Chapter 29
Cal
Idon’t go after Frankie. I should, but I don’t.
I take a long shower instead. When I step out of the piercing hot water, I don’t smell like cow anymore, but the stink of fear lingers. I wipe steam from the mirror and lean on the counter to look Callahan Holloway directly in the eye.
“You did the right thing,” I tell him, confidently.
Doesn’t work.
No matter how many times I repeat the words, I can’t chase the fear away.
So, I turn to reasoning instead, explaining how this won’t be Frankie’s only job, and I couldn’t just pick up and go to LA whenever she’s working.
I couldn’t uproot Junie like that or make our whole life public, surrounded by cameras and prying eyes.
I couldn’t expose Junie to strangers who’d know about her life from magazines or worse, click bait.
But if I didn’t follow Frankie to Hollywood, how could I be sure she’d come back to me, a small-town vet who still lives with his parents and couldn’t keep his first wife from leaving?
Kayla was ready to run off with a guy who couldn't keep a job. Frankie’s going to be surrounded by movie stars and millionaires.
She’s already a millionaire herself. Possibly a billionaire, now that Malcolm’s dead.
Why would she want to leave behind a life of fame and luxury to live a quiet life in Serenity Cove with Junie and me?
A life of animal emergencies, diner meals, and tea parties with plastic cups and stuffed animals?
Granted, I love this life and wouldn’t trade it for Hollywood or anything else, but I’m not famous. Frankie is.
How can I compete with that?
The answer is, I can’t.
I haven’t been honest with myself about that, or really anything to do with Frankie’s career.
I told myself her coming back here meant she didn’t want to be famous anymore; that she wanted the same quiet life I do.
I never considered she’d want both Serenity and Hollywood, even though she’s given more than one hint she does. She flat out said it tonight.
She loves acting the way I love vet work, despite the parts that stink. I can’t ask her to walk away from that. But as much as I want to be a part of her life, I have no idea how to do the fame part, and I don’t think I want to learn.
With that conclusion, the man in the mirror stares back at me with disappointment. I walk away from him, ready to climb into bed, but I can’t. I can’t let things end like this. At the very least, I’ve got to apologize to Frankie for not being willing to try.
I pull on some sweats and a t-shirt and walk down the hall to the guest room. The light is off, but the door is cracked. I nudge it open and whisper, “Frankie?”
No answer, so I step all the way in and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Once they do, I make out the untouched bed. I tiptoe closer to verify my eyes aren’t fooling me.
They’re not. Frankie’s not in the room.
I flip on the lamp on the bedside table. Her Barry’s hat is there, next to a folded piece of paper with Junie’s name. I open it and read the carefully printed letters, big and blocky enough for Junie to sound out some of them.
Dear Junie,
I’m sorry. I had to go. We will always be friends.
Heaps of Love,
Frankie
At the bottom, she’s included a rough sketch of Bluey.
I read it once more, then re-fold it and tuck it into my pocket.
I don’t go after Frankie. I don’t call. I don’t text. I go back to my room and, like a coward, I go to bed.
But I don’t sleep.
I toss and turn, trying to pause the continuous loop of my conversation with Frankie. But it just keeps playing while my brain takes notes on everything I could have said and done differently. The thing I can’t figure out, though, is how the outcome could have been different.
I must have fallen asleep, because sometime in the early morning, the next thing I know, Junie’s yelling, “Daddy, I can’t find Frankie!”
I bolt up, surprised and disoriented, ready to search for Frankie, until I remember, I’m the reason she’s missing.
I rub my eyes. The time on my phone reads five thirty-eight a.m. Sounds coming from the kitchen clue me in that the rest of the house is awake—we usually are by this time. But Junie’s up early.
“Come here, Bug.” I wave her over and pat the spot next to me. “What are you doing up this early?”
She clambers onto my bed and kneels next to me, bouncing with excitement. “I want to play with Frankie.”
I knew I’d have to break the news to her that Frankie’s gone, I just hoped it would be after the sun came up. Then again, we’re going to have another scorcher, and bad news feels even worse in the heat of the day.
I wrap my arm around Junie and tuck her into my side. “Frankie had to leave, sweetie.”
She squirms out of my hug to face me, not bouncing anymore but still vibrating with energy. “When does she come back?”
Junie’s not making this easy.
I take a breath and drop the bomb I’ve been avoiding. “I don’t think she’s coming back this time.”
Junie goes still. Her shoulders drop, and her bottom lip pokes out. With a huff, she slides off the bed and stomps out of the room, calling for Jo-Joe.
Under the circumstances, this is probably the ideal reaction from her. She’s not crying. She’s not angry. She’s just sad. I understand. I feel the same.
I roll out of bed, pull on a T-shirt, and follow her into the kitchen where Mom’s making breakfast. Junie’s at her side, and I was wrong about the tears. Her eyes brim with them as she looks up at Mom.
“Daddy didn’t make Frankie stay. We were supposed to play, and he made her go home,” she tattles.
I slide into a seat at the counter and rub my temples, too tired to defend myself even before Mom sends me a look over her shoulder.
“What’s this?” She turns off the stove and faces me.
“Frankie left.” I sigh.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Why? Where would she have gone?” With each question, Mom’s voice rises with concern.
“Back to L.A.” I’m one hundred percent stalling divulging everything.
Holding a wooden spoon dripping with oatmeal, Mom crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. She’s onto me.
“You let her drive the road out of here in the dark?” Oatmeal drops to the floor. Without taking her eyes off me, Mom tugs a dishtowel off the oven door and hands it to Junie. “Wipe that up for Jo-Joe, please Juniper.”
“I didn’t let her do anything, Mom. She left without telling me.”
“She just left? Without a reason?” Her eyes narrow again, digging deeper.
I look away from her questioning eyes just as Junie swipes the towel back and forth over the oatmeal, spreading it across the floor.
I rush to take the towel from her. “Let Daddy do it, Bug.”
“Help, don’t do,” Mom instructs.
I let out a long sigh. “Let me help you, Junie.”
I wet the dishtowel and hand it back to Junie, then guide her in wiping up the oatmeal, taking my time to explain how to get all the oatmeal so it won’t dry on the floor. I go into a detailed description to make sure she understands, then go back over it again.
By the time I stand, the floor’s never looked so clean, and Mom’s never looked more skeptical about my motives for “helping” Junie do something. She’s still standing there, arms crossed, ready and waiting with more questions.
“Why did she go so suddenly? I got the feeling she planned to stay for a while,” she says.
“She has an audition or a callback or something. For a movie.”
“Can I see Frankie’s movie?” Junie asks, briefly perking up.
“It’s not for kids, Bug.”
Her shoulders sag again, and I resort to desperate measures. I hand the towel to her. “If you can put this in the laundry room and get dressed in ten counts, I’ll take you for a ride on the four-wheeler before breakfast.”
She sucks in her breath. “Okay. But I drive.”
Before I can dash her dreams again—no way am I letting her drive—she darts toward the hallway. I don’t make it to number one before she turns and comes back to yell, “Count slow!”
“Onnnnnnnne,” I start, planning to stay busy counting and avoid any more of Mom’s questions.
Mom has other plans. She hands me her spoon and turns the oven back on. “Stir this please, while I start coffee for your dad and the boys.”
Once she has me trapped with the oatmeal, her questions start again. “What kind of movie is Frankie auditioning for?”
“Some English thing with lords and ladies, and whatever, that some big-time director she’s wanted to work with is making.”
“A Regency film? I love those kinds of movies.” Mom’s expression softens into something less accusatory.
“Yeah, that’s what she called it when she auditioned. A Regency.”
“I thought you said she left to audition.”
“She’s going back for a second one with the male lead or something. To see if they have chemistry.” The thought of Frankie having chemistry—even the pretend kind—with anyone but me triggers a burning in my chest that might be jealousy.
“That sounds like a pretty big deal, Cal. She must be excited.” Mom drops coffee grounds in the pot, and the smell brings back a thousand memories of Frankie in her wig and glasses, freckles scattered across her nose, asking if I want a refill.
“She was…is.” The burning in my chest cools into something else. Regret mixed with something that could be pride.
The woman who I’m a little in love with is about to catch the dream she’s been chasing.
Suddenly, I want to tell someone about it.
“Yeah, the movie’s based on a book by some famous author.
Frederica Something. Or maybe that’s the name of the movie.
” I squint at the oatmeal, trying to remember exactly what Frankie told me.
Something metal clanks to the floor. My eyes dart to the coffee scoop and grounds at Mom’s feet then to her face. Her wide eyes stare back at me.
“You okay, Ma?”
“Someone’s making a movie of Frederica by Georgette Heyer?” She asks breathlessly.