December 14

CHELSEA ON ANOTHER LOVELY MORNING IN MALIBU...

C HELSEA HELD A SMALL, WEATHERED METAL TUBE BETWEEN HER thumb and forefinger and squeezed just a little more cerulean blue onto her paint palette to adjust the gray she’d been mixing for the past half hour. She normally painted from memory, inside her modest studio, converted out of what used to be the second bedroom and away from the all-consuming view of the ocean. She had a simple setup—a drafting table, an easel, a set of drawers for basic organization of her many tubes of paint. And half-painted canvases plus sketches littered themselves around the floor, settling into all the available spaces like members of a social club. Her studio was her sanctuary, and the ocean was her inspiration. She was trying to render the brilliant gloom of a Malibu morning overcast in the winter. She found the ceiling of low-lying clouds to be quite captivating; the feeling of being outdoors in it captured all of her senses and brought the ocean mist up to cover her like a blanket needing just five more minutes in the dryer. It was a communion with nature and her surroundings. The experience reminded her of life in the Arts District in Los Angeles, where everything around her felt alive and so distinctively unbeautiful.

Breaking through the cracks in her concentration was the distant but still very audible sound of music coming from the beach outside. It was time for Jay to start his morning Surf Yoga class. Why he picked the space in front of her place, she couldn’t figure out. The beach in California was public land, all the way up to the high tide line. And most days, in the spirit of community, Chelsea just considered it part of the charm. Sometimes, she’d wave with a closed-mouth smile and try to telepathically shame him into turning the sound down. And, usually, that didn’t work. So, when it was truly important to her, on a day like today, trying to capture a fleeting bit of inspiration, she’d be much more direct. Unlike many of her neighbors, especially those in the much larger houses that flanked the beachfront, Chelsea was used to the compromises made to share resources. But as much as it was known for surfing or ocean breezes, Malibu had a complicated relationship with access to those things and a reputation for its residents continually trying to expand their property lines to keep so-called “others” off “their” beaches. The beach behind Chelsea’s cottage was a particularly nice stretch, probably nicer than what her modest little home deserved. It seemed more fitting for her next-door neighbor Joan’s home, a three-story modern showplace with decks on two levels. And meticulous Joan was never one to let anything slide. Chelsea had either heard or passively witnessed Joan and Jay’s fair share of run-ins, which she stayed fully out of, but Jay was undaunted just the same.

Hoping to finish at least a good section of painting, Chelsea decided it was worth a break to see if Jay might oblige at least a minor reduction in decibels. She dipped her brush into her water container and sloshed it around until the water ran clear enough from the bristles she squeezed between her fingers. She stood up, straightened her overalls, and flip-flopped her way through the short distance of the hallway, across the kitchen alcove and compact living room, out to the deck, and down the stairs to the sand.

“Jay!” she yelled, walking closer. He didn’t hear her. The music was louder down there, but so was the ocean in its rhythmic roar. “Jay!” she yelled again, louder this time. He finally looked up.

“Oh, hey, Chelsea,” he said. His tone was casual, without a care in the universe. She knew that he knew what she wanted, but he was going to make her ask. Jay maintained his boyish charm and a sun-kissed aura of vitality that glowed through his flawless brown skin, although Chelsea thought he was older than the age of “surfer bro” culture, maybe in his early forties, even. She had no question about the appeal he held for the many women in his classes. In fact, he was ruggedly handsome, in a way, with salt-and-pepper accents in the hair at the sides of his head, dark eyes and attractive facial features, the square shoulders of a strong swimmer, and a body that seemed to fill out his wetsuit respectably. If not for the blaring music and overall difficulty she had taking him seriously, maybe she too would let her glances linger as long as the ladies who flocked him did. But this was not her mission.

“Could ya just turn it down a bit?” Chelsea pointed to the speaker. Despite the familiar nature of this exchange, Jay still managed to look genuinely surprised.

“Really, it’s that loud?” He pulled his hand up against his eyebrows like a shield.

“Yes, that loud. I’m trying to paint a mood that’s definitely not this .” Chelsea air-canvased the scene before her with her hands. The “this” that Chelsea referred to was far too upbeat for what she was hoping to express. The well-toned class attendees, in a mix of brightly colored spandex separates, alongside some half-zipped wetsuits, shifted a bit, looking to their leader. Chelsea felt a tinge of self-consciousness as she hoped that she hadn’t come off as too harsh. In the days since Helena’s call, maybe she’d been on edge.

“Good morning!” The woman’s voice was coming from behind her, to her left. She recognized it without having to look, twisting slightly in that direction.

“Hey, Joan.” She ended the obligatory greeting to her neighbor with a small wave. Jay looked up and did so as well, although Chelsea had the sense that Joan likely wasn’t directing her greeting to both of them. Joan waved back casually with the hand that was free of coffee and went about situating herself on the deck. This morning, Joan’s carefully highlighted hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a tied Hermès scarf, standard issue for her. If Jay was sun-kissed brown, then for a white woman, Joan’s skin was a true product of Malibu and her age—sun-consumed and the color of caramel, with freckles and sunspots you could only see up close. Her tasteful cream cotton tank was tucked neatly into her denim jeans of the same color, making a stick-lean silhouette of a perfect letter P from the neck down.

On many other mornings, Joan would make a regular ritual of dusting her deck pillows and making busy before she angled herself just perfectly toward the ocean. After her occasional less-friendly scuffle with Jay about the noise, she’d settle into her spot that didn’t take her any farther away from it. In fact, she’d appear to be looking at the horizon but was positioned exactly so that behind her large-frame Chloé (or Chanel) sunglasses, she could also watch every second of Jay’s class. Not that Joan seemed to have any particular interest in Jay, just that she was interested in everyone’s everything and never let a happening pass without some kind of assessment.

Joan was a weathered beauty and quintessential Malibu divorcée. As Chelsea understood it, she was discarded remains of a so-called successful life, a midlife crisis casualty when her famous movie producer husband started sleeping with his second assistant-turned-live-in-girlfriend, now fiancée. This was a story Chelsea gleaned not so much from Joan but mainly from paragraphs and paragraphs of the articles written about the scandal. Joan didn’t need to tell her because everybody knew. From her marriage she walked away with a (very) large bank account, an empty nest, and a restless heart, broken and dysfunctional, but still beating in its own quirky way. She would bend over backwards if you asked her for help, and when you didn’t, she’d bend you over backwards to accept her assistance. With neither of her grown children around to helicopter, Joan was unrelenting at best toward the people whose lives she still had the ability to affect. She seemed like a hummingbird whose entire life might stop if she stopped moving. If you looked at her closely enough, in rarer moments you might catch a glimpse of the hours of nonspecific worry that crisscrossed her face, even when hidden by her unusually large designer sunglasses and beach hats. Some nights, she’d bring Chelsea whole gourmet dinners, poached salmon and grilled asparagus, perfectly tender pearls of couscous, and once after Chelsea had sneezed too loudly near a window, she found a still-warm jar of homemade chicken noodle soup against her door. Joan would often say the meals were so she’d have fewer leftovers, but Chelsea suspected that, more often than not, she was the only intended recipient.

“Joan. Come join us!” Jay called out from his spot on the beach and then turned back to Chelsea. “You too, ya might like it.” As he spoke, he made a large gesture of pushing the volume button on his speaker. The music quieted.

“Next time!” Chelsea waved as she turned back to her bungalow, trying to add some friendly sparkle to her show of gratitude. She had absolutely no intention of ever joining. Maybe her houseguest would enjoy it . The thought made Chelsea groan. Walking back inside, she waited for Jay to echo his usual reply, Life’s too short for next time, Chelsea! , sounding like a bride’s uncle two beers in at a wedding. But he didn’t and thus saved her from an awkward closing of the screen door in his smiling face.

Twenty minutes of relative quiet later, she was back in her studio, returned to her painting, when she heard her phone ringing in the kitchen. Morning calls were usually from one person, and having made quick haste to answer it, even before the phone properly reached her ear, she could hear the buzz of Helena’s surroundings.

“Chelsea, darling, can you hear me?” Helena’s voice resounded loudly through Chelsea’s earpiece. Chelsea caught her breath before responding. There had been a time when she loved hearing from Helena. It meant good news, a buyer, an idea, or money coming in that could sustain her just a bit longer. But not this call. She already knew that this call was going to change her world, no matter what was said.

“Oh, hi, Helena, yes, yes, I can hear you,” Chelsea shouted above the noise.

“I’m so sorry, dear, it’s quite noisy. I decided to take a brisk walk to dinner. A lovely restaurant you should try when you’re next here.”

Chelsea wondered if Helena was telling her that she’d be hosting Londoners.

“And on the topic of travel, I have good news for you,” Helena continued in her proper staccato. “You’re quite the lucky one at the start of things. I never imagined it would happen so quickly, especially during Malibu’s offseason. But I’ve got someone interested. It seems you’ve been saved by some dear woman in Chicago.”

“Chicago? I... I thought you were about to say London.” Chelsea tried to envision Christmas in London with the toffee pudding and the old-time traditions, if she were to join Helena there. But Helena holidayed in the Canary Islands, Chelsea remembered, and she wondered if Helena would insist. “So, I guess it’s the Canary Islands for me, then?” Chelsea mused aloud.

“Oh, no... dear, no. I wouldn’t ask you to come all the way across the pond. You’ll be going to Chicago... I negotiated a swap for you.”

Chelsea’s breath caught in her throat. She felt her heart start to quicken and a coldness build. It was the onset of panic, the trigger of anxiety. She closed her eyes and pulled in a long, staggered inhale. For a moment, her breathing was all she heard, everything else became a more distant echo. By the time she felt the whoosh of her lungs emptying, she had more control. It was the change she anticipated, but knowledge was insufficient preparation for an overwhelming confrontation with the reality of it.

“ I’m going to Chicago ?”

“Yes, dear!” Helena said as brightly as if she’d sold a painting. “Isn’t that lovely? It’s all arranged, and perfectly so. Your guest will come there, you’ll go to Chicago to stay at her fabulous condo right on the lakefront. Well, likely frozen , but...” Helena muttered the last bit to herself, but then regained the cheery sales disposition that came so naturally to her. “I heard she works in architecture, so I’m sure the accommodations will be quite lovely.”

Chicago ? Chelsea thought again. She’d never been to Chicago, not even for her art, and other than Burning Man and skiing, she couldn’t recall being anywhere in the US that wasn’t on an ocean coast.

Helena filled Chelsea’s silence with even-louder-than-needed forced cheer.

“She was a tough negotiator, that one, but in the end, it turned out perfectly, I think. Now, just the last item, for hospitality’s sake, you’ll make her feel welcome, yes? Perhaps a nice note? A little sprucing? We’ll want to make a good impression.”

“Helena, I—”

“Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? We owe money, we’ll make money. Chelsea, if this doesn’t work out... If we can’t afford to pay the taxes, we will have to sell the house. That’s how this works. And perhaps you’ll find something there, dear, that you seem to have lost where you are.”

Chelsea brought a hand up to her temple, rubbing it to release the tension. The taxes... a swap? Chicago ? And she was still supposed to produce in the meantime? And write a note? It was all too much. After hanging up with Helena she made her way into her bedroom and lay down with a mind to restart the day, pretending the conversation with Helena was a distant memory, perhaps just a bad dream. She drew the shutters, buried herself in a familiar position in her bedding, and let herself be lulled to sleep by the sounds of the ocean, a rhythmic roar advancing and subsiding that she could just manage to hear above the still-too-loud thumping of Jay’s speakers across the sand.

RAMONA ON A COLD AND DREARY WINTER AFTERNOON IN CHICAGO...

R AMONA SAT AT A TABLE FOR TWO INSIDE THE F RENCH SANDWICH café down the block from work, waiting for Latrice to join her for lunch. She shifted in the chair to look at the time on her phone. Latrice was late enough to notice, and Ramona wondered what the holdup could be. Ramona rarely left her office for lunchtime excursions, but Latrice insisted that they meet up for the break in the day. In the middle of the server’s third stop to fill her water glass, asking if she was ready to order, she spotted Latrice rushing through the door in a bundle of winter parka, gloves, and giant scarf. She stomped the remnants of slush away on the floor mat as the door closed behind her. Ramona waved frantically. Latrice looked excited.

“Girl, let me tell you, he made a way out of no way for you today!”

“A way for me? Latrice, you know I only had an hour.”

Latrice waved her hand across her face as if to shoo Ramona’s words away.

“Listen, Moe, I figured it out. You’re going on a trip, just like I said. No oceans to cross, no family to confront, no Malik to worry about, just you and peace and tranquility.” At this, Latrice threw her arms in the air and almost hit a server passing by. A precision hip swerve avoided a likely disastrous collision.

“Latrice, I told you , I can’t go. I...”

“Moe, before you go there, hear me out, mm ’k?”

Ramona’s mouth opened to protest, but nothing came out before Latrice continued.

“So, there’s this house on the beach in California—in Malibu, you know, where all the celebrities go, but it’s so cute and kinda shabby chic. It’s perfect and literally right on the sand.” Latrice gave Ramona a gigantic grin. “I reached out and because it’s offseason, got you a discount... a big discount, really, and there’s just one thing...”

“Latrice, if this is some swinger’s colony or room share or something, I’m not interested. Not even if I was inclined to be interested, which for the record, I’m not.”

“Come on, Moe! You know me better than that. I’d never send you somewhere that I’d rather go myself.” Latrice gave a big mischievous smile.

Ramona picked up the menu. “You’re wasting your time and mine—we need to order.”

Latrice pushed her hand back down to the table. “Not until I tell you the rest. Look, the catch is that it’s offseason, but that just means less hours of sun.”

“And? That’s it?”

“Well, there’s one more thing. The owner of the house is this super-fancy British woman and evidently her niece or goddaughter or something like that is an artist who lives there and... well, she’d be coming to stay at your place, while you stay in hers.”

Ramona began to choke on her water. With what breath she could suck in, she started her sputtering protest. “Who’s staying in my place? A stranger? So they can steal all my stuff? Latrice, you have got to be kidding me.”

“Ramona, it’s not a stranger. Malik is a stranger. He lived with you for a year and stole your heart. At least this lady is offering something. You’re staying in her otherwise unaffordable beach house, and for a nice discount. During that time, she’s staying in your place. Come on,” Latrice’s voice sang out to Ramona. “It’s a good deal...”

“This...” Ramona gestured in a circle with her hands. “This is not a good idea. I... I can’t. It’s too much.” Ramona shook her head and signaled for the server who Latrice had shooed away again at the beginning of their conversation. He looked relieved to be finally heading over. “Time to order.” Ramona shoved the menu toward her friend and pretended to scour her own copy, hoping to end the conversation.

“We’re going to eat, but I’m going to finish. And before we leave, you’re going to be excited.”

Ramona could only shake her head because deep down within, she knew Latrice was right.

After their food arrived and following a few needed moments of the relative silence of eating, crunching, and sipping through their selections, Latrice, geared up for convincing, made her final pitch.

“Moe, let’s be honest. You’re on the verge of a breakdown. Not only are you still wearing an engagement ring when there’s no engagement, but you’re still going actual dress shopping with your mother. You need this.”

Ramona looked down into her soup. With the mention of dress shopping, Latrice had landed a blow. She could justify it, but just barely. Malik hadn’t asked her to return the ring. That was it. And other than that small detail, there was no reason to move forward with a frilly and pointless wedding gown purchase. Most of all, she hated lying to her mother, her father, and ostensibly to herself, but currently, she had no imagination for the alternative and no will to disappoint. A deposit had been placed on the venue; a date had been set. Malik already made his first investment, and it was sitting on her finger. All she needed was a little more time. Maybe just after the holiday , Ramona thought, watching staggered uneaten croutons float across a bowl-size tomato lake. Latrice’s voice brought her attention back.

“There’s no way you can fake it through this holiday, Ramona. You need to go, get yourself together, and come back a new woman. And with any luck, you’ll lose that engagement ring in the ocean somewhere.”

Although the thought of losing the ring delivered a strike of panic to Ramona’s gut, Ramona knew she couldn’t argue with Latrice. She was undeniably spiraling out of balance—the evidence was mounting daily. And the ring was the loose thread holding the fragile shambles all together. She was, in fact, holding her grilled cheese sandwich with the hand that still hosted the modestly mounted diamond solitaire Malik gave her on her birthday, but it had been weeks since they’d exchanged two words. In her purse was an unanswered text message from her mother asking what dress store she wanted to visit the following day. And in her heart was a growing urge to be away from it all.

“What about my dog?” she managed to finally say.

“Leave your dog with Carlos,” Latrice offered quickly.

“Okay, well, what about my mom and the rest of my family?”

“Well, the best way to tell a lie is to tell a half-truth.” Latrice punctuated it with a crunch, as she polished off the last fry on her plate.