“Great work!”
I wait. Lisa beams.
“And?” I prompt.
“Oh,” she laughs, waving her hands, “that’s it. No enemy fire today. And ratings are still going up. If this trend continues, then we’ll know it’s baked in and not just a blip.”
“I feel the pressure,” I say without any hint of a joke.
“Good,” Lisa says. “By the way, I took a look at the suggestions you sent me before you started. We’re going to revamp our graphics, make them a bit more current and polished. I want strong graphics that mimic the strength of our team and our news, but ones that are easily understandable for our older viewers. Icicle is going to work with you on them.”
This time I beam.
“Really?”
“Sonny, you’ve been in this business as long as I have. And you’ve worked at stations much bigger than ours. I respect you.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That means the world.”
The room goes silent, and the quiet hum of her ceiling lights suddenly begins to sound like a helicopter taking flight.
Lisa shakes her head. Her smile fades, her cheeks droop and her eyes turn from me to the wall.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” she says.
“No, what is it, Lisa?”
“You didn’t say you respected me, too.”
Her words hit like a missile.
“And that’s what it’s always come to between us,” Lisa says. “College, career, life. You’ve always thought you were better than me.”
“No,” I start. “That’s not true.”
“That’s bull, Sonny, and you know it.” Lisa stands and points at the picture of us in her collage. “I bet you don’t even remember this picture.”
I look at her, but I don’t have a chance to answer.
“I do,” she continues. “And you want to know why? Because it was the first and last day I felt like I was part of a group of friends. We all ate pizza as we set up our dorm rooms. We all hung out that first week like we were equals, the new girls on campus. We were going to take over Northwestern and then the world.” Lisa stops, and her voice quivers ever so slightly. “And then it was over. You and your friends joined sororities. And do you know who was left all alone? Me! All alone in a dorm with undergrads the rest of college. You never invited me to be a part of your group. You never invited me to do anything. It was like I didn’t exist.” Without warning, Lisa slams her hand down on her desk. “And I was stupid enough to believe you liked me again.”
The photo collage behind her shakes.
“I’m so sorry, Lisa,” I say. “It wasn’t you.” I take a deep breath.
Tell her, Sonny. Tell her why you ran away from Michigan. How she reminded you of your sister. Why you built a wall around yourself. Why you don’t have many friends today. Why you aren’t married. Why you don’t have a family. Tell her, Sonny.
“It was…” The word “me” never gets out of my mouth, as Lisa’s office door bursts open.
“There’s a fire at a historic cottage on the bay!” a reporter shouts.
Lisa starts to rush past me but stops.
I look at her, expecting a truce. My heart lifts.
“You’re meeting Mason at eight. You’re a judge for the Traverse City Restaurant Association’s winter chili cook-off. You’ll be doing your forecasts live from TC Brew Co. on Front Street.” She turns. “I’m a judge, too. But we don’t have to sit by one another. I trust that, even if we can never be friends, we can be colleagues.”
The door slams.
Good job, Sonny.
I scan all of Lisa’s Northwestern memorabilia. Back then, we were a college football laughingstock. We’d go to games knowing we would lose, but we’d chant, That’s all right, that’s okay, you will work for us one day!
All we wanted to do was go to the Rose Bowl. It was a dream for every Northwestern student. The purple among the roses.
I look at the photo of all of us from college. I barely recognize those young girls.
I pick up the framed picture and look between me and Lisa.
The ironic thing is Lisa is the one whose face is filled with confidence. Mine is all pretend, an act to distract.
I didn’t even know who I was, and I still truly don’t because I’m alone, and I’ve chosen to be alone. I didn’t tell anyone at college about Joncee. I just wanted to forget. I just wanted to be a new person. I just wanted a new life and a new start. I just wanted to run.
I just wanted, literally, the world to be sunny and new again.
And if I couldn’t ever have it that way again in my life, I could at least have a job and live in a place that would make it seem that way.
I had forgotten the way that the earth takes on another form in winter. It pulls out a coat of white from its seasonal closet to beautify its wardrobe. But winter is smart. It is actually distracting us, glossing over the truth: it is simply protecting itself from the bitter cold of the world.
I pull my own coat tighter around me and survey the terrain.
I used to sled these hills with Joncee long before they were vineyards, when this was rural land, open and free to the local kids to roam. Now it’s a fancy winery. A beautiful stone fireplace roars in the corner, and floor-to-ceiling windows provide a view all the way from the vineyard to the bay.
I’m unsure as to why Mason invited me to lunch. I’m unsure as to why I said yes. But I’m slowly learning that running isn’t solving any of my issues.
A host appears on the steps leading to the dining room, and I turn expecting Mason to be behind him.
No!
My heart leaps, and I grab my menu and place it in front of my face.
“Amberrose Murphy?”
Too late.
I slowly drop the menu as if I’m doing a facial striptease.
“Tammy Lynn? Becky Jo? And Jenny? Oh, my gosh! It’s so good to see you!”
When in doubt, I use my news voice.
The three give me a once-over. They were my BFFs all the way from grade school. We were cheerleaders. We knew everything about each other. We were babysitters for each other’s younger siblings.
“I heard you were back,” Tammy Lynn says.
“Heard?” I joke to cover my emotions. “You better be watching! Helps the ratings.”
“We’re CHRY gals,” Becky Jo says. “Younger demo.”
“I’m changing that.”
“Speaking of changing,” Jenny says. “You haven’t. At all. Do we hate her, girls?”
They laugh and nod, and I can’t help but smile.
They are ghosts of who they used to be. And yet they haven’t changed at all, and I feel jealous of their banter, their ease with one another, the fact that so little in their lives seems to have changed. My mom has told me they have families of their own, and their parents and siblings are doing well.
They are blessed.
“Well, we heard about what happened in California with your…” Tammy Lynn stops.
“Breakdown,” I finish. “You can say it. It happened. Live.”
They laugh, and the tension breaks.
“I would have done the exact same thing,” Becky Jo says.
I laugh.
“Well, we all thought you were ghosting us just like you did after you left,” Jenny says. “Haven’t returned our calls since you’ve been back. Never reached out when you came home to visit.” Jenny was the head cheerleader, always energetic, always peppy, always smiling. “That kinda hurt, Amberrose.”
I look at them. “I’m so sorry. I work such strange hours. I’m always a day late and a dollar short.”
They nod understandingly.
“Well, you have our numbers, and we’ll call you to have drinks with us, and you will say yes, got it?” Jenny says.
“Got it.”
Jenny turns. The host is still waiting patiently.
“Well, we better skedaddle,” she says.
They wave, but at the last second, Tammy Lynn turns and leans toward my table, hands around her mouth, whispering as if she’s just uncovered the biggest secret of her life and can’t contain it any longer.
“You know, we still talk about what happened to Joncee. Such a tragedy. You know you had nothing to do with that, right? Just a crazy accident.” She straightens up. “Welcome home, Amberrose.”
Jenny elbows Tammy Lynn.
“Sorry. Sonny. Welcome home, Sonny.”
I wave, but I can feel my chin tremble.
And there it is: the reason why I left. Why I didn’t want to return. Why I don’t reach out to former friends. Why winter is so hard.
My sister may be dead, but her ghost lives on in this town, and when people see me, they see her.
And the memory of that night haunts me.
“Sorry I’m late.”
I jump in my seat.
“Sorry to scare you.”
So many meanings.
“It’s good to see you,” Mason says. “And it was rather hard to see you the other day when you were dressed completely in camouflage.”
His humor disarms me, and I feel immediately…not so scared.
I stand, and he gives me a big, warm hug.
“You look great,” Mason continues.
Mason is wearing a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and polka-dot bow tie. “So do you,” I say.
“I had board meetings this morning. Gotta look the part.”
“I know all about that,” I say.
“Isn’t this place amazing?”
“We used to sled these hills as a kid,” I say. “They sloped and dipped, so you gained just enough speed but were never out of control, like a Slip ’N Slide over a hilly backyard.”
“I did the same,” he says. “Then Freckles Williams bought the land and turned it into a successful winery.”
“The former TV kid actor?”
“Yep,” Mason says. “And the wine and food is stellar.”
The waiter arrives with two glasses of wine and a charcuterie board.
“I ordered ahead,” Mason continues. “Wanted to surprise you. Cheers.”
We toast and take in the scenery for a moment.
“I loved how you gave that fish a second chance the other day,” Mason says as he reaches for a chunk of blue cheese.
“It deserved it.”
“So do you.”
I drop the fig I’m holding.
“Listen, I know a little about your sister. I’ve heard. People talk.”
“I can’t do this today,” I say. “I’ve already been down this road.” I nod at my friends at a table across the room. “That road is closed. If that’s why you asked me here today…”
“I asked you here today because I like you, Sonny. A lot. And I want to get to know you better.”
I look at him, eyes wide. “We just met.”
“I know. That’s what everyone says, ‘We just met. It’s too soon.’ I get it. Defense mechanism. You don’t want to get hurt. I don’t want to get hurt. No one wants to get hurt.” Mason takes a sip of his wine. “But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m in my fifties, I’ve loved and lost, and I’ve lived a lot of life in those years. My heart knows when it knows. And it knows you’re special. If I put my heart out there, then I’m going to put it out there. No games.”
I take a sip of my wine. Is this really happening?
“So I’m putting it out there. If it’s too soon, then so be it.”
He looks into the fire.
“Andi and I used to have a dog, Lucky. Found him in the woods, near death. Saw a flash of blue in the dark. Lucky’s eyes were sky blue, Andi’s favorite color. ‘Meant to be,’ she always said. Andi took Lucky home and nurtured him back to life. Slept with him by the fire to keep it warm and safe. She loved that dog, and that dog loved her. When Andi died, Lucky looked and looked for her around the house. For weeks. It just broke my heart. One day, I let him out to do his business, and Lucky ran. I looked for him for days, put out flyers, offered a reward.” Mason stops. “I found that dog laying by Andi’s gravestone. He found her. He died with her.” Mason stops. His lip quivers. A tear forms in the corners of my eyes. “Do you know how many times I thought of running away, giving up? I wanted to die from heartbreak and loneliness, too, just like Lucky. Guilt ate me alive. I mean, my kids left here, and I get it.” He stops. “But running doesn’t solve anything. It’s just a defense mechanism. It just distances you from the love we all deserve.”
Mason continues. “Life’s short, Sonny. And it’s hard. So, so hard. None of us know how much time we have, but we all need love. We all need a second chance. Me, you, Lucky, that fish…it’s okay to forgive yourself. I guess… I guess I just don’t want you to be a runner your whole life.”
My gut tells me to stand and run, not just from Mason, but from my childhood friends, my hometown, my state, winter, everything.
Instead, I nod at Mason and then finally remove my coat.
Who knew that tasting chili could be so, well, chilly?
And I’m not talking about the weather, although right now—according to the current conditions on my laptop—it is seventeen degrees and a steady snow is falling.
The brew pub is packed, and that’s certainly made it feel warmer, but it’s still downright brisk inside the drafty restaurant, and there’s no doubt the tiff Lisa and I had earlier is only making things colder.
Mason is seated between the two of us, a literal buffer.
“How’s it feel to be Switzerland?” I ask.
“I can sense the iciness,” he whispers. “And it’s not the weather. What’s going on?”
He notices Lisa watching.
“What do you think of Front Street?” Mason asks me, a bit too loudly and cheerfully, in an effort to cover. “Changed, huh?”
TC Brew Co. is housed in an old brick, two-story building with arched windows. Front Street, the main street in Traverse City, is filled with historic buildings, and the beautiful Boardman River meanders just across the way, before spilling into the West Arm of Grand Traverse Bay. The entire downtown has experienced a major transformation. Every building has been restored, and the area is filled with topnotch restaurants, wine bars, brew pubs, and high-end clothing, retail and flower shops. Old-fashioned lampposts dot the streets, and lights twinkle in the snowy branches of the barren trees. Across the street, a line of people snake down the sidewalk, waiting to enter State Theatre, the beautiful, old movie house that filmmaker and activist Michael Moore renovated and relaunched, which is the center of the city’s annual Traverse City Film Festival, now one of the most respected film festivals in the world.
“In the summer, the town bustles with tourists, but there’s something about it in the winter,” Mason says. “It becomes our town again. The locals’ town. It’s like a town right out of a Currier and Ives painting.”
Mason is wearing a heathery blue turtleneck today. The lighter flecks bring out the color of his eyes and the darker hues make his silvery hair shimmer. I can’t help but notice the way the turtleneck emphasizes his angular jaw and five-o’clock shadow as he talks.
“Michael Moore really helped reenergize the city with the theater in 2007. Today, we have a mix of young liberals and older conservatives. The town is a political fulcrum, new and old.”
“Which are you?”
“The perfect balance of both,” Mason says with a wink.
“Perfect answer for a chamber guy,” I say.
“But I’m definitely old-fashioned when it comes to my chili.”
I laugh and blow on my hands to keep them warm.
“Tell me more.”
“I used to make chili for my family all the time,” Mason says. “My wife would often go weeks when she’d stay in bed. She couldn’t shower or dress much less cook or care for the kids, so I’d make chili. I knew it was full of protein and the kids liked it. It would last for days. I’d freeze it, so we could eat it for a quick lunch or dinner. And it made the house smell like a home. My kids despise chili now. They ate so much of it growing up that they just can’t stomach it,” Mason muses. “But I think it’s the memory of chili they don’t like. Those memories can affect not only how we remember things but also how we see things today.”
He looks at me, and it’s as if he’s a spotlight illuminating my soul.
“Have you always been this honest?” I say.
“About what?”
“About everything.”
Mason nods. “I’ve learned to be. It’s such a healthier way to live. I mean, who’s the person we lie to most often?”
I look at him, shrugging.
“Ourselves. I heaped so much blame on myself. But I realized there are some things you just can’t change, no matter how much you want it or how hard you try. And you sure can’t change the past.”
“But what if you could have?”