Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
A SHOCKING RETURN
Celeste
The rhythm of my feet hitting pavement had always been my therapy—no earbuds, no playlists, just the sound of my breathing and the space to untangle my thoughts.
I needed that clarity again. One hour each morning to pound the Malibu roads while the world slept, letting my mind wander through the maze I'd created of my life.
This morning, as my feet sinks into the cool sand with each step, my mind drifts between thoughts of my mother's recovery and the screenplays that would soon bear my name.
The beach stretches before me, empty and peaceful in the pre-dawn quiet.
I breathe in the salt air and smile. Our stretch of Malibu faces east rather than west—a geographical quirk that means the sun would soon emerge from the ocean horizon rather than sink into it.
While the hills behind us capture magnificent sunsets, there was something magical about watching light break across water, painting the waves in gold as they rush towards shore.
My breath comes in ragged bursts as I pound down the beach toward the stairs that lead up to Pacific Coast Highway.
The coffee shop is miles away, but the thought of a latte pulls me forward like a lifeline.
I take the wooden steps two at a time, sand flying from my sneakers.
At the top, I barely register a blue Corolla pulled onto the shoulder, hazard lights blinking lazily.
Just another broken-down car on the PCH.
I've got exactly forty-three minutes to reach the café, down my caffeine, run back, shower, dress, and get into my car for my hour-long commute to the office, so I can arrive at 7:30, which is my new start time and has been since I moved in with Max.
The coffee shop barista slides my latte across the counter. I gulp it down, burning my tongue, and dash back outside. There it is again—that blue Corolla with the tinted windows. I hesitate, wondering if I should check on the driver, but my watch says I'm already fifteen minutes behind schedule.
Days blur together. My morning route never changes, but that car appears like a ghost in different spots.
Monday, it's pulled onto the gravel shoulder near the bend.
Tuesday, it's lurking in the Malibu Farm parking lot.
Wednesday, it claims the spot directly in front of my regular coffee shop, the Malibu Farm Pier Cafe.
Thursday, it's stationed outside that boarded-up Italian place that went under last year.
The feeling reminds me of that Twilight Zone episode where a hitchhiker keeps appearing to a woman driving cross-country.
She sees him in Pennsylvania, then Ohio, then Nebraska—the same haunting face at every turn.
Only in the final moments does she learn the truth: she died in an accident back in New York, and he's been Death all along, patiently waiting for her to realize that she’s dead.
That's how I feel about this car—like it's following me with some terrible message.
Then one Saturday morning, I finally discover who's behind the wheel.
I'm lingering at the Blue Bottle Café, nursing a latte and picking at a blueberry scone, with nowhere particular to be.
Max is buried in merger paperwork at the office, as he has been every weekend lately, leaving me to fill these empty hours however I can.
A man appears beside my table and pulls out the chair across from me without asking.
My spine stiffens. The café suddenly feels too warm, too close.
His weathered jeans have a tear just above one knee, his red-and-navy plaid flannel shirt is rolled to the elbows revealing tanned forearms, and his brown leather work boots are scuffed at the toes as if he's kicked something hard, repeatedly.
He's about 55, with salt-and-pepper hair that curls slightly at his collar, crow's feet around eyes that are a startling shade of green, the same color as Max’s.
Those eyes lock onto mine with unsettling intensity.
"Hello, I don't want to scare you. But you're Celeste Jenkins, am I right?" His voice is deep, gravelly, with the faintest hint of a British accent. But it’s not quite British…it’s more American with just a hint of Brit.
I shake my head. His voice, although slightly accented, sounds familiar. Like Max…
I nod, breaking off a piece of my scone with trembling fingers. Crumbs scatter across the white tablecloth. "Yes. Who's asking?"
"My name is Michael Kensington. I believe you're married to my son, Max."