Chapter 30
Cal
Running after Frankie is a lot easier in theory than in reality.
I realize this as soon as I rev up my truck.
I’ve got a job and I’ve got a kid to get covered before I run anywhere.
And Frankie’s got a brother who, if he feels anything like I do about my sister, won’t be interested in taking calls from the guy who told her she was too complicated.
On my way to the clinic, I call Archie. I don’t have any other options, even if Protective Brother is the worst kind of gatekeeper. Nobody’s slipping past them.
He doesn’t answer.
After I convince the doc I bought my practice from to cover any calls for the next few days and leave a note on the door for walk-ins to try the other vet in town, I call Archie again.
Still no answer.
I call multiple times on my way back to the ranch to pick up an overnight pack, because by this point, there’s no way I’m making it to LA and back in a day, unless things go very, very badly with Frankie.
Assuming Archie ever answers his phone and actually tells me where I can find Frankie.
Which seems less and less likely every time I get Archie’s voicemail.
Mom’s not at the house, so once I have my bag, I call her.
She picks up on the first ring. “I hope you’re on your way to L.A., son,” she answers without a hello.
“Not yet, Ma. Thought I’d make sure you were okay handling Junie for a day or two.”
“Don’t waste your time asking silly questions,” she says sharply over the music playing in the background signaling she’s at the grove with the crew. “Dad and I have already planned for Junie. Cassidy’s on her way. You just get on the road and win Frankie back.”
“I’m going,” I tell her, more grateful than usual for an interfering family, but still not sure where I’m going. “I don’t know where to find her, Ma. L.A. is a big city.”
“Flo said she gave you her brother’s number,” she says before giving some instructions in Spanish.
I wait for her to finish talking to whoever’s with her. “He’s not answering.”
“Hmmm. I’ll see what I can do. You just drive.” She ends the call without a goodbye before I can thank her.
But when Mom wants info, she’s like James Bond on steroids. Or Tom Cruise doing his own “Mission Impossible” stunts, if those stunts involved plying someone for information with delicious sandwiches. Or even just a long, uncomfortable stare down.
I do what she says and drive, with no idea where I’m going beyond south to LA.
I try calling Archie a few more times on the drive, if for no other reason than to feel like I’m doing something during the hours I spend driving past green groves of avocado trees and winding grape vines.
Their straight rows providing structure and familiar patterns on a day filled with uncertainty.
On a rise near Santa Barabara, the fields give way to the coastline, and the view opens to the Pacific below me.
White waves lap the shore with a consistent ferocity that urges me to pick up speed.
I’m nearly to Frankie’s world, and the closer I get, the quicker I want to be there.
I can’t erase what I’ve said or our time apart, but I can make sure nothing separates us again. Including distance.
But then I encounter the one thing impossible to avoid in LA: traffic.
It’s four o’clock on a Friday, and traffic is at a standstill from Ventura to…
I don’t actually know yet. Archie hasn’t answered my calls or replied to my voicemails.
Mom’s gone dark—I haven’t heard a word from her.
I’m desperate enough that I’ve almost tried calling Frankie directly, but I’m afraid if I do, the next time I’m at Flamingo’s, Aunt Flo will do something even worse to my eggs than fry them.
That’s when Cassidy calls. If she hadn’t told me already that I’d made a huge mistake, I’d be afraid she might be calling to stop me. But after sending up a quick hail Mary, I answer and put her on speaker.
“Go to Frothed in the South Bay. Dex’s wife, Britta, owns it. You might be able to find information about Frankie from her,” she says, sounding a bit out of breath.
“Who are Dex and Britta?” I inch forward, feeling only slightly better about the progress I’ve made, literally and metaphorically. Finding Frankie still feels impossible.
“Frankie’s friends. Just trust me. Go there first but hurry. They close soon.”
“Easy for you to say. I’ve gone one mile in the last ten minutes. There’s an accident on the 101.”
“Cal, tell me you didn’t actually take the 101.”
“Maps said it was fastest.”
“Well, it’s not now, so change course.”
“I’ve got a cop right behind me. I can’t pick up my phone.”
Cassidy lets out a long, deeply exasperated sigh. “You need a new truck, Cal. One you can talk to in emergencies like this,” she scolds in a voice that doesn’t encourage any Protective Brother instincts. “Tell me the name of the closest exit to you.”
“Los Alisos is a half mile.”
A few seconds later, she says, “Perfect. Get off there and follow my instructions.”
In that moment, a pocket opens up in traffic and I’m able to navigate to the exit.
For the next twenty minutes, Cassidy guides me down side streets and boulevards through the outskirts of LA while also lecturing me on what I should and should not do when I see Frankie again.
Until finally, I can’t take it anymore and decide to sacrifice a couple minutes in order to have a less opinionated navigator.
I pull into a gas station and park. “Give me the address again. I’ll map myself.”
“I’m too invested now to not go with you all the way to Frothed!” she protests. “I at least need to know that you’ve—”
“—Not happening, Cass!” I yell, feeling only slightly guilty after all her help. “I didn’t think you even liked Frankie.”
She huffs. “I don’t like what she did, but I like her for you. I like her for Junie. Now go get her back.”
With the address in my map and a clear, silent, path to Frothed, I put my truck in drive and speed toward some little coffee shop that, at this point, is my only chance of finding Frankie. And it’s kind of a long shot.
Half an hour later, after being rerouted more than once to avoid traffic, I pull up in front of a blue-painted beach cottage that’s been converted to a coffee shop. There’s no parking in front of it, and it’s closing time, so I take my chances I’ll get ticketed and pull into a red zone.
I run toward the door just as a person inside flips a CLOSED sign. I pound on the door until a blonde woman comes back, eyeing me suspiciously through the window.
“Are you Britta?” I yell through the door’s thick glass.
“Who are you?” she yells back, gripping a very large knife in her right hand.
I put my hands up where she can see them and step back from the door. “Cal Holloway. I’m looking for Frankie.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow with even more suspicion. But, slowly, she unlocks the door and steps outside.
“I’m Britta.”
I take off my hat and offer my hand, which she shakes both reluctantly and briefly. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry to bother you. It’s just… I need to find Frankie. Maybe she’s told you about me.”
“She has. Why do you need to see her?” Her voice is flat and sounds as suspicious of me as her eyes do.
“I need to tell her I was wrong. I need to tell her—” I scrape a hand through my hair, then meet her hard gaze. “I need to tell her I love her.”
Britta examines me for a few more seconds before her mouth pulls into a slow smile. But her warmth turns too quickly to apology. “I actually don’t know where she is. Have you tried calling her?”
I shake my head. “My Aunt Flo told me not to. She gave me very strict instructions that this wasn’t something I could do over the phone.”
“Flamingo Flo?”
I nod.
Britta nods her understanding. “From what Frankie’s told me about her, you were right to listen. Let me try Frankie. Maybe I can sus out where she is without giving you away.”
She takes her phone from her apron pocket, and air fills my lungs for the first time in hours. But her call goes straight to voicemail.
“Maybe she’s still at her callback.” Britta starts to tuck her phone back into her apron, but something stops her. Maybe the general air of desperation wafting off me. “Let me try Archie. He might know. I think she’s staying with him.”
“Thanks.” A sigh of relief punctuates my gratitude. “I’ve tried him. He hasn’t answered.”
“Well, he doesn’t have a good reason not to take my call.” Her friendly tone makes her dig sharper.
While I wait for Britta to dial, I jam my hands in my back pockets and survey the neighborhood.
Frankie’s told me about living around here when she first came to America.
It’s nice. The beach is only a block away, and a humid saltiness blends with the sharp smell of good coffee coming from Frothed.
I doubt Archie will pick up, but maybe Britta will feel sorry enough for me to offer a cup of coffee.
I’ve barely taken my eyes off Britta before she says, “Hey, Archie.”
So, yeah, he’s for sure been avoiding my calls.
“How are you?” she asks gently, listens for a few seconds, then “How are the plans for the service going? Dex and I are planning to go.”
I force myself not to rock back and forth while Britta’s conversation with Archie lasts roughly a lifetime.
They’re clearly talking about Frankie’s dad, which only makes me feel worse about what I’ve done.
Not only did I basically send her packing instead of celebrating her callback, I did it when she was mourning her father’s passing.
Not cool, Cal. Not cool.
Finally, when I’m skirting inches from despair, Britta catches my eye. “Hey, Arch, I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.”
Pause.
“Cal Holloway.”
Longer pause while she nods, like she’s agreeing with whatever Archie is saying, which can’t be good. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
Britta turns her back to me and whispers loudly, “He seems pretty busted up about it. Looks like he’s been crying.”