Meet Me at the Starlight

Chapter 32

SEA BLUE BEACH

JUNE

A-LISTER MATT KNIGHT GOING TO TRIAL

WRECKING BALL SKATE TO BE

THE LAST NIGHT AT THE STARLIGHT

These two salacious Gazette headlines have the whole town talking. Gossip fills our streets. Matt’s upcoming trial made national news. ABC, NBC, Entertainment Tonight. A new network called CNN had trucks lined up outside the Starlight for a week.

For now, he’s headed back to LA, leaving his defense up to his crackerjack lawyer, Bodie Nickle. Folks are still awaiting the trial date. What’s taking so long?

Harlow has remained in town, and we couldn’t be happier to see her jogging Sea Blue Way every other morning. Trina Bevel noticed the supermodel stepping up on the big green scale in Biggs yesterday. We’ve also noticed her on the skating rink floor now and then, toddling along in Tuesday’s old skates. HH, we’re all with you.

Spike told Audra at the Blue Plate that the Starlight’s phone is ringing off the hook.

“Tuesday, say it isn’t so! The rink is closing? What ... demolished?”

“I told my family we’re headed to Sea Blue Beach. My kids have never skated there!”

Every day, more and more cars line our streets and avenues. Old-timers, former Sea Blue Beach citizens, and children of deceased former Starlighters who’d heard the stories of the rink built by a prince on a rock by the ocean but had never visited.

The cottages at Sands Motor Motel announced a waiting list, and every beach cabin and summer-only home is rented out. Even the dilapidated fishing shacks have lodgers. Tents pop up in yards and along the beach.

Phil, the postman, disappears every other day inside the Starlight with bags of letters from all over the world, from former tourists passing through, to those who’d booked a week’s vacation, to spring breakers across the Panhandle and LA—that is, lower Alabama.

Then, to our delight, Harriet Nickle and her sister Jubilee arrived. What a treat. We almost think it’s worth the ruckus over the Starlight to see those gals back home.

Most nights, the rink bursts at the seams, with lines snaking around the octagon-shaped building. Spike convinced Tuesday to add a ten o’clock to midnight session just to accommodate everyone.

We’ll get all the life we can out of our dear Starlight until the mayor calls for the wrecking ball. Wrecking ball. Two words that make some of us want to cry.

In this time of sentiment, we remember our friend Doc, who’d settled down in Sea Blue Beach after the second war. Said his old bones were too weary to keep on trucking. He told Dear Dirk he dreamt his wife was talking to “the man on the wall of the Starlight” and took it to mean he needed to roost near the rink for his final days.

However, he got restless, and at the age of eighty, bought a boat, christened it the Betsy, and set out to sail the path of the Titanic. We stood by the dock as he shoved off, saying, “I’ll be back after I drop flowers over my wife and daughters’ graves. It’s long overdue.”

Word came back how the Coast Guard found him and the Betsy adrift over the site of the wreck, Doc gone peacefully in his sleep, a nautical map and a picture of his girls on his chest.

It tore Tuesday up something fierce, but she put on a memorial at the Starlight worthy of her friend. All of Sea Blue Beach turned out.

In light of our memories, the orange demolition sign seems a slap in the face. But we know, deep down, that all small towns have a secret. Ours might just save the Starlight.

HARLOW

June flowed into July, with Harlow’s days anchored by the rink. She marveled at how Tuesday rebounded from the demolition news to reign as queen over her kingdom, paying no mind to surveyors and contractors milling around inside and out.

“Tuesday, can I borrow some of your mojo?” Harlow said one afternoon.

After her prison cell conversation with Matt, she was determined not to sabotage herself. Especially when Jinx called to say Charlotte Winthrop was still committed to Harlow being her next CCW It Girl.

So, she told Blaire and Miss Beulah at the Blue Plate not to let her order tater tots with her spinach and tomato omelet and lightly buttered toast.

Matt called every morning and evening. “How’s Granny doing?”

“Like the rink will go on forever. Any final word on your court date? Have you called Booker?”

“No.”

“That’s it? No?”

“It answers both questions.”

“Matt, call your friend. Get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid.”

“I miss you,” he said. “The crew says I talk about you all the time.” His tone made her feel all squishy and warm. Like she belonged to him.

Thoughts of him cruised through her all day. Her heart skipped when the phone rang just as she returned from her jog—three a.m. Pacific time—and then again at night, as she crawled into bed.

The Xander situation took care of itself. After he sailed away, she called him once and he called twice. Both conversations died quickly after their hellos.

When she said good-bye the last time, she knew they were both done.

“Be well, Xander.”

“You too, Harlow.”

Mom called a few weeks after the confrontation in her office, insisting her choices for Harlow were spot-on and she didn’t owe her an apology or explanation. “I’ve given you a life most girls can only dream about, and sometimes not even their dreams are enough.”

After that rough call, Harlow ached for a candy bar, but she didn’t have one in the house, and she refused to run out to Biggs or Alderman’s to buy one in defiance of her stubborn mother. After a few minutes, the impulse died, and shew, progress. Three months ago, she’d have been out the door in a New York minute.

She worked the rink tonight, happy to see Dupree show up with his skates, which brought Tuesday to tears. They went around for a good long while together, mother and son holding hands.

He’d been helping Tuesday go through all the boxes in her office and the back room, carrying out several garbage bags in the evening, leaving more than enough memorabilia for the coming Starlight museum.

Over in concession, Spike flipped burgers and grilled hot dogs. Simon ran back and forth to the back room storage for napkins, serving trays, and soda syrup.

Nora cued up Peaches & Herb’s “Reunited” and called for a couple’s skate, though no one ever left the floor these days.

“Here.” Tuesday shoved her old skates at Harlow. “I can’t live with myself if you don’t master skating. Now get out there. Dupree will help you. Trust me, you’ll have fond memories after the wrecking ball knocks this place down.”

“How do you do it?” Harlow hugged the skates to her chest. “Stay so calm? This mess is breaking my heart and I’m a new kid around here.”

“Immanuel.” She pointed to the mural. “I was disappointed in Him, even doubted He existed the night they hammered up the demolition signs, but I’ve had time to reflect, do a bit of talking to Him, and I know I can trust Him. If He doesn’t save us, He must have a better plan.”

Nora announced an all skate with Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Shining Star.” No one could stay off the floor once the beat filled the rink, including Harlow.

“Hey, Harlow.” A group of teen girls rolled past her, so smooth and in control of their feet. “You hanging around town? Could you give us some pointers with our makeup?”

“Absolutely.” She walk-rolled-stumbled while hanging onto the wall, her back stiff, her feet at awkward angles.

Another skater swooshed passed with a greeting, but she only caught the back of his head. “Are you staying in town after the demolition?” he called when he passed her again. He was a Starlight regular, but she never got his name.

Another skater, one of the Biggs managers, rolled next to her. “Harlow, I’d really love to stock Hayes Cookies, but I’m having trouble connecting with the distributor. Any ideas?”

“I’ll give my dad a call.” Whoa, she almost face-planted.

“Doing okay, Harlow?” Dupree gently grabbed her arm.

“You tell me.” She clung to him until she stopped wobbling and tried to absorb the skating tips he offered.

She continued around the rink with him until Nora called all the dancers and shufflers to the floor. The bass riff of Madonna’s “Into the Groove” shook the Starlight as the disco ball began to spin. Every skater bopped to the rhythm like a choreographed music video. Even Dupree—a man in his sixties—got into it and headed a long line of shufflers.

Harlow clung to the wall until the group of girls interested in makeup linked their arms through hers and pulled her along.

That Friday night, she never left the floor. When Nora announced the final song, Harlow was hot, sweaty, and exhilarated.

“That was amazing.” She wrapped Tuesday in a hug as she surveyed her kingdom. “Did you see me? I made it all the way around without touching the wall, and I went backward for maybe three feet before I ran into Andrea Fuller, but she was really nice about it.” She yanked off her skates and looked out over the thinning crowd. “Gosh, I feel like I’m twelve. I think. I never really got to be twelve.”

“I knew you’d love it.” Tuesday smoothed her hand over Harlow’s hair. “Simon covered your chores. Why don’t you go on home?”

“I’m too jazzed to go home.” So she stored her skates—hers now, not Tuesday’s—and headed down the Beachwalk. The air under a bright moon was thick and warm. The Gulf lapped lazily against the shore, as if switching the tide might require too much effort.

The aroma of cinnamon and baking dough drew Harlow toward the pretzel truck. She paused. Did she need a pretzel? She’d eaten a good dinner. Roller-skated her heart out. She was a little hungry, sure, but wouldn’t it be better to go home, shower, and go to bed?

Yet she’d roller-skated! Didn’t that deserve a celebration? She was almost to Pete’s Pretzels when the heart-stopping fragrance of roasting meat wrapped around her. Just past the food trucks and beyond the Beachwalk lights, a fire burned. A man looked up and beckoned her.

Me?

She glanced around. Several families and groups walked along the shore, so she’d not be alone out there. She cut across the sand toward the firepit. Maybe he was a friend of Dupree or Matt. Or Tuesday. She knew everyone. As she drew near, the sound of the waves and the wind in her hair stilled.

“Would you like some fish?” The man looked familiar. Felt known. “Sea bass is very good.” He drew a pan from the coals. “I made some bread as well. Sit, please.” He pointed to the roughhewn bench on the other side.

“Begging your pardon, you don’t appear to be a licensed vendor. I’m not inclined to eat with strangers.”

“If you dine with me, then we won’t be strangers. Please—”

Call her crazy, but she wanted to sit, to talk with him. Her belly rumbled for the fish and bread. “Are you sure you have enough?”

H, stop this. Go home. But oh, the fragrance—like real, nourishing food. One bite and she’d be whole.

“More than enough.”

She sat across from him, hugging her handbag to her chest. “So, is this a new business? Fish over an open firepit? Should I call some more people over?”

“This is just for you and me.” He handed her a plate with a slice of sizzling fish and warm bread. Their eyes met, and she stood abruptly, dumping her plate in the sand. “Immanuel.”

“Yes,” he said with a laugh, picking up her plate. “I’ve got more.” When he spoke, the evening stars seemed to swoop low and listen in. They were brilliant and alive, and so close she could touch them.

“Y-you’re real.”

“Didn’t Tuesday tell you I was real?”

“You’re a painting. A mural. A story.” He wore the same long coat with his burnished brown hair flowing over the collar. His hat rested next to him.

His voice was soft yet booming. The mural depicted a man among men from another era, but the image didn’t do him justice. He was more alive than anyone she’d ever known. The flames of the fire paled in comparison to his eyes.

“The mural is just a representation. The prince insisted, thinking it would preserve the story of the Starlight and Sea Blue Beach. Of me.”

“Why don’t you keep the Starlight from being demolished? Tuesday’s putting on a good show, but—”

“Let’s talk about you, Harlow.” He offered her another plate of bread and fish.

“Must we? If you’re really God, then you know everything. I certainly know myself.”

“Do you? Then why do you believe you’re not worth loving?”

She choked on her bite of bread. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t think you’re worth loving because the ones you should’ve been able to trust let you down. Your parents, Xander, people in your career, even Sea Blue Beach by taking the Starlight. You think I’ve let Tuesday down.”

She stared at her plate, afraid to look up. Afraid of what else He’d see. “I, um—”

“Do you know my story, Harlow?”

“No. Some. Not much.”

Immanuel stirred the fire, turned the roasting sea bass, and settled in with his own plate, telling her from the beginning how God, who is love, paid a ransom for Harlow Hayes. If He loved her that much, then she must be worth loving.

Immanuel set his plate aside. “Harlow, I came to tell you I’m the bread of life. If you eat of me, you’ll never go hungry again.”

“Something tells me you’re not talking about what’s on my plate.”

“You won’t need Tony’s Pizza to feel satisfied in your soul again. Believe in Me. God with you.”