Return to Willow Lake

“I’m good, thanks,” he said, swirling the coffee in his mug.

“God, Zach, don’t you know I’m hitting on you? You used to be fun. What’s the matter with you?”

Great, he thought. She’s going to make me say it. “Hey,” he said, “that’s really cool and you know I like you, but—”

“Whoa.” She held up her hand, palm out. “I’d just as soon you didn’t finish that thought. I can already see where you’re going with it.”

He tried not to show his relief. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

“Clearly not. God, I need to get the hell out of this burg. Don’t you ever get the feeling you’re fading away?”

Honestly, he didn’t. Right here, in the middle of this small town, was where he felt most alive. Which probably meant there was something the matter with him.

“Me? Fading?” he said, trying to lighten the moment. “No way.”

“Have the cream-filled delight anyway.” She shoved a thick white china plate onto his table. “And don’t forget to tip your server,” she added as she went back to the counter.

Not only would it be rude to refuse the treat at this time, it would be foolhardy. No one in his right mind refused a pastry from the Sky River Bakery.

His love affair with the Sky River Bakery had begun way back when he was a tiny kid. Now it was still his favorite place to sit with a big mug of coffee and a cruller, getting into work mode for the day. The place looked virtually the same as it had all those years ago, although it had been stylishly updated by Jenny McKnight, the owner. There were café tables made from rounds of maple wood, a changing display of work by local artists, and a black-and-white checked floor. It still had an old-fashioned feel to it, and the warm, fragrant atmosphere created an air of nostalgia. Zach sometimes used it as the setting for wedding videos or personal narratives. The morning crowd was present—locals grabbing a bite, retired folks chatting over the day’s New York Times, a couple of tourists perusing an area map.

In fact, the family-run shop was the site of his earliest memory. His mom was taking him to the first day of kindergarten and he was practically catatonic with terror. She’d grabbed his hand and ducked into the bakery, which was just a block from the primary school. He could still remember the sugary, buttery smell of the place, the smell of comfort.

His mom had bought him an apple kolache and a cup of hot chocolate, and she’d told him that going to school was a big adventure for a little boy, and that he was going to love it. And she’d filmed the whole thing. That was his mom’s thing—documenting her life. She’d been compulsive about it, capturing moments on her video camera. His mom had filmed everything—his first day of school, his first lost tooth, his exploits on the soccer field, his disastrous attempts to emulate Jimmy Page. She didn’t put herself in the picture much but her voice often came from behind the camera, always encouraging and sweet-toned. It was as if she’d known she wouldn’t be around that long, and wanted to capture the two of them together for posterity. And sure enough, one day the filming had stopped, and she had moved away. Far away.

He hadn’t seen it coming that day, and he hadn’t been fooled for a minute by her pep talk about kindergarten. His head was full of nightmare visions of snarling teachers, an endless maze of hallways, rooms full of strangers. But then, as he was chewing on a bit of kolache, Sonnet Romano had breezed into the bakery, completely by herself. She wore a pink backpack with pockets and zippers, and pencils all lined up like bullet cartridges in an ammo belt. She wore her curly black hair in twin braids, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose.

All by herself, she marched up to the counter. Her pointy little chin barely reached the edge. “One iced maple bar, please. And can you put it in a nice box? It’s for my teacher. Today is my first day in kindergarten and I’m bringing her a treat.” She carefully placed her money on the counter. “My mom said this is the right amount. She had to work today.”

Zach stared at her in amazement. His mother nodded with approval. “It’s that nice Sonnet Romano from play group. Why don’t you go say hi?”

Zach recoiled in horror. He nearly gagged on his pastry.

While Sonnet waited for her parcel, she turned, zeroing in on him like a laser. “You’re Zach,” she said. “You’re in Miss Nelson’s class, same as me.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he blurted out the first thing that popped into his mind. “Why are you wearing those glasses?”

“They make me look smarter,” she said, tilting up her chin with pride. She turned abruptly, pigtails flying out like helicopter rotors. Then she picked up a pink cardboard box sealed with string, and went to the door.

She paused and turned to Zach. “Well? Are you coming?”

His mom had given him a hug. “Go ahead, sweetheart. It’s going to be a wonderful day.”

Zach shook his head at the memory. Even then. At the age of five, Sonnet knew exactly where she was going, and he was expected to follow along.

He sipped his coffee and frowned at the screen of his iPhone. He was supposed to be getting organized for the day, and instead he’d let his mind wander to a time back in ancient history. With a will, he made himself focus on the present.

The present wasn’t a bad place to be. Here and now, with the future glimmering ahead like a sunrise on the horizon. He needed to move in that direction, not dwell in the past.

Through the shop window, he watched the town getting ready for the day. Shopkeepers rolled out their awnings and displayed their wares on the walkways. Delivery trucks disgorged supplies to restaurants, and people walked briskly toward the train station. Like any small town, an atmosphere of familiarity colored the scene. Zach had always liked that about Avalon. Being part of a small community filled in somewhat for his crappy family situation.

He had been on his own ever since high school, when his father was led away in handcuffs, the town disgrace. Zach was left with a house in foreclosure, a mountain of unpaid bills and a reputation in tatters. Matthew Alger had defrauded the town of Avalon. He’d picked the pockets of people who could scarcely buy groceries, let alone pay their local taxes.

Zach had made a vow that day. He would make restitution to the people his father had defrauded. It would surely take years, but he would do what he could. It wouldn’t happen on his salary from Wendela’s, though. Through the years, he had been depositing whatever he could into the city treasury, trying to chip away at his father’s debt, bit by bit.

He was going to miss this place. But he had to go, and soon. How else was he going to find his life? Filming weddings and bar mitzvahs and retirement parties was a way to make ends meet. But being a filmmaker…that was his life. And he couldn’t very well do that in Avalon. Sure, the town looked as pretty as a picture on a postcard, so pretty it made your heart ache. But pretty didn’t pay the bills. To do that, he needed to go where the work was. But he was stuck in a conundrum. Due to lack of funds, he had not gone after what he wanted.

Zach’s phone rang, and he did a double take. The name that came up was the one he least expected—the longest of longshots: Mickey Flick.

“Who’s Mickey Flick?” demanded Glynnis, peering at the screen of his phone. She not only had a rack; she was the nosiest waitress on the planet.

He ignored her, and skimmed his thumb across the screen in order to take the call. “This is Zach Alger.”

“Mickey Flick here.” A crisp, easy familiarity mellowed the voice. The guy sounded as if he and Zach talked every week.

Zach held his breath. Mickey Flick headed up an outfit in Century City noted for its wildly successful celebrity reality shows. Zach was no fan of the genre, having little interest in watching has-been actors in some ludicrous setup. He was, however, a fan of the success of the shows. He’d been in contact with Mickey Flick Productions, knowing it was a crazy roll of the dice. There had been several emails back and forth with various assistants, but still, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. Now here was the guy, calling him out of the blue.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to fumble. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Not a problem. We were glad to hear from you. We’ve been going over the samples you sent in.”

Zach felt himself teetering on the brink. He knew, he just knew his life was about to change. “Wow. Well,” he said, “I’m flattered you had a look. I hope you liked what you saw.”

“Hell, yeah, we liked them. You’ve definitely got the technical expertise and the eye we’re looking for, so I wanted to see if you’re available for a new production that’s about to start filming.”

Available? Available? Was he available for Mickey-freaking-Flick?

“Could be,” he said, hoping to sound measured. Interested, but not too eager. “Tell me more.”

“For the time being, I can’t say much. You’ll get more details from Clyde Bombier, my production exec. It’ll be a reality show, all under wraps until we’re ready to go wide with it. What I can tell you is that it’s a sixteen-week gig, it involves a major talent and a name director. You’d work directly with him.”

“Okay,” Zach said. “You have my attention.”

He tried not to hyperventilate as he listened to the terms being offered. The money alone made his head spin, but the real excitement kicked in when Flick said he was sending a formal letter of offer and a contract via email.

Zach thanked him and hung up, looking around the bakery at the coffee drinkers, the tourists and locals, the little kids smearing their hands on the glass cases, the old guys with their crossword puzzles. These people had no idea that the world had just shifted for him. Finally the dream was coming into reach. He’d been trying to get a break forever, sending out his portfolio of digital clips, emailing them into what seemed like a black hole of digital ether. He’d been networking through people in the business who were at least six degrees away from West Coast and New York producers. Each award he won, each scrap of recognition, hoisted him another rung up the ladder, but until now, nothing had materialized.

The opportunity was still so new, he had only the sketchiest idea of what was in store for him next. He knew for certain Mickey Flick had a reputation for doing things in a big way. The guy had mentioned that this opportunity was a major production. Major. It was the biggest thing that had ever happened to Zach, for sure.

The current project was so top secret he would only learn the details when everything was in place. All he knew was he’d been offered a fortune to work on the production. He wondered why they’d picked him, given all the talent in the business. He wouldn’t quibble. The money was nice, it was more than he’d dreamed of making, but that wasn’t the part that excited him. What really excited him was the crazy array of possibilities that now lay before him.

Speculating on what the secret plan for the show might be, he dreamed of Malibu, maybe filming a surf competition. Or perhaps there would be a crew of castaways on Fiji, mountaineers in Colorado. Or a rock group in Amsterdam. Yeah, that’d be awesome. Mickey Flick was known to work closely with some of the biggest names in the music business. His last hit had involved a world-class heavy metal star’s collaboration with a classical pianist, culminating in a triumphant performance in Carnegie Hall.

Zach couldn’t wait to see what was in store for him. And at the end of it all, he’d finally have the seed money to start living his dream.

The people in the café carried on, oblivious. Just for a second, Zach felt a twinge of frustration. He wanted to call somebody, tell somebody, share this amazing news. And the person he most wanted to share it with was the last one who wanted to hear.

Part Three