December 19

RAMONA ON A SUNNY AFTERNOON IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA...

R UMBLING WHEELS TOUCHED DOWN AT L OS A NGELES I NTERNATIONAL Airport, delivering Ramona to her new home and quickly hatched escape for the week of Christmas. From the window as the plane approached the landing strip, she could see tall, swaying palm trees standing right next to low-lying buildings in the flight path. And everything seemed kissed by the sunshine. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean waved its welcome along the shoreline.

I’ll take it , Ramona thought, still nestled in her seat. She exhaled a deep breath and pulled out her phone to arrange a rideshare to Chelsea’s address, which had been front and center in a confirmation forwarded by Latrice. Latrice offered to absorb some of the cost as an early Christmas present, but once she committed to going, Ramona insisted on paying her friend the full amount of the reservation, plus a little extra for handling the administration, and... her stubbornness. As the chime sounded signaling for the removal of seat belts, Ramona started to feel an actual sense of excitement, almost guiltless, almost giddy. She’d never had cause to travel to California before, other than a stopover on a family trip to Hawaii. But a new place wasn’t the rumbling engine of her burgeoning happiness, nor was the fact of her very first solo vacation. It was the freedom, the first true feeling of freedom she’d felt since the moment Malik left. Right there in her seat, she slid the engagement ring off her finger and placed it in a small black pouch back in the zippered part of her purse. And with that single action, she took a deep breath that was so deep she accidentally sang a note on her exhale.

The drive to Malibu was lengthy but eventually became scenic, alongside seemingly unending miles of coastline along the Pacific Coast Highway. After a sign signaling a welcome to Santa Monica, she passed a festive pier that looked like a permanent carnival, complete with giant Ferris wheel slowly turning its occupants. She passed golden sand and volleyball nets, campers, clubhouses, garages, and gates, but she never once lost complete sight of the ocean beside her. It was magnificent. Its sheer magnitude extended so far that the expanse of the water and the sky combined into a delightful blue promise of paradise and tranquility. Ramona made a mental note to thank Latrice before the night was over.

“I could get used to this.” Ramona sighed.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Could you say that again?” the car’s driver called back, startling her.

“Oh, sorry!” she said with a laugh. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Don’t worry, I get it,” the driver said, looking at her through the rearview mirror. “It’s a beautiful view that never gets old. Where’re you visiting from?”

“Cold and snowy Chicago,” said Ramona, as if the answer were the punch line to a joke.

“Ooh, Chicago! Been there once for a baseball game. Some great food in that place. I wish I could find even one good deep-dish pizza anywhere in this city.”

Ramona laughed. “So... Lou Malnati’s or Giordano’s?” she gave the driver a big smile alongside a small test of his taste.

“Oh man, I tried them both, but it’s hard to top that butter crust, right?”

Ramona laughed again, feeling an immediate sense of familiarity. “You must have some favorites here too, right?”

The driver dipped his head to the side as if Ramona had proposed a new idea.

“See, that’s the thing about Los Angeles. So many transplants from all over, coming and going so often, I mean sure, we’ve got some great restaurants, but I don’t know that we’re known for anything great other than of course north-of-the-border Mexican food, sushi, and maybe a pretty good burger.” At his last idea, Ramona’s ears perked up. Diet be dammed, she’d been wanting a burger ever since she’d watched Latrice devour that plate of fries over lunch.

“A burger?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t heard her stomach growl. “You’re speaking my language.”

“Oh man, we passed a great spot right by the airport, but a really good one, you can find it almost anywhere. My favorite is Round and Out. They even have a secret menu. Trust me, if you make it there, order your burger ‘wild style.’ Your mouth will thank you later.”

“‘Wild style,’ I like that...” Ramona mused, turning to look at the ocean again.

By the time Ramona pulled up in front of a relatively unassuming garage, her driver had filled her mind with ideas of a new kind of Christmas in LA, one replete with sunshine, the lighted decorations in the streets of Beverly Hills, timed “snowfalls” next to the giant Christmas tree at the open-air shopping center. A place that evidently had some form of warm-weather snow you had to see to believe, and enough food recommendations to fill a trip of several months. She thanked him with a large tip and made her way to look for the lockbox to retrieve the key to Chelsea’s bungalow.

Malibu was impressive, a secret paradise that was so idyllically beautiful, if someone described it to you, you’d think they were exaggerating. The blue of the ocean was so blue, it was the vi sual definition of what blue was always supposed to be. But then, that was before you turned your gaze up to the sky. The sky was not just a ubiquitous background to the sea, but an ever-changing backdrop to the hillside, shifting noticeably with every mile of roadway along the PCH. Ramona’s vacation destination was a quaint little box of a cottage, dipped down in low profile below the edge of the roadway, so low that she could really only see the slated roof before the ocean behind it. It looked like half the house was missing, perhaps, until she reached it and realized that, in fact, what she saw was all there was to it. In complete contrast was an imposing structure next door, a home of multiple levels, all windows and burnished concrete, a wall-enclosed fortress by the sea. I can’t even image how much that one costs... or who lives there , Ramona thought. She’d barely managed to afford even her relatively meager accommodations. Nonetheless, she was here, in her own small way, with her very own slice of beachfront.

The lockbox opening was a clumsy ordeal, the one hiccup in the otherwise dreamlike arrival that had Ramona floating on air. She managed to figure the thing out, a mechanical puzzle of numbers and switches that took enough tries so as to instill some doubt she’d be able to gain entry. After a fifth attempt, having reread the instructions on the confirmation email, she heard a satisfying click, and the box released its treasure of a key. Once inside, Ramona was overwhelmed by the brightness of the efficient but open space. It was small, but tidy, and as small as it seemed on the outside, especially in relation to its neighbor, the inside was perfect and wrapped around Ramona almost instantly like a glove. But what was absolutely breathtaking, what elicited an audible gasp that surprised Ramona to hear her own voice, was the view of the ocean. She hadn’t expected it to be so close. She hadn’t expected to see it unfold before her so majestically. It was a postcard come to life, nothing but the sparkling expanse of ocean stretching in a glistening carpet all the way out to the horizon beyond. “Wow...” Ramona breathed the word until her breath ran out, awestruck as she was. From a wall of windows, there was the full extension of that bluest blue, the dancing ripples, all shimmering light in a way that was very much alive. She wasn’t just on the ocean, she was in the ocean, as if on a boat, with the view from the living room leaving no trace of the sand or anything below. Just an expanse of water from here to eternity. To take it all in was hypnotic; she could stay there forever, standing stunned and still holding the handle of her roller bag.

Ramona’s eyes were greedy with the view. When she’d finally gotten her fill of it, reminding herself that it was real, that this was really where she was staying, that she didn’t have to hoard images into her memory, she was finally able to pull her gaze to the rest of the surroundings. The living area cascaded inward from the door in ripples of sunlight across the wooden ceiling beams all the way into the delightful kitchen area that reminded her of a country cottage. She was thrilled to see the ocean blue in the room also, the white of the clouds and the warm beige of sand repeated throughout the space she entered. More than just direct access, she felt like she had her own version of the beach inside this place, all to herself.

She rolled her bag across the planks of the floors, winding her way past an outdated but quaint bathroom into a hallway with a room at each end. Taking a peek into the room to her left, she opened the cracked door to reveal an artist’s studio, full of paintings and supplies, with an easel holding a gloomy painting half done, but with a cornucopia of much brighter colors represented elsewhere. There were paintings on the floor and against the walls, hanging on the walls, with very little of the otherwise white walls showing at all. It added to the charm of the place. Ramona could imagine what it would be like to be an artist there and wondered how one would manage to not be overwhelmed by all the inspiration to behold. Backing her way out of the room, she pulled the door closed and turned to the room to her right, which was a bedroom facing the ocean. Neat and seemingly clean, Ramona surveyed the plushly made-up bed and the drawn shutters that stood between her and a return to communion with her view of the water.

“Come on in, sunshine!” Ramona spoke aloud as she flung the plantation shades wide open. She threw her arms open to match the shades and briefly closed her eyes to bask in the sounds of the gently crashing waves and the warmth of the sun through the window. The bed reminded her of a mound of marshmallows as it beckoned to her with promises of comfort.

“And I will see you later,” said Ramona in the direction of the bed.

Back in the kitchen, she saw a basket of oranges on the counter and what looked like a note scribbled on a torn-out sheet of lined paper. She read the words silently to herself.

Dear Latrice,

I truly hope that you’ll enjoy my cozy little home on the beach. I’ve left you some healthy snacks, oranges here on the counter, a few things in the fridge, and some vegan protein bars in the cabinet.

The grocery store is just down the street and there are plenty of restaurants at the Malibu pier and the Country Mart.

It’s pretty quiet, but sometimes Jay has a fitness class down at the beach out back. If his music is too loud, just let him know. He’s usually good about turning it down.

Feel free to use anything you need, including my shampoo, etc., in the bathroom.

Merry Christmas to you and thanks for letting me stay in your place.

Sincerely,

Chelsea Flint

Latrice? Ramona realized that Latrice must have made herself the primary reservation holder. Feeling a dart of concern, she pulled out her cell phone and scrolled to Latrice’s number. Latrice picked up almost immediately.

“Hey, girl! Is everything okay? I almost called you like ten minutes ago. I’m over here straight-up pacing...” Latrice’s flood of concern almost made Ramona forget that she was the one who made the call. “Are you settled in there?” Latrice continued. “How is it? What’s it like?” And on she went with a barrage of questions until finally stopping for air.

“It’s great—just that, Latrice, did you put my name on the reservation?”

“Girl, yes! I made the reservation, so I’m the primary name, but I added you. For sure, your name is on there. I figured, what difference would it make—it’s not like it’s a hotel or something, and Helena knows that you’re the one actually staying.”

For Ramona, someone exceedingly organized, this was disconcerting. “Helena? Who’s Helena? I have a note here that says it’s from Chelsea...” Ramona started to fidget with the paper, feeling a slight heat warming her face.

Latrice replied with no sign of dampened excitement. “Remember I told you the woman that owns the house has her artist goddaughter living there! That must be Chelsea. She left you a note?”

“Yeah, on a torn-out piece of notebook paper, but it’s fine.”

“Not the notebook paper, girl, really?”

“Yeah, next to a bowl of oranges. Jus’ sayin’, I prepped my place for two days—fully stocked.”

Latrice laughed. “Ramona, in all the times I’ve been to your place, I’ve never even seen a pillow out of place. You have containers in your refrigerator for food that already comes in containers. I’ve never seen anyone else put a craft label on water. I wouldn’t bet on anyone not failing the Ramona Tucker hospitality test. What’s the rest of the place like?”

Ramona smiled. There wasn’t really anything she could have said to make the observation untrue. In the way of hospitality, she was very much like her mother. She made a small survey of her surroundings to give Latrice her of-the-moment impression.

“Oranges aside, it’s actually really nice. Girl, it’s tiny, like the same size as my condo, but a cottage, right on the ocean. And that’s almost all that matters, because when I tell you I’m right on the water, I’m on the water. Like, in the water. There’s a deck outside, and it’s like being on a boat. And you should see some of the houses around here. Next door is like something out of a magazine. I bet a famous person lives there.”

“I heard Beyoncé lives out there, maybe she’s your neighbor.”

“I’d believe it. Out here, Latrice, it’s magical. It seems like anything is possible...” Ramona hesitated with the next words; they were, after all, a little difficult to say. “And... thank you. I know I was being a little stubborn, but this is perfect.”

“Moe, somebody had to save you from yourself and your web of lies !” Latrice broke into laughter.

Ramona’s face warmed anew. The person Latrice was describing was such a departure from the person she’d always been—earnest, hardworking, honest, sensible—always saving for a rainy day. And now... this person. Someone who escapes the holidays with her family? Ramona loved Christmas. And the farther away she’d come from Chicago, all the way to what looked to her like the edge of the earth from Chelsea’s living room windows, the more ridiculous her reason seemed.

“Latrice, it’s not funny!” Ramona’s body spit the words out as a physical rejection of her thoughts. “I... had to!” she protested, and then allowed herself a breath. “No matter how I got here, I’m here now. And I’m going to enjoy myself. A nice, calm, cozy Christmas in Malibu.”

“You enjoy yourself, Ms. Malibu.”

“Girl, you already know.”

Ramona was halfway out of the sliding glass door leading to the deck by the time she actually said goodbye to Latrice. She wanted to waste no time descending the stairs to the beach below to sink her toes in the sand and feel some ocean water at least splash around her ankles.

She took her time walking down, feeling the grainy cushion of beach give way beneath her at each of her steps. Stopping briefly to take her shoes and socks off, she gave herself a moment to take it all in. Deep breaths of briny air teased through her nostrils, filling her lungs and releasing the weight of all she’d left behind in Chicago. Lifting her arms up to take in more of the sun, she smiled. I’m free! she thought. I’m finally free!

***

A S IT TURNED OUT, FREEDOM MADE AN ALREADY HUNGRY R AMONA even hungrier, so just a couple of hours and two particularly juicy oranges later, her stomach insistently demanded something of richer substance. All she could think of was wild burgers or whatever it was that the driver had been telling her about. Just the idea made her mouth start to water. With her delivery app in hand, Ramona found the nearest Round and Out and made her order, as wild as possible, please. She added fries and debated on a milkshake but decided not to risk it based on the delivery time. According to her delivery app, Malibu wasn’t close to much of anything other than the beach itself.

Forty-five minutes later, the notification sounded on her phone that her driver had arrived. In barely contained excitement, Ramona bounded out of the door, leaving it cracked behind her. When she returned with her bag of still-warm food, the door wasn’t cracked any longer. It was closed shut.

Ramona had left her phone and keys on the kitchen counter. She felt the rise of panic in her throat and walked back to the road-facing side of the bungalow. She looked alongside the garage. There was a keypad on the frame, but she didn’t have the code, only the access instructions for the exceptionally difficult lockbox. Oh no , she thought . She looked back at the lockbox but remembered with full certainty that she took the only set of keys that was in there. Oh no, no no no. In the build of panic, an image arrived in her memory of the wooden deck on the beach side of the bungalow and the slightly ajar sliding glass door that led into the living room. With no hesitation, she ran to the back and fumbled around toward the entry. By this time, it was nearly dark, and the ocean was much closer to the piles of the house foundation. The higher tide left a thin strip of sand, and the edge of the water lapped closer to her feet. With clumsy effort and dwindling light, she climbed the metal stairs up from the beach, up, up to the deck above and hoisted herself onto the wood. Quickly, she crossed the creaking wooden planks of the deck to reach the sole possible point of entry. Only when she finally gripped her hands around the handle could she breathe a large sigh of relief when it gave easily to her grasp.

“Thank God,” she muttered aloud. She pulled the door open, admiring the pinks, oranges, and deepening purples of the sky as the sun completed its quick evening descent into the sea. Ramona took one more breath in, catching the hearty scent from the paper bag in her hand of cheeseburger beckoning to be eaten.

As it turned out, “wild style” could have been synonymous with “messy” and also “absolutely delicious.” The tangy and creamy sauce dripped from her fingers each time she bit into the savory beef and a mouthful of pickles, mustard, and onion. Ramona thought she was tasting heaven every time her teeth broke into the toasted butter rim around the bun, with a satisfying crunch just like the lettuce. Oh, and the fries! They were crispy in a way that she’d only associated with potato chips, but these! These were so much more, even slightly cold, and stiff. Ramona made a mental note to go there in person for a do-over before she headed back to Chicago.

Consumed with sauce-laden fingers and a dwindling supply of ketchup-covered fries, Ramona barely noticed the doorbell when it rang. In fact, she did miss it the first time. The second ring startled her to look up. She wondered if the delivery person was lost and what help she could possibly offer to navigate this new planet she had only occupied for a few hours. Taking a quick moment to clean off her hands on a conveniently placed mound of napkins, with a mouth still full of delicious, she bounded quickly to the door. As it opened, and she was able to fully focus into the darkness of nighttime before her, she was surprised to see a uniformed man standing across the entryway. Right away, Ramona’s body went cold, an automatic internal alarm perceiving a multitude of immediate threats. First, she was alone, very alone, and isolated in the cottage. A strange and uninvited man was in her doorway. Her mind processed this fact very quickly, looking for the black and white of a police cruiser, the thick belt of weapons, the official gold-tone badge shaped like a star. In the milliseconds of a first glance, nothing from the uniform, to the car out front, to the man himself looked quite like a police officer, but more like an imitation. What was absolutely certain was Ramona’s pounding heart, her palms starting to sweat, and the enjoyment she’d felt earlier turning dry and acidic in her mouth.

“Can I help you?” she asked. She squinted for a second to look at the emblem beneath his shoulder lapel, to try to read it clearly. It looked like a police badge in color and shape, but with closer examination, she could read an unfamiliar name followed by Sentry Safety Patrol Private Security Company . She narrowed the door opening as she waited for a response.

“Um, ma’am, we received a call from a neighbor about a possible break-in here. Are you the owner?”

Ramona gave a sigh, irritated and wondering why she couldn’t have just passed the evening with only the company of her last few fries sogging up back at the table.

“No, I’m not. I’m renting. And there’s no break-in. I just left the key...” Logically, that explanation—plus Ramona standing there in her leisure clothes, shoes off, probably with the last bits of sauce she got to enjoy somewhere around her mouth—should have ended this situation, with his apology. But, of course, that is not what happened.

“I just need to see an ID and a confirmation to verify?” The man did not turn and leave, nor did he retreat from his position. Instead, he leaned forward as if he had a right to more from Ramona, more explanation, more of her time, more of her peace of mind, to his satisfaction, as if the interruption was not only justified, but somehow necessary.

At first, Ramona thought, Hell no, I will not show you my ID, or anything else for that matter. But in the effort to salvage her meal and her evening, she decided differently, as the anger and helplessness began to build inside her. She forced herself to remain calm but couldn’t hide the fact her hands were shaking.

“Just a second, but you stay here.” She debated whether she should close the door all the way as she turned her back to it, and then regretted that she didn’t, taking a risk that this man wasn’t some masquerading con artist. She walked over to her purse and fumbled through its contents to retrieve her ID. Clumsily, she scrambled to also find and then pull up the reservation on her phone. Crap. It still says Latrice, she thought, after a quick read of the confirmation message. And then, remembering Chelsea’s note, she was thankful she’d called Latrice right away to clarify. Ramona had learned at some point in life that you could never be too sure of anything when you’re deprived of the benefit of doubt. But then again, she didn’t need to explain herself to private security. Technically, he was the one trespassing.

Returning to the door and opening it the same sliver of a crack as before, Ramona held up her phone first, which did show Latrice’s name and hers farther down, and then her driver’s license. He tried to grasp it, but she held on tightly.

“Uh-uh,” Ramona countered firmly. “This stays with me. Do you need to see anything else?”

Following a bit of an awkward pause and hesitation, he seemed to back off. He pulled out something black from his utility belt. Ramona drew a sharp breath. To shoot her? Ah, no, a phone. Would he call the police now, although proven wrong? Would he escalate? And if he did, what more would that cost her? Already, the wonderful promise of the evening, of the place, of the trip even, had been ruined. There’s no way that enjoying a burger should—beyond a risk of high cholesterol perhaps—lead to the feeling of a life-and-death experience. Ramona’s heart thumped in her chest and echoed in her ears so loud she could barely hear the words of the patrolman when he began to speak again.

“If you just give me one second, I’m going to call the contact we have in our records.” He walked off a bit with the phone up to his ear and then seemed to find himself engaged in a very vibrant conversation filled suddenly with a number of apologies on his end. He finally hung up and returned to speak through the remaining crack in the door that Ramona had left to see out of.

“Ma’am, my apologies. I spoke to the owner, and we’re all set here. You enjoy your evening.”

“Humph!” Ramona returned in a protesting tone, tired, so tired , annoyed and on edge, and still very much afraid. “No, you enjoy your evening,” she said, as firmly as she could muster. And with that, she closed the door with a slam that rattled the walls. And then leaned her exhausted body against it with a thud. Her head landed against the door, her body slumped, releasing the tension, and the tears came on their own. Just as she fully released her deepest breath, her phone started ringing—a London-based caller. She quickly wiped the tears off her cheeks and composed herself to answer.

“Hello, hello—Ramona?” The voice on the other end had a distinctive, groggy British accent.

“Hi, yes, that’s me.” Ramona’s voice was soft, small, and echoed bone-deep exhaustion.

“Ramona, this is Helena Covington. I’m aware of what just happened, and I’m calling to apologize. I am so sincerely sorry to have your stay interrupted by such a regretfully ridiculous visit. Please tell me that you’re not thinking of leaving, are you? I trust it hasn’t entirely ruined your evening?”

It had , in fact, ruined her evening. Yet, Ramona paused in answering, as she hadn’t had the time to think about much, not about leaving, not about the threat of a patrolman, and not about the sad pile of wilted french fries she’d been looking forward to finishing. She was so angry now, she started shaking again. The phone in her hand trembled along with the rest of her.

“Leaving, um, I... I...”

“Oh dear,” Helena continued with concern mounting even through her pristine formality. “This is completely and entirely our fault. I’ll beg of you to, please, just consider completing your stay, and I’ll do my best to make it up at the end? Perhaps a refund of a night?”

A night? Ramona tilted her head. She wasn’t thinking of leaving, at least not yet. The logistics of solution finding were too complicated for a state of shock. Understandably numb to the totality of her feelings, she wasn’t ready to concede anything, to agree or disagree. In fact, at this point, she wasn’t even entirely sure what had happened, why it had happened, or just what exactly she was owed. Above all, she felt tired—so, so tired in her body, in her mind, and in her soul. Ramona was ready to stop talking altogether now, and eager to be alone, at least alone, at least to think. And miraculously, after everything, after all that had happened, in a mismatch for the circumstances, Ramona still couldn’t help but be polite.

“Thank you, Helena,” she said. “I’ll consider it.”

“Okay, dear, please do. I’m sorry, I’m in Europe and it’s very late here, or early morning rather, but please just let me assure you that this will absolutely not happen again.”

Ramona sighed. If only Helena could make her words true , she thought. “Surely,” she said. “Good night to you.”

Finishing her call, Ramona finally allowed the real tears to fall. There was no way to stop them from coming, in streaks down her cheeks. Perhaps she was mourning the loss of her enjoyment, or peace, or time, or the innocence she’d begun to feel. Perhaps in some small part, she mourned just the wasted delights, remnants that resembled nothing of her earlier meal. The tears from her eyes spilled onto her hand as she swept wrappers, papers, containers, all decorated with “wild sauce” and ketchup, into the trash.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, I’ll know what to do.