She drops her surfboard to the sand and sits on top of it. Every single muscle in her body sings with exhaustion.
Exhaling, she stares out at the waves, glances around. Tuesday, midday, the beach is practically hers. She shivers in her wet suit but doesn’t bother with a towel. It’s December, and while most people would think the water cold as hell, she’s been surfing so long she’s conditioned to the icy temperatures.
Whenever she needs a refresh, a recharge, she comes back to the ocean.
Not only is it the one place she allows herself to be reckless, to take risks, it’s where she feels close to her mother.
Her mother, Michelle, was a surfer. Some badass California chick with a VW bug and a smile that could light up the sky. Lacey was only six when her mother died of breast cancer. All she has are meager scraps of memories. And now Sal, with her memory loss, can barely remember their mother either. To Lacey, it feels like a really shitty deal. She always counted on Sal to tell her about their mother and their stories, and now they’re both left with none.
She has one memory, though. The most precious.
How do you swim a wave if you’re drowning, Lacey?her mother would always ask, pointing out at the waves, beaded bracelets dangling from a slender wrist. You break through it. You break it.
Lacey’s always kept the words close. Advice she hears when she needs hope, a way out, a breakthrough. Her way of being like a woman she can’t remember. Of taking the top of a wave and saying, Hey, Mom, I’m here, I remember you.
Anytime something bad happened, anytime she needed a safe place, a reassurance or a reset, Lacey went to the water.
Her savior more times than she can count.
After her mom died, after Sal moved to Nashville, after she woke in the hospital with a drip in her arm, her stepmother telling her she had made a mess of everything, she always came back to the ocean.
Pulling a towel around herself, Lacey rifles through her straw bag for her phone.
“Shit,” she swears, seeing a missed call from Colin Cane. Five texts asking her to run into downtown LA and pick up a rare book order from the Last Bookstore. It’s an emergency. Apparently, everything’s an emergency for Colin.
Fabulous.
Lacey sighs, seeing the night she planned for herself go up in smoke. Gone is the hope of a horror movie. The late dinner where she will drink. The bath where she will feel better. Still, she reminds herself why she’s doing this.
It’s her job. Literally.
Even though being Colin’s personal assistant is not in her job description, she reminds herself that Prentiss won’t care. He won’t give her a pass either. He wants the client happy, and if the client’s happy, Prentiss is happy. And if Prentiss is happy, she’ll get that promotion. It’s so close she can taste it. She needs it too. Financial freedom. A corner office. More shoes. Loads of vacations. A beach somewhere. Better, Paris. Even better, seeing Sal. Her sweet new niece or nephew.
Lacey absentmindedly fingers the delicate gold locket around her neck. Her and Sal’s names inscribed inside. Another treasure from her mother. Another link to her she never takes off.
“I ... am ... on ... it ...,” Lacey singsongs, fingers typing out a reply. She hits send and immediately gets a heart emoji. She shakes her head in amusement. Despite Colin’s current pain-in-the-ass status, she’s never had more fun working with a client. Not to mention spending his money.
Exiting Colin’s chat, Lacey scrolls through the texts her sister sent earlier. She smiles at the attached photo of Sal. Her sister propped up on the couch, her half-moon of a stomach in the frame.
Sal: I am sooooo bored, Lace.
Lacey: Good. Stay bored. How long is ur couch vacation?
Sal: A week. Which means as long as Luke wants. Did you give any more thought to Christmas? Can you come to the cabin?
The offer stares back at her from the screen like a tantalizing dangle of a carrot. Luke’s taking Sal on some dreamy mountain getaway before the baby is born. Lacey wishes she could go. Spending Christmas in the Smoky Mountains with Sal sounds like a dream. But she has to save her vacation time. If she aces this event, she’ll get bigger clients. Which means even more limited time.
She’s twenty-eight. Only ten years younger than her mother was when she died. Her mother never had the life she wanted, married to a man who was gone all the time, who cheated while she was undergoing chemo all by herself. Is that what Lacey wants for her life? Planning vapid Botox parties and obnoxious conscious uncoupling celebrations? Turning into some risk-averse, single, type A, Rolaid-chewing woman?
Most times, she loves her job. Event planning is so much more than ordering and organizing. It’s being there for the client, acting as therapist, confidante, and sometimes a groveling kiss-ass, but she’s good at it and her clients love her.
She stares out at the setting sun. She doesn’t know. But what she does know is it’s what she has at the moment. This job. Her job.
A life she can control. A life that doesn’t leave her.
Her eyes drift back to the text.
Sal: You have to come. Everyone will be there. Please? Pretty please?