December 21

CHELSEA ON A RESTLESS MORNING IN CHICAGO...

C HELSEA WAS UP SURPRISINGLY EARLY, ESPECIALLY FOR A SHOPPING trip to buy a barely affordable winter coat that she was almost certain to never need again. She was dressed before eight a.m. By nine a.m. she’d had two cups of Ramona’s house coffee blend that made her wish she’d heeded Carlos’s warning. His description of not “real coffee” for what those beans brewed was surprisingly technically accurate. They’d made a dark, syrupy brew that was far too bitter to enjoy. But for the moment, it was all she had to focus on while waiting for the time to drip minute by minute before Carlos’s arrival.

By ten a.m., Chelsea was in her third position on Ramona’s light-gray tufted microfiber couch. Her right knee bobbed up and down as her heel tapped beneath her like a sewing needle trying to affix her foot to the floor. For someone who previously had no interest in seeing Chicago or freezing while doing it, Chelsea found that she had plenty of interest in seeing Carlos again. There was just something about him: his eyes perhaps, or smile, or wit. Whatever it was lit something alive in Chelsea, and that thing was beating in her chest, somewhere between her heart and her stomach.

Relief jolted through her at approximately ten forty-five (Carlos was fifteen minutes late) when she finally heard the knock on the door that she’d been waiting for.

“Coming!” Chelsea heard the words exit from her mouth so quickly in response to the sound that she wondered if she could be trusted with control of her own body. She scrambled her way off the sofa and toward the door in a very unglamorous movement that unveiled her eagerness, a state that Chelsea found both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. But yet, here she was, hand on the door, counting down five deep breaths before she turned the knob on the next part of her life.

Okay, Chelsea, breathe , she repeated calmly to herself. On the last deep exhale, she pulled the door open.

And there was the smile. Big, bright, better than yesterday for sure. Chelsea moved out of the way to let Carlos enter. With his insulated puffed-out coat, he needed the extra room.

“Whassup, Chelsea?” Carlos bellowed.

Chelsea’s face betrayed her, breaking into a smile so wide it stretched her ears back.

“Hey. Good morning,” she managed to say, preparing to fidget. But there wasn’t time for self-consciousness to collect or for Chelsea to say much more, because there was another voice, a woman’s this time, coming through the doorframe.

“Now, Chelsea, I told Carlos I’d just come up for a second to give a hello and a proper welcome. These kids these days—I can’t believe Ramona didn’t tell me you were coming. And Carlos said you didn’t know anyone in Chicago and that is not how we do a Tucker family Christmas. Girl, if you are staying here, you’re family, you hear?”

And suddenly, there in the doorway was a stunning African American woman, much browner than Carlos. She wore a scarf tied in the loose loops of European styling and a nearly breathtaking jewel-tone turquoise wrap coat made of wool, or was it cashmere? Atop her head of dark-colored barrel curls was a bright orange beret, a perfect match in color to the scarf, tilted just so, making an isosceles triangle on her head. Her makeup was tasteful and immaculate. She had the presence of a runway model but a warm openness demonstrated with a smile that matched Carlos’s in radiance.

Still holding the door open, leaning on it a bit from a sense of overwhelming bewilderment, Chelsea turned to look at Carlos, who was now behind her in the apartment. His response was to shrug his shoulders, leaving Chelsea to navigate the circumstances in front of her with an attempt at an elusive deep breath. And then another, starting to resemble an actual fish out of water.

“Chelsea?”

Chelsea could only assume the woman speaking was Ramona’s mother. Although, her face showed nowhere near the age to have a child who could afford a place like this. She seemed very concerned and stepped forward in an effort to again make an eye-level connection.

“I’m Melba Tucker, Ramona’s mother? Are you all right?”

“Um-hum.” The sound Chelsea managed to force out was accented by her nod of acknowledgment. She was still trying to self-regulate with the deep breaths she’d been taught, breaths that, despite her best efforts, were not yet flowing freely. She was also trying to hide it so as not to not alarm others without experience with her type of episodes.

Melba pulled back and placed her arm around Chelsea, guiding her to the sofa. Carlos appeared in her field of vision soon after, his handsome features reflecting an image of concern. A few moments passed, and with some concentration, Chelsea managed to avoid hyperventilating and was soon able to fill her lungs with air. Five breaths in, she found she could speak, and all she wanted to do was apologize.

“I’m so sorry,” Chelsea said to the two sets of eyes studying her. “Sometimes I just... sometimes I have panic attacks. It’s no one’s fault or anything.” She looked toward the ground, wishing that her introduction to people she barely knew could be something a little more normal and that she didn’t have to go explaining the happenings in the dark corners of her mind. But the soft look in Melba’s face at least quelled some of her shame. It was that unmistakable hovering motherly concern that Chelsea had seen from her friends’ parents that she only sometimes wished for. She relaxed a bit more as Melba gently patted her arm.

“It’s a lot to take in, I’m sure.” Melba’s voice was a soothing lullaby. It was one that Chelsea could listen to all day. “Being in a new place, in a new city. Carlos...”

As if on cue, Carlos perked up and took over for Melba. “I told Ma that you were here in Ramona’s place and didn’t really know anyone. And that I was going to take you to find a coat and some winter stuff so you could get around and see some things. Sorry for both of us to pop up on you unannounced, it’s just that she offered to drive and...”

Carlos paused, interrupted by Melba, who seemed to be bubbling over with excitement about something or, as Chelsea surmised, might just actually be the happiest person she’d ever met.

“I offered to drive because I wanted to stop by and bring you a little welcome.” Melba reached into her generous handbag adjacent to her on the sofa, pulled out a translucent waxed paper bag filled with popcorn, and held it out to Chelsea as if she’d won the door prize in a raffle. Seeing Chelsea’s confusion, she shook the bag, rattling the kernels. “Chicago’s finest, Garrett Mix, caramel corn and cheese. Salty and sweet. If you’ve never had it, you’ll never forget when you first tried it.” Melba beamed and held the bag out to Chelsea until she lifted her hand to take it from her with a quiet but sincere thanks.

“And the party, Ma,” Carlos said.

“Yes, and the party,” Melba continued. “The most important thing. Christmas Eve, you must join us for our family gala, we call it the Feast of the Six Continents.” She waved her arms in the air as if she were a magician revealing her last act. “We do this every year—a celebration of cultures—dress up, have some good food, enjoy some great music, and everyone just drops by the house.”

It had been years since Chelsea had given a single thought to Christmas, and she had no recollection of ever celebrating the eve of the holiday with something so elaborate. Maybe lately she’d allowed herself to sink too far into a shrinking world around her. She hated to be so far out of control of herself and to seem so easily rattled, so fragile. She used to be fearless. Her unbridled curiosity about the world informed her view as an artist. She tasted things, tried things, sampled life experiences, and breathed freely and deeply among people from all walks of life—at least, she used to. She hadn’t meant to hesitate, but loss makes you careful in ways that she was still trying to understand. In her mind, at that moment, there wasn’t a simple path to just saying yes like she really wanted to.

“You didn’t make plans, did you?” Carlos’s voice returned Chelsea’s focus to the present. She had no plans. Her holiday in Chicago would be no different than Malibu—mope, helplessly lament what was past. Whatever it was that Melba described, it sounded better than staying inside, both physically and mentally, that was for sure. There was something magnetic about her, about Carlos; their presence drew her out. Their openness felt like an inherent invitation.

“Not even,” Chelsea said. And then, most suddenly, the rest of the words finally came available. “I can come. It sounds great.”

“Wonderful!” Melba stood up with hands clasped in excitement. “Just wonderful that you’re hosting Ramona and Malik, and now we’re hosting you. It’s the spirit of the holidays. The most wonderful...”

Upon hearing the words “Ramona and Malik,” Chelsea’s face scrunched in confusion. Ramona and Malik?... Who’s Malik?... Staying at my house? The thoughts arrived in rapid succession.

“Who’s Ma...”

Suddenly Carlos sprang up. “Me!” he said loudly, looking directly at Chelsea. “Just me as your tour guide today.” He wrapped a long arm around Melba. “Ma just gave me a lift so she could invite you, right, Ma?” Carlos turned his megawatt attention to Melba, and once again, his big smile got bigger.

“Chelsea, is that what you were asking?” Melba turned to her skeptically.

Behind her, Carlos’s face was distorting as if he needed to sneeze. So subtly, with the tiniest gesture, Carlos nodded his head up and down as if to say yes, the yes it seemed that Chelsea was supposed to deliver as a reply.

In the exactly three seconds of Chelsea’s pause, tick, she looked at Melba—tick, then at Carlos, whose face instantly seemed to blanch of all color—tick, then back to Melba. She understood the assignment; there was something that Melba wasn’t supposed to know.

“Umm... yeah... yes!” she said finally. Clearly, she’d just told a lie, and she wasn’t sure why. She turned to Carlos in time to catch a wink; subtle, but there and just for her.

After the few minutes of small talk with Melba that followed and two important assurances from Chelsea—one, that she’d try the popcorn, and two, that she’d come to the Christmas Eve party—a satisfied Melba made her exit in an elegant swirl of jewel tones and hospitality.

Alone again with Carlos, Chelsea determined to uncover how she’d just become an accomplice. From what Helena said, there was only one occupant in her home and two people’s names on the reservation. Neither of those was anything near “Malik.”

“Who’s Malik?” Chelsea directed the question casually toward Carlos, who looked like he was surprised to hear it. It took him a few moments of obvious contemplation before he seemed to relax and sink into the cushions of the sofa just inches away.

“Malik is Ramona’s fiancé, and before you ask the next logical question, they broke up. Ramona doesn’t want to tell anyone because she thinks they’ll get back together, but most of all she doesn’t want to disappoint her parents.”

Chelsea considered his words as the entire scenario started to make a lot more sense, especially now that she’d met Melba. Clearly, no one in her near orbit escaped that kind of invitation. So, if Ramona didn’t show up with Malik on Christmas Eve, there’d be nothing left to hide. If someone was trying to hide a breakup, especially from Melba, leaving town would be the only thing to do.

“Do you think they’ll get back together?”

Carlos made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, and his face contorted a bit into what wasn’t quite a smirk but that hinted toward distaste, along with the shift in his body language. It was clear that whatever the relationship was, he was not a fan. “Honestly? I hope not,” he said finally. He scrunched his face at Chelsea and scratched the side of his head. “Ramona’s my sister, ya know? So, I think of her in a certain way, want the best for her. She always, always puts everyone else first. That’s why when she asked if I could watch her dog while she went on this trip, I said yes.” Carlos swept his hands together like he was clearing the air between them. “I wanted her to feel what it’s like to get what she wants... even though I don’t like dogs.”

“You don’t like dogs?” Chelsea hadn’t meant to become an echo, but the disclosure was so surprising.

“Too clingy,” he said simply. “Anyway, Ramona and Malik, I tried to tell her, he’s not ready. I think deep down she knows that. So, let’s just say, I’m glad she went to Cali.” Carlos stood as if he were preparing to leave. “You ready to head out?”

For her part, Chelsea had a lot more questions, but she didn’t want to push Carlos away. She took clingy as a warning. But lately, she seemed like Velcro for other people’s secrets. Now Ramona was hiding something too. She wondered about this, but decided to drop it, at least for the time being. Questions beget other questions, and Chelsea had her own secrets to keep. In some ways, even though she was staying in her home, the less she knew about Ramona, the better. That way, she wouldn’t feel as guilty about promising Joan to stay quiet about her call to the patrol. She’d have nothing to feel terrible about, and nothing more to be responsible for. She needed Ramona to stay—and as long as Joan could manage to leave Ramona alone, barring any other misfortunes, everything should work out just fine. So, Chelsea was ready to head out, to change the subject, to change her environment, and first, that would require her to change her clothes.

She stood and turned to Carlos, arms in the air echoing her question. “You said I can’t wear the coat I brought, so what am I supposed to wear?”

Carlos began to head for the door and pulled open the closet next to the entrance. Over his shoulder he said, “For now, just grab one of Ramona’s coats. Do you have boots?”

Chelsea pointed down to the suede Uggs on her feet, a California staple. She supposed that the dense fur lining would at least keep her feet warm. She didn’t expect to hear Carlos’s laugh as his reaction.

“Those won’t make it one block. Have you ever walked on a salted street?”

She shook her head no. Chelsea was a California girl through and through. She only understood road salt deductively, simply knowing that salt lowers the freezing temperature of water, and seeing the great expanse of frozen lake out of the window, she figured no one wanted to ice skate down the city streets by car or by foot.

“Let’s take a rideshare, Ms. Cali ,” Carlos said. “We’ll get back, you can change and then finally be ready for the weather.” He pulled out his phone and started poking at the screen. Chelsea walked over to the open front closet to find one more thing of Ramona’s to borrow.

Almost exactly one hour later, Carlos and Chelsea had managed to whisk through a one-stop no-frills discount store, picking up a puffy coat with a hood because Chicago was far too cold to prioritize fashion over warmth. Chelsea also bought boots, a scarf, a knitted hat with mittens, all together for less than $200. Although the ensemble didn’t quite match, it seemed like an unobjectionable combination. Chelsea couldn’t afford to pay the property taxes, but she had enough money remaining from her share of sales proceeds to spend on comforts when necessary. Given her situation, she was happy enough that Carlos seemed more efficient with his spending decisions.

When he suggested lunch, Chelsea hoped she’d have a proper introduction to Chicago hot dogs or the Italian beef sandwich that had now become the star of a popular television show.

“Let’s do Lou Malnati’s,” he said. When Chelsea registered confusion, he clarified. “Pizza. Original Chicago deep dish. It’s not too far from here.” As Chelsea nodded okay, even her small movements accentuated the biting cold outside that took advantage of every exposed place on her body. She felt herself shudder a bit, even though she was now well wrapped in a relatively inexpensive but still insulated bubble coat, with the pair of hot-pink knit mittens she found that looked a lot warmer than they really were. She squeezed her hands open and closed in front of her body to try to rev up the circulation to her fingertips.

“Here, take this,” Carlos said. He pulled her hand into his and pushed a crackling plastic orange square packet into her palm.

Chelsea met his eyes for a second and let his hand linger against hers. She liked the feeling of it, not just his warmth, but his presence, and his touch, even through layers of clothing. When his eyes gestured down to their hands together, hers followed. When their eyes met again, Carlos answered just one of the silent questions she posed when looking at him.

“Hand warmers, Cali. It’s only a few blocks’ walk but even if we take the L, you’ll need them for the train platform. This is real Midwestern cold, y’all don’t know nothin’ about that out West.” And then, the smile came. That big, generous smile somehow managed to ignite a warmth in Chelsea’s core, reaching places within her that the sunlight couldn’t.

She reached out to take the hand warmers and ripped open the package, slapping the fabric-wrapped grains like two small bags of sand, and dropped one in the top of each of her mittens. Again, Carlos’s hands met hers, pressed against them to help build the heat.

“It’s working?”

Feeling a hit of much-needed warmth near her fingertips, Chelsea nodded. Carlos released her and turned to cross the street, gesturing for her to follow.

He walked quickly, his long legs making quick strides across the snow-and-salt-covered sidewalk, crunching along in rapid pace. Chelsea scrambled along behind him, taking in what sights she could of the city architecture to her left and right—a glance up the length of a high-rise here and, steps later, down to the window of a deli or a brief look at a passerby who was also fighting the elements.

Five thousand whole blocks later (or possibly it was actually only five), right at the point that Chelsea could take no more of the biting cold, Carlos made a quick turn between two buildings on Michigan Avenue, bringing them to an unexpected glass-door entrance with a miniature lightbulb marquee sign that read LOU MALNATI’S . She had never been happier or more relieved to reach a destination in her life. Even once inside, her body was still so frozen that she could do little more than stand there and wait for her brain to receive the signal of heat. Finally, she could rip off the scarf, and hat, and spools of clothes that had clearly been keeping her alive. It was unthinkable at home, in Malibu. Even at night when the temperature dropped, with the invisible cast of cool ocean air, she’d still never need this much attire. It was colder than skiing, than anything she knew, and even though they were inside, she still felt the chill in her bones as a reminder of where she’d just been.

While Carlos set off to secure a table for them from the hostess, still rubbing along her arms to warm up, Chelsea took a moment to survey her surroundings. Nostalgia throughout, black-and-white photos hung framed and tacked to redbrick walls. It must have been a popular place, because there were souvenirs ranging from T-shirts to a freezer full of pizza boxes with a sign that screamed, WE SHIP EVERYWHERE! Less interested in being a tourist, Chelsea hoped that she’d get a chance to learn more about Carlos. He seemed like the type of person who cared about other people and took the time to see more than just appearances. From Chelsea’s perspective, she was a complete mess. But he’d offered to help way before her first display of anxiety. He was a tough read, caring but distant, confusing for sure. Other than his promise to get her something warm enough to brave the streets of a Chicago winter, she had no idea if she’d see him again before Melba’s grand fête, even though she already knew she wanted to. He was the only person she knew in Chicago, but somehow, in a city full of strangers, that seemed like enough. There was nobody else she wanted to know.

Their table was called quickly. By the time they were seated in a spacious booth in the restaurant’s basement dining room, Chelsea had almost reached room temperature. Across from her Carlos sat, explaining the menu enough that she knew to skip through the plethora of options and go straight for the pizza. It took very little convincing to split a delicious-sounding deep dish that had her mouth watering just from the description.

They had just crossed into conversation on the topic of work—Chelsea a painter, Carlos a photographer with odd jobs— when a waiter brought a steaming round pizza pie to the edge of the table. As he dropped the black metal pan on the table between them, the rich aroma of garlic, tomatoes, butter, and sausage spices drifted to Chelsea’s nose. The server scooped out a goopy wedge (definitely not slice) of flaky crust holding together what was barely identifiable as anything other than a sea of red sauce–topped melted cheese, now starting to cascade down along the sides of the triangle-shaped spatula.

“Chicago Classic,” the waiter said. He glopped the slice down in front of Chelsea, immediately reactivating her salivary glands. Temporarily, she forgot about the fact that she had learned little more about Carlos to that point other than the fact that holding several jobs in the city supported his work as a photographer. They’d paused the conversation at her curiosity’s peak.

“So, what do you like to photograph?” Chelsea asked, struggling to pull the webbing of cheese and meat to her mouth.

Carlos looked up at her, pausing his fork and knife in midmovement.

“Landscapes... people... beauty,” he said, ending after a noticeable pause.

Chelsea’s face reddened immediately when he said “beauty,” because his eyes were fixed on her and she wasn’t sure if that was at all what he saw.

“You might want to use these.” His eyes gestured down to his utensils. “Not like that flat pizza you have on the coasts.”

Chelsea smiled back at Carlos, partially to hide her embarrassment. With the knife and fork she took a small cut from the tip of the pie slice and brought it to her mouth.

Chelsea couldn’t hide her enjoyment of that first bite. The sound of “Mmm...” left her mouth, as her eyes closed of their own accord, shutting down one sense to savor the others. She tasted the salt of the cheese, and its creaminess. Then the slightly sweet-and-sour tang of the tomato sauce, the herbs of fennel, oregano, and basil in the sausage, plus its heavy bass note of unmistakable meaty richness that pulled it all together with the butter flavors in the small bit of gooey crust on her tongue. “Mmm,” she found herself saying again. “This—” She pointed down to her plate with her fork. “This is really good. Dangerous, even.”

Carlos, who was somehow already halfway through his own slice, laughed as if she was finally in on the joke.

“So,” he said, cutting himself another bite of his rapidly disappearing first serving, “you said you’re a painter? What do you paint?”

Chelsea took a deep breath. Carlos didn’t realize it, but it was a loaded question. “Landscapes mostly... at least now. The sea sometimes... If I can find something that inspires me, I try it.”

“Inspires you like what?” He leaned in more closely, chewing still, but waiting for Chelsea’s answer. Her mouth dropped open a bit from a tinge of surprise. Because of nerves, she was blabbering a bit, slightly disconnected from what she was saying. She didn’t expect him to pick up on the deepest thing and ask her to go deeper. There was most certainly a more official answer for this question—the one she gave most frequently to collectors, curators, in interviews sometimes, in the times before when these types of people cared enough to ask. But she got the sense that, coming from Carlos, what he wanted was the deeply held truth of it. But that part of her was guarded, and she had a hard time unlocking the door.

“What is this, an interview?” she teased.

He flinched, looked hurt. “No. You said it. I just want to know what you see.”

Chelsea mustered the courage to look him squarely in his eyes. To not look away. And when she did, something activated within her, like at the catch of an engine or the last click of a gas starter before the flame. It was a feeling of sizzling anticipation, not to be wasted.

“Okay, the truth?”

“The truth.”

Chelsea felt the solid angle of his knee tap the side of her leg beneath the table. It was like an electric shock. He was looking at her with such intensity that she started to sweat.

“The truth is... my best paintings are of what I’m most afraid to lose.” Chelsea exhaled, making a deflated balloon of her upper body. She had no idea that she’d been holding her breath.

Carlos looked down for a moment and poked his fork at the remnants on his plate. His eyes met hers again. “People?”

“Yeah.” Chelsea wanted to elaborate, to tell him about Heartbreak , to tell him about the memories she’d painted too, but it felt like too much, too heavy. He seemed to notice and cleared his throat.

“You selling anything?” he asked casually, shifting the energy before taking another bite.

The question surprised Chelsea. It was so direct, and she didn’t have an answer she was proud to give. So, she decided to just be honest.

“Not really. My gallerist said my latest work was ‘unsellable,’ and that was her being nice.”

“You have a gallery rep?”

“Yeah, in London. She’s a friend of my parents... was... she was a friend of my parents.”

Carlos’s face scrunched a bit and then softened. He got it now, a quick study. Chelsea watched as his face revealed an understanding of everything else she hadn’t said. She knew then she wasn’t wrong about him. He saw a lot more than most.

“Me too,” he said.

“You have a gallery rep?”

“No, lost parents.”

“Oh.” Chelsea felt the bump of Carlos’s leg again, and she hoped the touch would linger. It did.

“Has it been long?” he asked softly, his voice low.

For some reason, he made Chelsea comfortable, relaxed. To a question whose answer was years of therapy, a lost career, and crumbling dreams, for Carlos, Chelsea found the most direct words she’d been able to say to anyone.

“It depends on what you mean by that. It happened seven years ago, but sometimes it feels like it just happened yesterday.”

Carlos looked down at his plate and picked up the remaining crust strip with his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring somethin’ like that up.”

“It’s okay,” Chelsea said quickly. Within her, a door had been cracked open to a room that was filled with stale air. And for once she didn’t feel completely terrified of what was inside of it. This time, she wasn’t alone. “So,” she continued, shifting forward on the vinyl seat beneath her, “the Tuckers, for you...”

Carlos answered before she could finish. “I was a little kid in overcrowded foster care. No one seemed to notice one less brown face at the dinner table. I followed Ramona home from school one day, same neighborhood, different door, but a real family on the other side. Ma, you see how she is. She’s been feeding me ever since, I guess.” He popped the last piece of crust in his mouth and reached for the spatula to dive in for another thick slice.

“Kinda like Helena for me.”

“Helena?”

“Helena’s my gallerist. Or maybe my landlord. Or maybe my family. I think anyone else would have given up on me a long time ago. But she keeps trying to find a way forward, even through the disappointments... She’s been trying to help me find other ways of making money. I didn’t expect to have to afford a house.”

“Is that how you wound up in Chicago? Where Ramona’s staying, don’t you live there?”

“I did... I do. I just needed to rent it out, at least if I want to try to keep it. I live there... I own it, but... to afford it, I’d need to be selling big pieces.” Chelsea moved her hands wide to show the size of her tableaux. “They take forever to do, and then, if they don’t sell, which they haven’t...” Lacking the rest of the words, the truth of what she was feeling, the feeling of then what’s the use , of being ready to give up—she didn’t say that. She couldn’t. “After the accident, my parents left me the house and, as it turned out, a bunch of debt.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. Chelsea felt her face redden. Everyone thought her parents were so carefree, so glamorous, so bohemian. The myth of wealth without work, without obligation or responsibility, they lived that appearance in their trips and their zip code, but the reality was so far out of balance. They spent more than they had, and more than they earned, for years. It was a most embarrassing truth for her, about her family. But, in the moment, Carlos felt so disarming. With a deep breath, in a way that she’d never explained, and that only Helena knew, she decided to clarify.

“My parents, let’s just say they enjoyed the life they lived but weren’t quite the model of responsibility. Helena was their friend from uni. And she helped me, even when my paintings stopped selling. She tried to close the gaps and even advanced me payments for future work. It’s been enough to live on because, honestly, I haven’t been doing a lot of living. But now, taxes are due, and—”

“Nothing’s selling,” Carlos said softly. Studying her, he pulled the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth. At this casual gesture, Chelsea was riveted; there was something so honest about it—she drifted into imagining what kissing him would be like and had to physically shake her head to release that thought. It was the essence of distraction.

“Right. Unsellable, per Helena... uninspired, boring .” Chelsea sighed and stabbed at a floating chunk of sausage on her plate.

“There’s nothing else you’re scared to lose?” Carlos cocked his head and looked at her with furrowed brow, almost as if this itself was of utmost concern.

“Not when I’ve already lost everything.” Chelsea hadn’t meant to say that, but it was truth that was overdue. And the air between them became heavy again with Chelsea’s disclosure. She’d barely gotten the last word out before her vision blurred with a swell of water to her eyes. To say it made it acutely real. She looked up and blinked, praying her body would just absorb the tears before they fell. She hadn’t meant to kill the mood. They were deep now into her pain and her truth, and she needed an off-ramp.

“So, what, you need some new inspiration?” Carlos gave the big smile again, and then it turned mischievous at the corners. “A nude model?” The big, big, straight-white-teeth, full-lipped smile that followed caused her breath to catch in her chest.

The brief thought of Carlos nude made Chelsea’s face flush warm again. She dropped her eyes quickly to her plate.

“I don’t come cheap, you know,” he said.

Chelsea looked back up at him and instantly felt her cheeks mirror his face-wide grin. “Well, I am paying for lunch,” she teased.

“Naw, I got this, Cali,” he said, unflinching, his eyes still locked squarely with Chelsea’s. “You’ll start selling pieces again. And then it can be your treat.”

The air between them started to fill with an unmistakable charge of energy. In fact, she felt more awake and in her body than she could recall. The cold outside, the heat inside; and the building heat within her started to crackle. A small fire was burning, and for once, Chelsea wanted to feed it. She wanted to feel it. She wanted to feel something, and she didn’t want this, whatever it was, to end.

“You think you’re warm enough now to go one more place?” Carlos said finally. “I want to show you something.”

Anywhere , Chelsea thought, but verbalized that sentiment as a casual “Sure,” while her insides were positively boiling with want.

RAMONA IN THE MORNING IN MALIBU...

T HE MUSIC OUTSIDE HAD BEEN THUMPING NOW FOR AN HOUR. Ramona stood in the bathroom mirror parting another section of her still damp and leave-in-conditioned hair for her styling routine. Escaping the somewhat monotonous nature of the task before her, and giving in to her body’s urge to move, she let a small shake escape from her hips. A tiny twerk bounced her round ass beneath her favorite short heather-gray satin robe. With this motion, she smiled, happy to feel something familiar and in the groove.

This morning, Ramona was on hour three of her wash-day process. The same one that she intended to start the day before but that was thwarted by general fatigue and a sort of food coma induced by eating way too many of Joan’s delicious (and still slightly suspicious) carbs. Especially given that her last foray for food items had resulted in a most unpleasant experience with the patrolman, in a natural response to traumatic events, Ramona felt less free to leave the confines of Chelsea’s house. She was working up her nerve to venture out, to push past the feeling that was apathy at best, determined to reclaim at least some portion of the maybe it’s not so bad here after all optimism that she’d started to feel while eating that burger. Plus, as Latrice said, Malibu did owe her—at least some sand between her toes and the good-for-you ions of fresh salted ocean air.

She’d already decided that she’d finish setting her very deeply deep-conditioned hair in twists that she’d leave in, rather than unravel. And that she’d also have another slice of banana bread for breakfast, completely ignore the still-folded note from Joan on her counter and definitely not call her, and take an un bothered walk on the beach to air-dry her hair, conveniently eliminating the banana bread calories as well.

As no respectable installation of long-lasting two-strand twists could possibly take less than one hour and three separate products to complete (leave-in, styler, and oil), by the time that Ramona reached the very last section of hair, smoothed and then entwined her curls down the inches of length, and finally felt the relief of coiling the last end in its small ringlet, the music had stopped. Observing her handiwork, she shook her head side to side so that she could enjoy the swaying of the heavy strands flowing back and forth against her shoulders like pendants of cascading onyx teardrops.

Ramona swapped her robe for a matching exercise set, grabbed a slice of banana bread from the kitchen plus her phone (and of course the key—can’t afford to be carefree), and set out of the back of the house onto the sand. She found herself walking straight toward the ocean, and thus also heading directly toward a tall, bronze-brown, broad-shouldered man gathering sandy yoga mats into a pile. When he stopped to pull a loose tank top over his nicely defined abs, Ramona registered slight disappointment because they had been so nice to look at. His legs looked strong and well-defined, with calves that seemed like he could run for miles or balance on nearly anything. When he stood up and she was able to see his face, she was pleasantly surprised to find him so handsome, with silky, well-cut, mostly dark hair and generally unplaceable features. She didn’t think he was Black, but he could have been, or mixed? Or North African perhaps? It was confusing, mostly—at the risk of being rude—not being able to determine whether she owed him a standard-practice acknowledgment, a tacit understanding between Black people in white spaces, an invisible social connection with deep-rooted meaning. Even if there were only two of you, and even as strangers, you were seen, and you weren’t alone. When he looked up and did make eye contact, his face was full of general friendliness but lacked recognition. It was the answer she needed. Ramona smiled, but expected nothing, and spared herself the head nod that would have otherwise completed her greeting. All this assessment happened in a split second, and she was a little startled when he spoke to her unexpectedly.

“You here for the yoga class?” he asked, pulling his hand up to his eyes to squint at her against the sun.

“Since when does yoga happen to house music?” Ramona heard herself ask the question aloud, which was really meant to remain just a thought.

The man smiled at her and shifted his weight backward a bit. Clearly, she’d caught him a little off guard. He looked like the type of guy who might live in a converted van with his surf buddies, catching one wave to the next. As uptight as beachfront Malibu seemed, she wondered if he needed permits for his makeshift location on the beach, and how he’d managed to keep the vigilante locals off his back.

“Instructor’s choice,” he said. “It gets everyone moving.”

He did have a point. Ramona remembered her little involuntary episode earlier in the bathroom.

“Maybe,” she said, “but it’s not my kind of house.”

“Okay, I’ll take the bait... then what is?”

“Green Velvet... Frankie Knuckles... Felix Da Housecat.” Ramona started listing some of the names she had at top of her mind.

“Oh, what, you’re from Chicago? It’s time for the percolator?”

Ramona raised her eyebrows. Just the word percolator brought the familiar beat to her mind. Based on the music she heard the previous two mornings, she was surprised he had the reference available. It was hard not to bob her head as the song played in her head.

“Yeah, I’m here on vacation. Staying right there.” Ramona pointed back to Chelsea’s house. “Where I just happen to hear every minute of your class all morning. But at least I’m still two hours ahead.”

“Oh, Chelsea’s place,” he said casually. “Nice to meet you, I’m Jay.” He reached out his sandy hand to shake Ramona’s. After her slight hesitation, he looked down at his palms and brushed the sand away against his biker shorts–clad thigh.

“How about a pound?” Ramona said, holding her fist forward for him to tap her back. “I’m Ramona, Ramona Tucker.” The backs of their fingers collided efficiently, triggering a smile for both of them.

“Oh, we’re doing full names...” Jay said with a teasing tone to his voice. “In that case, I’m Jay, like V.”

“Jay-V like Jay-Z?” Without meaning to, Ramona scrunched her face.

“V, like Vijay Singh.”

“Like Vijay Singh who beat Tiger Woods?”

“Impressive reference,” Jay said. “It’s a very successful name, what can I say. So, does that mean your people and my people can’t get along?”

Ramona laughed, and let the smile spread to her cheeks and to her eyes. “I mean, it was a painful moment in Black history...” She was happy to see Jay smile too. “But I mean, your friends... my friends...”

“We can be friends?” He delivered the line perfectly. Ramona was intrigued, and the smile was infectious. “Look, I’m sorry about the music. I’ve tried almost everything other than silent disco. You down for a free class? Maybe I can make it up to you.”

“Jay, I’m from Chicago,” Ramona said, as if it were the answer to the final round of a trivia championship. “I’m used to all kinds of noise in the morning, and a little thump from your East Coast techno does not take away from the roar of the ocean and the beckoning of a glorious sunny day.”

“That just might be the nicest complaint I’ve ever received,” Jay replied. “So, you gonna come check us out?”

“Maybe I will.” Ramona’s reply sounded very much in tone like I probably won’t . And that would have likely been her most honest answer, if not for trying to be polite.

“Life’s too short for next time, I always say.”

The words were impossible for Ramona to dismiss. “My vacation’s just long enough to enjoy doing absolutely nothing.”

“Recreation is re-creation. I think that’s why they say ‘Change is as good as rest.’ But, whatever you decide, we’ll be here. Same time tomorrow.”

“Nice to meet you, Vijay. Whether I see you or not, I’m sure I’ll hear you.”

“It’s time for the percolator,” Jay said, exactly on beat. Ramona laughed, and he said it again, and then started to play the song out, sound effects and all. To this impromptu serenade, Ramona turned and danced her way down the beach away from him, twisting her feet in the sand. She threw her hand up in the air as farewell.

“Bye, Jay,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“See you tomorrow, Ramona, ” he shouted back.

Continuing her walk, feeling the sun on her shoulders and the wind through her drying hair, Ramona smiled, knowing deep down that he was probably right.

CHELSEA IN THE AFTERNOON ON DAY 3 IN CHICAGO...

A S C HICAGO PASSED BY IN A BLUR THROUGH THE WINDOW, Chelsea could feel the rumble of the L train on its tracks through the seat beneath her. Carlos was absolutely right about needing hand warmers on the train platform. They only had a few minutes to wait, but in that time the chill managed to reach its grip around her legs and into her boots, making her wish she had foot warmers too. She’d never been so cold in her life, chilled literally to the bone, and yet the excitement of a new destination with Carlos made it feel like everything was exactly as it was supposed to be, cold and all.

Still, the temperature was stunningly low, and it took everyone a few minutes of stomping and shivering to settle into the thankfully warmed urban train cabin, with silver walls and hard plastic seats and metal poles overhead to hold on to. Five minutes into the ride, she felt like her mouth could finally move to speak, but when she turned to Carlos, he’d closed his eyes.

“Are you sleeping?” she whispered.

Carlos’s mouth shifted, but his eyes stayed closed. To Chelsea, he looked like a gorgeous statue. “No,” Carlos replied suddenly. “I’m not. Just resting my eyes. Worked an overnight shift last night.”

“So, this morning, you came straight from work?”

Carlos opened his eyes and turned to look at her. “Have you never worked an overnight shift?”

Chelsea instantly felt like she was about to fail a quiz. Aside from promoting art events in LA with her classmates and lifeguarding one summer, she hadn’t had a “real job” ever and certainly not one that required her to be somewhere overnight. With tight lips and reluctance, she shook her head no.

Carlos turned back around to face the windows and leaned his head back, closing his eyes again with a sigh. “I didn’t think so, Cali. But nah, I had time to take a shower. I’m good. We got twenty minutes, so I’m gonna rest my eyes, and then you’re about to see something great.”

Chelsea wondered if she’d offended him, and hoped she hadn’t. There were so many ways he could have interpreted her questions, but she had so many more to ask. It was curiosity that made her feel like in a million lifetimes she might never know as much about Carlos as she wanted to, especially with the personal walls he seemed to stand behind. In one moment, she’d felt closer to him, in the next, she’d felt him drift away, somewhere else, somewhere she couldn’t follow. And as the train rumbled, screeching around its turns, she watched as the densely packed downtown buildings gave way to wider expanses of frozen landscape around them. Empty fields covered with patches of white snow bordered gated clusters of brick low-rises.

In Chicago, as Chelsea was discovering, the cold and the snow were so much a part of the winter city experience. The elements demanded attention, serving as their own exclamation point on the landscape. The presence of the snow made the stark contrast even more evident between the part of the city they left and where they were going. Each stop was marked by the trickling out of passengers until the car they occupied was nearly empty.

Six stops later Chelsea felt the stirring of Carlos next to her as he straightened his body and then lifted himself up from the seat to stretch and yawn. Bracing himself with a nearby pole, he leaned in toward Chelsea.

“You ready, Cali? It’s about to get cold again. About a five-minute walk.”

Carlos was telling the truth. After they stepped outside, the warmth Chelsea felt from the thirty minutes of train ride lasted about three minutes against the Chicago wintertime air. Carlos walked briskly with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Chelsea scrambled behind him, taking in the sights of a much-different area. There were bodegas on the corners and bars on some of the windows. People came in and out of a liquor store with faded color advertisements in its dingy window. They passed a clothing store that occupied a whole block with an entire fashion show of jeans-clad mannequins, winter coats, baseball jackets, and sports jerseys in the window. A barbershop was a revolving door of patrons across the street, and everyone had plenty of slush everywhere to wade through underneath their feet.

“Where are we?” she asked. It was a curious thing to be in a place where nearly everyone else was brown of some shade or another. And what arrived was an unusual feeling of being self-conscious. Of wondering if she belonged in the unfamiliar place that she was in. And she wondered only briefly if this feeling was what Ramona was feeling in her time in Malibu, and if she too had questions in whatever she was doing then, of whether she was safe or in danger, or if she should have those feelings at all.

“We’re in Bronzeville,” Carlos shot back. “The hood, not too far from where me and Ramona grew up.” Shivering a bit, the effort showed as he fought against the elements to push the words out toward Chelsea. “Got two more blocks. You all right?”

Chelsea had the exact same question. In this place, was she all right? It was something deep within her that caused her concern, but she also had access to her thinking logic, which quelled any rise of panic. She was with Carlos, who’d been nothing but kind, kinder than she deserved even, as she’d done nothing for him, and he’d asked nothing in return. Chelsea took a deep breath in, as deep as the cold would let it go, which wasn’t far, and saw the white cloud of her breath billow out ahead of her as she exhaled. Chelsea picked up her pace, trying to keep up more closely with Carlos as they crossed a wide boulevard on the timing of a walk sign. On the next block, they slowed their speed, giving her time to observe, to absorb as much of the experience as she could. It was, after all, a visual feast. Her eyes scanned left and right—old beaten-up cars dotted the street in front of her, some new building facades mixed with abandoned lots picked up again in the combination of old and new, similar to what she’d known in her times in Downtown LA. Hope and despair. Abandoned and reclaimed. It was the same contrast that Chelsea felt inside now—it was how she saw herself. And the part of her that felt new, that definitely was Carlos’s doing. Suddenly, walking in front of her, he slowed down further, dramatically, and then stopped.

They were in front of a brick building that looked refurbished. There was a modern glass entrance, plenty of burnished steel to offset the look of what was originally there. This was clearly someplace new out of the old. In the window display, she could see an elaborate design in a frame, broad strokes of paint, bright blue and purple and orange, bordered by a frame of gold filigree carved in swoops and volutes indicating its significance to warrant such care and splendor. Carlos had brought her to an art gallery.

“Gallery Guichard,” Carlos said, holding his arm out to usher Chelsea through the door he held open.

She entered the lobby and looked around. Here, art covered every wall and sculptures shared the floor space. Next to her at the entrance stood a rendition of a disembodied jazz musician with his hands around a person-height floating saxophone. Chelsea tried to read the text on the placards as she passed by, noting artist names and the rich descriptions accompanying their work. Carlos led the way through another door into the expansive gallery space, all exposed-wood beams and white walls and chrome industrial piping overhead that created an urban rustic showplace for the explosion of art that was carefully positioned in every area. She could feel the energy of unabashed creativity, of audacity, of a heartbeat that she’d once had.

Overwhelmed with wonder, her eyes darted around, everywhere. Chelsea walked slowly, not wanting to miss anything, to see everything, but it was impossible to see everything . The art was abstract, some, and others were masterworks of mostly Black subjects and artifacts of culture depicted in mixed media, paint, cloth, collage, found items. Paintings reflected intricate, exquisite brushwork. It was all here, a world of wondrous design. If she’d had even just a few of these pieces in the downtown shows she produced in LA, they’d have sold for a small fortune. Everything was alive in its own way, breathing, beating, vibrating with intention and meaning.

“Here, this one is my favorite,” Carlos called out, breaking the spell. She couldn’t believe he’d been able to pick a favorite. It was a dramatic painting, of a woman painted nude from the waist up, monochromatic—royal blue skin and all, hair crinkly textured and set in a rounded shape. Her body was all angles and elegance. One arm hanging loosely, she wrapped the fingers of her other hand around its elbow. She faced away from the viewer, so you received only the back of her, against the color of a vibrant-red patterned background. It was breathtaking to behold, but captivating as a rare opening into Carlos’s thoughts.

“What do you like about this one?” Chelsea asked.

Carlos stood squarely in front of the piece, looking comfortable and relaxed, like he’d stood in that exact same place a thousand times before. It was clear that he was savoring it even still, and there was a moment before he began to speak.

“She’s blue but still beautiful,” he said. “Regal. She looks like she’s been through some things, but now she’s got something to offer, if she decides to turn around. She looks like music. And her angles say she can dance, but on her own beat... not just the even or odd, but something in between. She has her own rhythm, and her rhythm is the dance. She looks like healing, like she’s gathering herself, like it’s temporary, but when she turns around... it will be magnificent.”

“You... see all that?” Chelsea said, a bit breathlessly, because now he was looking at her.

“And more,” he said, turning then to walk to another area. There were many other pieces of art yet to see.

Chelsea scrambled after him. “If you have a favorite, you must come here all the time... There’s so much to take in. The work here, it’s all magnificent. So...”

“Dope?” Carlos finished for her.

“Yeah, exactly,” Chelsea mused. “You exhibit here?”

“I had a few photos in a show once. I’ve been trying to work up to a solo show. I need to get my weight up though. Build a little bit bigger portfolio, get my numbers up on social. I’m almost there. You ever do a solo show?”

“Yeah, I had one in LA back when things were hot for me. I had this one piece, and it got a really good review from this kinda asshole big-time art critic. Honestly, it wasn’t even my best piece. Just... a memory. But it landed me a rep in LA and then in London with Helena.”

“What was the piece?” The intensity of Carlos’s attention, especially on this topic, made Chelsea want to dismiss it. How do you tell someone who was clearly sacrificing so much for his dream that you’d screwed up your big shot?

Chelsea fidgeted, pulled off her hat and tried to pat down her flame of hair. But Carlos didn’t flinch or move, and there was nothing to do or say next but to answer. “It was a painting of two lovers kissing. It was the most passionate kiss I could remember back then, my best first kiss. And I called it Heartbreak .”

“Another thing you lost, then.”

“Another thing I lost...” Chelsea looked down and shook her head, as the replay of the blur of that time flashed through her mind. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, because everyone said that my career was going to be so great. But eventually, the attention faded. All of it. No buzz, no more showings. It didn’t matter what I painted, or the names I picked. I’m sure Helena still keeps me on now because of my parents. But it’s just a favor.”

Carlos studied Chelsea. She could see his eyes moving across her face. Her cheeks lit up with embarrassment.

Finally, after forever passed by, he spoke. “Do you still have it?” he asked.

“Still have what? The painting?” Chelsea asked, fighting the urge to look around her, to pat down her pockets. She shook her head no.

“The hunger,” Carlos said. And the room became instantly still, with just the faded echo of his word in the air between them. Chelsea stood frozen as if the word hunger , like a magnet, could do the work of penetrating her, of searching her for what was like itself inside her. And all there was to do was to wait.

Chelsea, realizing at some point she’d stopped breathing, allowed herself a second to sharply fill her lungs with air. As she breathed in through her nose, again she felt the sting of tears in her eyes that threatened to fall. She wasn’t ready to cry, she wasn’t that girl, so instead she walked away from Carlos, into the next room.

In the next room, she reached another light-filled gallery space. ART THAT TOUCHES THE SOUL, the black print on the wall read. The pieces here were more abstract but just as exquisite, just as moving. Something was stirring in Chelsea’s soul. It was waking up from its slumber. It was getting off the night shift.

Carlos followed her, his eyes glued to her face as he stepped around her in slow, deliberate paces. “It’s still there,” he said. “I can see it,” he whispered in her ear as he crossed behind her, close enough that she felt the heat of his presence. “The only thing...” He stepped again, the heat reaching the side of her body. “An artist ever makes...” Carlos said over her shoulder, continuing his slow circle. “Is what she sees with her soul.” And there, he stopped. Standing in front of her with those eyes, those dark-brown eyes holding such intensity, such clarity, he saw her. She knew it and felt naked. Entirely exposed, so raw, so tender. She couldn’t hold on to it anymore. He caught her as she collapsed into his arms. He held her as she let the tears flow into the soft fabric of his sweater.

“I’m sorry, Chelsea,” Carlos said over her head and sounded so intensely sincere that Chelsea felt like he was apologizing on behalf of the entire world, for its unfairness, for her pain, for her losses.

She wanted to cling to him, to bury herself in the freshness of his scent and feel the sturdiness of him against her. That was where she wanted to stay. But as her awareness returned, the soft part inside her that Carlos had touched was throbbing with life, with truth. Carlos was right. He had awakened her hunger, her desire, her wish for something more, maybe even a vision beyond the drifting that she’d been doing through the currents of her present life.

“Please, don’t apologize.” Chelsea sniffled and wiped her tears and nose with the back of her hand. With reluctance, she pulled herself farther back from Carlos and, despite embarrassment, pushed herself to look at him. All she saw staring back at her was concern. “You’re right... thank you... for taking the time to show me this place.” She meant the treasure house of art in which they were standing, and also somewhere else inside herself that she thought she’d never find again. Suddenly self-conscious, Chelsea turned again to their surroundings. “Are we here alone?” she asked. “Where’s the gallerist?”

Carlos smiled again, his eyes dancing with light this time, lifting the energy in the room. “It’s all good, we have some privacy. He’ll come down and lock up when we leave.”

“Thank goodness,” Chelsea said, still arranging herself and regaining composure. “This is really embarrassing. I’m not used to—”

“What, showing that you care about something? Yeah, that’s very not of the moment.”

Chelsea laughed. “Or slobbering all over a stranger.”

“We’re still strangers?”

Chelsea smiled back at him, the light dancing in her eyes now. She took one more quick look all around them, the gorgeous paintings, the collages on the walls, the figures looking back at her, all witnessing the moment.

“Nah,” Chelsea said. “Not anymore.”

The two of them retraced their steps, back through the front of the gallery, back past the floating jazz player, and back down the salt-crusted sidewalk to the L-train platform. They rode back into the city core together, casually connected, seated side by side.

When Chelsea returned to Ramona’s place, the sun had already started to set for the day, giving a gray-purple hue to part of the sky. Only then did she think of the sea again, and Malibu. She wondered if Ramona was enjoying herself, if she’d found anything of it to love. If the place had opened its arms to her, if she’d found a place to belong. And then, she thought of Joan, reminding Chelsea that here, sitting in Ramona’s life, she was keeping two secrets, Ramona’s and Joan’s, and she didn’t want either to ruin today, or any of her tomorrows, especially the ones she had left in Chicago.

Chelsea retrieved her phone and pulled up her text window to compose a message.

CHELSEA: Joan, please don’t bother Ramona. Everything is fine.

Everything was fine. And it would be, as long as Joan left Ramona alone. But something told Chelsea that was the one thing she couldn’t trust Joan to do.

JOAN PERCHED IN MALIBU...

B Y THE TIME C HELSEA’S TEXT REACHED J OAN, J OAN WAS ALREADY pacing her “beach chic, but make it neutral tones” living room. She walked in slow steps along the long wall of windows showcasing her backyard expanse of ocean, sipping her “super-duper greens” juice concoction, strategizing exactly how she was going to engage with Ramona before the day’s end.

After all the flour, butter, bananas, and baking, Joan expected at any moment a call or at minimum a text message to arrive from an unknown number, thanking her for all of her efforts. This was supposed to be the plan. And for Joan, everything always went according to plan, and schedule, and neatly ordered perfection. So, the fact that she hadn’t heard from Ramona was driving Joan further to the very edge of reason, where she was in danger of falling off the cliff. To Joan, Ramona’s refusal to contact her was proof of what she feared most, that Ramona suspected her of calling the Sentry Patrol. Of course, she had actually called the Sentry Patrol, and was the most obvious suspect, but that was really no matter. Joan believed strongly that her good deeds could absolutely make up for and deflect from her bad ones. She was certain that her good-personness was duly evinced in the hours of sifting, stirring, measuring, whisking, and sprinkling that made a delicious pastry basket. And why wouldn’t just one taste of baked goodness—that contained the goodness of Joan’s very soul—erase any awareness of what tiny little bad she’d done? Did she have doubts? Well, would most people ask themselves such uncomfortable questions? Of course not. I’m a good person , she reminded herself and set about making sure that was true in the most familiar of ways.

That morning, Joan had purposely stayed inconspicuously in the corner of her immaculate Architectural Digest –featured deck, a nautical-theme showplace for her celebrity exterior designer. Here she normally took her morning coffee, daily dose of sunshine, and surveillance post of the beach and its occupants. She felt good about herself in that way. She paid attention to what was happening, kept an eye out like she was supposed to do. No one had ever trained her specifically about what to look out for, she just followed her instincts about anything that looked or felt suspicious. She was a neighbor who looked out for other neighbors. And in her surveillance, she’d even endured what felt like Jay’s extra-loud music on that day, the insufferable thump-thump-thump of his class that lasted well over an hour.

From the corner of her lower balcony, facing the ocean, Joan saw Ramona talking to Jay, all smiles between them, toes kicking the sand. Joan recognized it right away, the signs of flirtation, the good looks and charm that Jay had weaponized, keeping his classes full, and probably his bed also. She knew the type well, not much different from her ex-husband, David, that snake , who could have at least been much more careful, let alone discreet, during their marriage. She was also sure that Ramona had no idea what she was getting into, having walked right into the den of a likely wolf—she’d never so much as seen Jay with a consistent companion, only the regular orbiting of an assortment of waiflike girls who looked like perennial summer and youth. He probably wouldn’t know what to do with a mature woman like Ramona, who Joan had already assumed was very much like her anyway and thus couldn’t wait for their future conversations laughing over glasses of wine well past the sunset. Surely, befriending the woman would be the absolution she needed, perfect evidence of “no harm done.”

So, Joan decided that, rather than waiting for the undesirable natural course of events to transpire, leaving nothing more to chance, she would make sure that she and Ramona met today instead.

And it was after this very firm decision that the notification pinged on Joan’s phone, a message from Chelsea. And the message itself, before she read it, brought her brewing obsession to a rise because her worst fear was certainly that Ramona, or anyone else for that matter, had learned about her actions before she’d had a chance to rectify the matter. And what else would Chelsea be messaging about, other than a confirmation of her worst fear?

Joan, everything is fine . That’s the message she saw, or at least the gist of the message, or moreover, the part that Joan actually decided to process as her takeaway. Everything is fine, just fine , Joan thought on an extra-long tension-releasing exhale. And it would be fine, perfectly, suitably, comfortably, wonderfully fine, just as soon as she made her way over to Chelsea’s place next door and finally met Ramona.

RAMONA IN MALIBU, PRECISELY ONE HOUR AFTER CHELSEA’S TEXT ASKING JOAN NOT TO...

R AMONA WAS BUZZING FROM HER DAY OUT ON THE SAND. T HE weather had turned perfect; after a long morning of overcast, the sun appeared as if a magic wand had been waved across the sky. Just suddenly, all the clouds dissipated, leaving an idyllic sunny day. She was amazed by her new tan lines, taking her caramel Chicago-winter brown to a much deeper rich chocolate brown with stark contrast lines along her shoulders where her spaghetti straps were. Fresh from a shower and wrapped in a towel, she pulled her bouffant plastic shower cap off her now sun-dried twists and began to contemplate how she’d spend her evening.

For the first time since “the incident,” Ramona felt a sense of relaxation, of calm and a growing peace in her mind and spirit. Maybe this was a good idea after all. She decided to phone Latrice and update her, as the day had been not so bad. Maybe she’d stay, and maybe she’d find something more to enjoy.

Since it was officially five p.m. in Malibu, it was already seven p.m. in Chicago, meaning that she was at minimum one day closer to accomplishing her goal of avoiding a holiday disaster, and if she were fully honest, the break from faux bridal planning was a welcome relief. When she and Malik had first gotten engaged, her parents’ excitement about a true family wedding was unmatched. When her brother, Reggie, had gotten married, her sister-in-law’s mother had handled the bulk of the arrangements, the color picking and dress selection, the venues and the music, everything that Ramona’s mother delighted in and anything her father quietly cared about. Anyone who’d ever been to a Christmas Eve at the Tuckers’ house knew that it was all glamour and extravagance, the annual reward of frugality for the family. It meant so much to be able to spend with freedom, to not have to worry about what something cost as much as just deciding if you liked it. Ramona’s father had taught her to save, to make pennies stretch into dimes and dollars, but he didn’t seem to mind the splurge at Christmas. And he hadn’t denied her a single request for the wedding she’d been planning.

There was only so much longer that Ramona could put off making final choices and decisions for a wedding, and only so many more dress-shopping excursions before the novelty wore off and her mother started to get suspicious. Still, for this small moment of respite, she wasn’t worried about Malik and what he was or wasn’t doing, she wasn’t looking at old photographs, she wasn’t feeling guilty about eating carbs, and she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring. It was neatly tucked away in the bottom of her purse, resting comfortably in a corner of Chelsea’s bedroom. For once, she felt free. Free of that ring, free of Malik, and even in that moment free of her bra. Why wear one? she thought, pulling on her casual T-shirt to match the shorts of her leisure set.

After heading into Chelsea’s intimate living room space and admiring its priceless panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean, Ramona went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine and to watch the sunset. Several slices of banana bread remained in the basket, and after trying to convince herself to turn away, she thought, What the hell, it’s vacation , and grabbed one anyway. Unknowingly nibbling on the pride and joy of Joan’s endeavors, Ramona pulled out her phone to call Latrice.

“Girl, shouldn’t you be somewhere talking to a dolphin or something?” Latrice answered, sounding half-distracted.

“It’s Friday night, I didn’t think you’d even pick up,” Ramona said, with a mouth still a little full of banana bread. She pulled the phone up closer to her ear, put the wineglass on a low table, and plopped herself in the chair in front of it so she could face the water.

“It’s Friday night, and I’m still at work,” Latrice said. “You better be having a good time for both of us.”

Ramona instantly understood the weariness she heard reflected in her friend’s voice. It was the Friday before Christmas, and while the holiday vacations should have already started, Latrice was stuck working on a project deadline. Thankfully, in the finance group, there were no such emergencies, especially not around public holidays.

“It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m braless looking at the Pacific Ocean,” Ramona mused.

“Ain’t no worries when the titties are free,” Latrice said, lightening up a bit with a tiny chuckle.

“Girl, so true,” Ramona said, taking a gulp of wine and biting off another corner of her snack.

“What’re you eating out there in California? Some salad? Tofu? Tofu salad?”

“Banana bread,” Ramona said, mouth still full, turning her response into something more like “Bwa-wah-wah red.”

“You’re still eating that lady’s pastries?”

Ramona forced down a swallow. “I can’t help it,” she admitted. “They’re good, and other than some oranges and protein bars, it’s the only food in the house. I’ve been eating scones for breakfast, banana bread for dinner.”

“Have you spoken to her yet?”

“No, I thought about texting a thank-you to the number she left, but there’s no way I’m going to call some strange white lady who clearly is trying to kill me with carbs.”

“Yeah, highly suspicious. What do you think she wants?”

“I don’t know, Latrice. I’m trying to avoid finding out. This is a weird-assed place. One neighbor calls the cops, another leaves a pastry basket.”

“Both so inappropriate.”

“It’s been one actual hell of a welcome.”

“You still want to come home?” Latrice sounded concerned, as if Ramona might say yes.

“And miss Surf Yoga tomorrow morning?” Ramona quipped, taking slight pleasure in demonstrating her newfound optimism.

“Now hold up,” Latrice said. “Who’s this I’m talking to? Is that what we doin’ now, Malibu Barbie? You hanging out with Malibu Ken?”

“I did... meet a guy,” Ramona admitted. “It’s his headache music every morning that he calls house . I told him I’m from the Chi. We know house and that ain’t it. Buuut, he did invite me to join his class on the beach.”

“First thing, Chi-cah-go invented house,” Latrice said. “But music tastes aside, as long as his name’s not Malik, I support this development.”

“This is hard to say, but... you were right, Latrice. Maybe I needed this. Even after what happened at first... I’m starting to see potential. I’d feel better if I knew for certain who it was... but, I’m not gonna lie. I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Malibu does owe me something... something good...” Ramona leaned back, put her feet up, and draped her newly melanated legs over the chair fabric.

“Ask and you shall receive,” Latrice replied.

Almost as if on cue, the doorbell rang, a sound that both of them could hear.

“Dinner’s arrived,” Latrice remarked.

“No, not dinner. I didn’t order anything,” Ramona whispered, ducking down trying to avoid the line of sight from the front-door window.

“It’s that lady coming back for her basket,” Latrice teased. “This time, she’s bringing the teacup.”

Ramona sighed heavily in frustration. The last morsel of the banana bread she’d been eating was still in her hand, taunting her. It was good. She’d resolved to enjoy it in peace. But what harm was it to answer the door? “I’m going to answer,” Ramona proclaimed. “If you don’t hear from me in exactly twelve minutes, call search and rescue.”

As she and Latrice said goodbye, Ramona looked at the remaining morsel of banana bread with disgust. She’d lost her appetite. She’d meant to enjoy that last bit just as she’d found her most comfortable position in the seat. Moving rather quickly, her breasts jostled against her, reminding her that she’d planned for privacy that evening and wasn’t at all dressed for company. The doorbell rang again, this time with the top of a head full of highlights bobbing around the door window. Nosy neighbors, intrusive neighbors... What is this place? Ramona thought, approaching the source of the insistent bell.

She answered the door with a forceful swing open, then crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest. Across from her she saw a pencil-thin woman, no bigger than a ship plank, dressed smartly as a Ralph Lauren advertisement. The sleeves were rolled up rustically on her white linen shirt, exposing deeply tanned forearms freckled and sun spotted and exceptionally lean. Meeting her eyes, Ramona found them strikingly blue, under absolutely perfectly shaped and obviously dyed unnaturally brown eyebrows. The socket corners crinkled with the overwhelming intensity of the woman’s smile, a mouth full of flawless teeth in a color white that could only come from the expertise of a very expensive cosmetic dentist.

“Hi,” she said, reaching her hand forward. “I’m Joan.” Her other hand reached up to press against her chest. “I left the basket?”

Ramona braced herself against the door, and extended her hand out, leaving the other hand to secure her chest into an uncomfortable uniboob. “Ramona,” she said matter-of-factly. Everyone was still a suspect. But, remembering the banana bread that was probably still on her breath, Ramona figured there was no harm in at least thanking the woman and being done with it. “Um, thanks for the basket. It was a really nice welcome, especially after a not-so-nice welcome. I didn’t expect... either.”

“Oh? Did something happen?” Joan asked with a look of concern.

Ramona’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t see the Sentry Patrol outside? Two nights ago? That was my welcome committee.”

Joan blinked with surprise. “Ah... no...” she said. “I’d have probably come by sooner. Are you all right?”

“I wasn’t... maybe I’m not, but I’m finding reasons to stick around.” Ramona leaned against the door, narrowing its opening. She wanted to say thank you and move on with her evening. And, beyond that, she wasn’t sure what Joan, still standing there smiling at her, was waiting for. “Oh, your basket!” Ramona remembered suddenly. Of course, the basket. It was huge, and so nice, quite durable. Certainly, with its sturdy wicker weaving, it was nice enough to reuse, and Ramona had no designs on keeping it. She pointed behind her from the door. “It’s right in the kitchen, if you just give me a second, I can grab it for you.”

Joan hesitated for only a second, looking briefly confused, but never losing a moment of cheer. “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry about that, not at all. I’ll get it another time. And just know, I am fully committed to changing your impression of Malibu... for the better, of course. Chelsea said you’ll be here for a week?”

Oh my , Ramona thought, overwhelmed by Joan’s disarming display of charm. She felt cornered, like a small animal. Her instincts said, Close the door , but she told herself, Give this woman the benefit of doubt instead. Perhaps Joan did simply want to give a neighborly welcome and then, most important of all, be on her way back home. Sensing awkwardness in the air, Ramona decided to answer Joan’s question, choosing the path of least resistance to resume comfortable nestling in the lounge chair.

“Um-hum,” she said simply, with a closed-mouth smile and a hand on the door, while she positioned herself to move behind it and to close it imminently. She could see the end to this peculiar exchange approaching. It was in sight. All she had to do... was... say... “Okay, well, good ni—”

“How about dinner tomorrow?” Joan said quickly, peeking around the edge of the door.

“Dinner... tomorrow?” Ramona parroted.

“Dinner... tomorrow,” repeated Joan, zeroing in on her closing pitch. “I’ll show you classic Malibu, a great spot. Delicious and with the best sunset view. You’ll love it. You don’t have plans already, do you?”

The riptide of Joan’s unrelenting hospitality was no match for an already exhausted Ramona. She didn’t even know which question to answer. “No... I... don’t,” she said reluctantly.

“Fantastic!” Joan said, only thinly hiding her win. “We’ll have the best time.”

“Can’t wait.” Ramona forced the cheer in her voice. She hadn’t exactly agreed, but what the hell, it would be just one night. After all, she did eat the woman’s banana bread. I should’ve left the basket outside , she thought.

Joan turned to leave. And then turned back over her shoulder. “Anything comes up, you have my number,” she said.

“Your number?”

“Yes, in the note. The note with the basket.”

“Oh,” Ramona said. “Well, I’m sure it’s here, I’d never throw a note away.” As much as I’d want to , Ramona thought.

Forcing a new smile, Ramona waved goodbye and closed the door.