanor is tinged with a contagious spark of interest. “I wonder who he is!”

“Me too. Believe me. It’s not like I can just go roaming around trying to find him, carrying a sign that says, Wordivore, is that you? I’ll just have to see what happens. A part of me wants to meet him. But the other part … he doesn’t know who I am. It’s … refreshing being just another woman. Everything could change when he sees I’m Alana Graves.”

“But you have a history with him on this game?” Mila asks.

“Yes.”

“Then he already knows you apart from your fame. That’s a gift. If he wants to meet you without knowing who you are, that means he’s attracted to you for you.”

Mila’s phone pings with a message notification.

“Oh, excuse me. I should check that in case it’s Noah’s school.”

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, reads the message, and says, “It’s nothing. Just Kai telling me he’ll be late. He’s going out with Stevens, taking a group out on a night snorkel.”

“Stevens?” I ask without thinking.

“Yes. The guy you met at Ben and Summer’s barbecue,” Mila says.

“Ah. Yes. I remember him.”