Chapter 1 #2
As he climbed the three wide steps on the front porch, the last one felt a little loose and squeaked under his weight. He stopped and tapped it with his toe. He’d have to come back and fix this later.
He knocked softly on the door, then turned the knob and stepped inside.
“Gary, it’s me.”
The place smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Uh-oh. Gary was not supposed to be smoking. Tate took off his boots and left them on the faded linoleum in the entryway. The muffled sound of a television game show hinted that Gary might be in his usual spot in the living room.
Pausing, he gave the framed photos in the entryway a brief glance.
The wall was a gallery of Gary’s life. Interesting how he hadn’t taken down any photos of either of his former wives.
There were plenty of photos of Lainey and her stepsister, Scottie, throughout the years.
Tate let his gaze linger on his favorite—Scottie standing on the bank of the Copper River, grinning at the camera and proudly holding up a salmon.
She wore a trucker-style ball cap, with her dark brown curls tamed into two chunky braids.
Nobody else looked that good in a vintage ABBA T-shirt, with faded jeans tucked into rubber boots.
She was gorgeous.
She’d turned sixteen that summer and conveniently hadn’t bothered to get her license yet. She’d persuaded him to take her fishing. He’d pretended to be exasperated. Honestly, though, spending a whole day with Scottie had been his idea of heaven.
Another fun fact he’d kept to himself.
Tate scooted past a stack of boxes, then peeked through the wide cased opening and found Gary sitting in the brown leather recliner facing the television, his oxygen tank wheeled up next to the cracked armrest. “Hey, pal. Are you awake?”
“Hi, Tate.” Gary’s craggy face creased even more as he smiled. “How are you doing? What brings you by?”
“I thought I’d check on you. Just came back from work. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Not yet.” Gary eyed the bag. “What you got there? Croissants, I hope.”
“How about some yogurt with granola, and a smoothie?”
“Hmm.” Gary’s smile faded. “Did Lainey put you up to this?”
“Not exactly.”
Gary reached for the remote, clicking off the game show. He pressed the button on his chair and lowered the recliner’s footrest.
“You want to eat right here?”
“No, no.” Gary waved his hand. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I was taking a catnap. You’re my second visitor already today.”
Tate helped him up, and they walked together as Gary wheeled his oxygen to the kitchen. “Oh yeah? Who else was here?”
“Make yourself at home, but get some plates, please. And how about some coffee?”
Tate eyed the dark brew sitting in the well-loved coffeemaker on the Formica countertop.
“Did you make that?”
“Yep, this morning.”
“Got it.”
Tate poked around the kitchen. A few minutes later, they had their breakfast spread out on the square wooden table, with hot coffee between them.
“So, I guess you heard the big news.” Gary removed the lid from the yogurt parfait, added three blueberries, and took a small bite.
“Been at work. What’s the news?”
Gary paused, a spoonful of yogurt halfway to his mouth. “Damian Michaels dropped by. He wants Scottie to come home.”
What? Tate choked on his smoothie.
Gary smiled, then dipped his spoon back into the container.
Tate plucked a napkin out of the bag, then wiped his face and the speckles of smoothie on the table. “Really? Huh. Wow, I hadn’t heard that.”
“He left a few minutes before you got here. Wants her to be a camera operator on that show. The one they’re filming out at Port Frisco.”
“I thought somebody just got hurt out there.”
Gary peeked inside the bag, then fished out the scone. “Broke his leg or something. That’s why Damian needs Scottie.”
“How do you think this is going to go over with Lainey?”
Gary shook his head. “Lainey’s gonna blow a gasket.”
“You’re not wrong,” Tate said.
Selfishly, Tate wouldn’t mind seeing Scottie again. And he wanted Gary to have his daughter back, even if she only stayed for a few weeks. He knew how old wounds festered though. Part of him was already bracing for impact.
Scottie Sheridan never backed away from a challenge.
Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she dug her toes deeper into the warm sand and shot her partner, Violet, a “we’ve got this” look.
The California sun warmed Scottie’s bare shoulders as she stared through the volleyball net at their opponents, a feisty pair from Santa Cruz.
The match was tied 1–1. Scottie and Violet were down by two points—11–13—due to a pair of vicious ace serves.
“She won’t land a third,” Scottie whispered.
The woman, a willowy blonde with her hair twisted in a long, intricate braid and her tan sculpted arms glistening in the sun, tossed the ball in the air and executed a flawless jump serve.
“Mine,” Scottie called out and hustled backward. She made contact, but just barely. The ball smacked her forearms, then arced toward the net. A beautiful pass, really. Violet got under it and offered up a fantastic set. Scottie sprinted, grunting as she leaped into the air, then spiked the ball.
Blocked.
Violet dove into the sand, but the ball landed just out of reach.
Shoot. They were about to lose. Scottie helped Violet to her feet, then gave her a double high-five. “It’s all good.”
Doubt flickered in Violet’s hazel eyes.
“We’re still in this, girl.” Scottie patted Violet’s sweaty shoulder and returned to the back of the court, ready to defend the serve.
This one took them by surprise though. The woman served a gentle lob that barely cleared the net. Violet had to scramble to dig it. Scottie hustled to make a clumsy set, but it was off-balance and sloppy.
Violet spiked the ball into the net.
“Rats,” Scottie said. This was not going well. “It’s okay, Vi. We’re gonna rally.”
Violet turned away without saying a word.
But the next serve sailed over the net with such force that Scottie barely had time to respond and shanked the ball out of bounds. Applause rippled through the crowd sitting in the bleachers. Their opponents cheered, high-fived, and hugged. Scottie stood, hands on hips, her chest heaving.
“It’s all right. Good match.” She slapped Violet’s outstretched hand and then moved toward the net to congratulate the winners. After shaking their hands and offering polite praise, she trudged in the sand to the bench where they kept their water bottles, towels, and string bags.
“No worries, we’ll get the next one,” Scottie said.
“Double elimination,” Violet said, uncapping her water bottle. “That was our second loss.”
Oh. Scottie buried her face in her pink towel. What a bummer.
“I’m supposed to be in Vancouver next week,” Violet said, tugging her auburn hair free from her yellow scrunchy. “We’re shooting a Christmas movie in four weeks, so I won’t be here for the next tournament.”
“Understood,” Scottie said, then chugged half of her water. “Want to grab lunch? At Beach Street Grille?”
“Sure,” Violet said. “Let’s do it.”
The Pacific Ocean roared its way onto the Southern California coastline, waves ebbing and flowing and leaving trails of white, foamy lattice on the golden sand. Their raucous Saturday morning game of beach volleyball had ended, but that didn’t mean they had to go home.
Scottie packed her free time full of beach volleyball, hikes, and eating out with friends.
She hated being still, especially since she spent so much time traveling.
When she was home in Carlsbad, she liked to soak up every minute, making memories.
Because stillness was dangerous. Stillness forced her to think.
A young couple walked past, following their curious toddler down the beach toward the waves. The woman wore a baby wrapped in a snug blanket against her chest, her fingers twined through the man’s.
Scottie’s heart pinched. She looked away.
Nope, can’t get distracted by regret.
The what-ifs and the maybes would take her out.
Sure, in her weaker moments, her thoughts circled back to her life in Redemption and what might have been.
She hadn’t been back to Alaska in ages. Other than her five-year class reunion, she conveniently avoided her hometown.
Ever since her stepmother divorced her dad and moved to Montana about ten years ago, things hadn’t been great at her dad’s house.
And frankly her relationship with her stepsister, Lainey, had always been dicey.
But she’d heard from Damian, one of her friends from Redemption who’d helped her get her first job in LA as a production assistant, that her father’s health had declined. Would Lainey tell her if things got really bad?
The notion sent her stumbling, and she took three awkward strides to regain her footing.
“You all right?” Violet shot her a concerned look. “Need more water?”
“Nope, I’m good.” Scottie pasted on a smile. “Just got distracted.”
“I get that,” Violet said, digging in her string bag for her keys. “Sometimes I have the attention span of a gnat.”
Scottie laughed. “Same.”
Her dad’s chronic health issues made it challenging for him to work.
His settlement from the oil company provided a comfortable life.
At least that’s what she’d been led to believe.
She wasn’t eager to return to the place that had been the source of so much heartache.
Besides, her career as a camera operator kept her busy with its long hours and intense demands.
Except her latest gig had wrapped last week—ten episodes of a true-crime show filmed in Studio City.
Now she had a break, which should’ve felt good.
But ever since that crane malfunctioned three months ago on set in Arizona and nearly crushed her during a tracking shot, something inside her had shifted.
Yeah, she said she wanted the big assignments.
Claimed she could work as hard as her male counterparts.
But on the inside, she quaked with fear.
That freak accident had pulverized her confidence.