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Sonnet rolled her eyes. “I’m not even close to thinking about
that.”

“I’m just assuming you will be, one day.”

“Maybe.” Sonnet’s “one day” seemed as distant as a dream.
“Don’t save anything for me, Mom. Use whatever you like. I think it’s great that
you get to do that.”

“All right, then. I’ll make two stacks. Then we can— Oh,
Sonnet. Look.” She held up a doll-sized gown, with white-on-white embroidery,
the front covered in tiny pleats. Held to the light, the fabric seemed as wispy
as a cloud. “It’s your christening gown. You wore this at your baptism at St.
Mary’s. Oh, my gosh. What a day that was.” Her gaze softened as she studied the
delicate garment, her finger tracing a line of embroidery. Nina had been a
single mother, but one with a big, supportive family who probably all gathered
for the event.

“You were so young,” Sonnet said quietly. “Did you even
understand how your life would change?”

“Not a clue. What kid that age has a clue? I was that
cautionary tale, the girl they all pointed at and whispered about, you know?
‘That Romano girl’ became code for ‘town slut.’”

“Ah, Mom, that makes me hurt for you.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I was—and still am—blessed with an
incredible family who supported and loved me no matter what. And in the end, I
got to claim the ultimate reward—you.”

“Yes, but I hate what you had to go through.”

“I don’t remember hating it. Your father was a cadet at West
Point when we met at Avalon Meadows Country Club. Cadets were the ultimate
forbidden fruit, because they weren’t allowed to marry while they were at West
Point. There was nothing to hate, just a beautiful evening, a boy who…well,
without going into too much detail…”

“Thanks.” Sonnet braced herself.

“I want you to know, you weren’t a mistake, but a blessing. I’m
sure your father sees you the same way.”

“I’m not sure how he sees me,” Sonnet confessed.

“He’s a very responsible person. The only reason I didn’t let
him know I was pregnant with you was that he would have insisted on taking
responsibility for you, and that would have forced him to withdraw from the U.S.
Military Academy.”

“Did he ever object to the fact that he never got the chance to
choose for himself?”

“Yes, but ultimately, I think he was relieved that he didn’t
have to make a really difficult choice.”

Sonnet didn’t love the idea that she’d been anyone’s difficult
choice. She was grateful to her mother that Nina hadn’t hesitated to turn a
moment of hormone-driven madness into a lifetime commitment. That wasn’t the
right choice for every teen mom, but Sonnet was one of the lucky ones.

“So you waited to tell him until he finished West Point and got
his commission,” she said.

“Yes, and at that point, he sent child support like clockwork.
I don’t think his opponent in the campaign is going to be able to make much out
of this,” Nina said. Her dark eyes softened with memories. “I was still only a
kid myself. Nowadays, I’d be on an MTV series.”

“Thank God you weren’t.” Sonnet shuddered. Although grateful
her mom had always been completely open about her conception and birth, she was
also glad to safeguard her privacy. She prayed her dad’s campaign would not
breach that wall. Sonnet had been the result of a night of irresistible impulse
and raging hormones, and a decision that changed the course of Nina’s life. “You
gave up so much for me,” she added.

“I gained so much more from being your mom than I
sacrificed.”

“Aw, Mom. Thanks.” Sonnet gave her another hug. “And thanks for
never letting me feel like a mistake.”

Nina tightened her arms around Sonnet. “Let’s get one thing
straight, missy. You were never a mistake.”

Chapter Eight

Zach regarded the people at the meeting with horror.
“Are you
serious
?”

It probably wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to say about a
reality show concept that had been months in the making, but he couldn’t keep
his thoughts to himself.

C. Bomb slapped his hands on his knees and laughed. “We knew
you’d love it,” he said. “Don’t we all love it, people?”

Around the long table in the conference room at the Inn at
Willow Lake, heads nodded emphatically. It was just Zach’s luck that C. Bomb’s
headquarters turned out to be the inn belonging to Nina and Greg Bellamy. Nina
was beyond pissed at him for telling Sonnet about her cancer, though he knew
he’d do it all over again given the chance. A person deserved to know something
so basic and so serious about her mother. If Sonnet ever discovered that Zach
knew the truth and didn’t tell her, there would be hell to pay.

The producer of the reality series did not look as cool as his
name. He wore pleated khakis and a golf shirt, and he constantly had a Twizzler
half in and half out of his mouth, or held between his fingers like a cigar.
However, he ran the meeting like a precision machine, although he didn’t seem to
realize Zach’s comment wasn’t meant as a joke. He was sincerely appalled. The
title and concept of the show felt like twin nightmares to Zach.

He glanced around at the other personnel gathered at the
conference table, checking to see if anyone else was as appalled as he was.
Instead, everyone—from the art director to the field director to the location
manager to the story specialist—leaned forward, seeming to hang on C. Bomb’s
every word.

“
Big Girl, Small Town
. You gotta
love it, right?” C. Bomb exclaimed, beaming as if he’d just discovered a cure
for male pattern baldness. “It all takes place right here, in this little piece
of Americana called Avalon.”

And there you had it, Zach thought glumly. He was staying right
here in Avalon, like a migratory bird that had lost its way. When the production
company first got in touch with him, he’d imagined a move to New York or out to
L.A. to find his dream job. Instead, the job had come to him.

“And that’s not all,” the producer continued. “We’ve secured a
deal to film at another location nearby—a resort called Camp Kioga.” He clicked
on his computer keyboard, and a slide show started on the big screen of the
conference room. Appropriate gasps arose from the team.

“That’s stunning,” said the art director, a woman clad entirely
in black, with a pierced eyebrow and several visible tattoos. Murmurs of
agreement rippled around the table.

Zach didn’t need to look. Not only did he know Camp Kioga like
the back of his own hand; the photos in the brochure had been done by Daisy
Bellamy, the owners’ granddaughter. Besides that, he’d shot umpteen weddings
there.

He’d nailed Sonnet Romano in a boathouse there. That, maybe,
was his favorite memory of the place.

Still, that didn’t mean he was going to like working on this
crazy series. He’d been looking for something new and different. This was going
to be like one unending wedding, presumably one with an overweight bride who was
going to be shedding pounds week by week. Zach tried to picture himself trying
to document her angst-ridden journey, complete with late-night meltdowns,
tearful phone calls to the folks back home and overproduced hissy fits. He
gritted his teeth, suppressing a shudder.

“All right, C.,” said the director of photography. “Let’s hear
about the talent you’ve got lined up for the show.” The DP was a guy Zach had
actually heard of, Myron Wu, a big name in the world of reality shows. Zach had
been stoked about meeting him. He was still stoked, but…Christ. Avalon.
Willow-Freaking-Lake. How much worse could it get?

There was a knock at the door, and then it opened. Sonnet
Romano stepped into the room. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, brushing back an
indigo coil of hair. She handed a small computer storage drive to C. Bomb. “Here
are the images you requested.”

Zach felt his jaw practically hitting the table.
Sonnet
. What the hell was she doing here?

“People, I’d like you to meet Sonnet Romano,” C. Bomb said,
beaming at her like a proud papa. “She just joined the team this morning, and
thank God for that. We’ve been needing a casting and location coordinator, and
Sonnet just happens to have grown up right here at Willow Lake.”

Sonnet took them all in with a warm, professional
smile—everyone except Zach. When her gaze reached him, a subtle sheen of
defiance came over her eyes. He was pretty sure he was the only one who could
read her look; she’d always been clever about masking her moods.

Zach’s stomach twisted into a double knot. Fantastic.
Fan-effing-tastic. So not only was he stuck in Avalon for as long as the show
lasted—and Mickey Flick productions were known for being long-lived—he was also
going to be working with Sonnet Romano, of all people. If he’d thought things
were complicated before, they were suddenly even more so.

“So you were saying,” the DP prompted him. “About the talent…?
Who’s our big girl, Clyde?”

“Ah, the talent. That’s the best part.” The producer selected a
fresh Twizzler from a bowl on the table, then gestured at the screen. “Check it
out.”

He touched the keyboard, and a strong beat thudded from unseen
speakers. A video in grainy Super 8 format appeared on the screen, the first
image a black girl’s furious face, filling the screen. Zach recognized the piece
even before the words appeared on the screen: “Luv Made a Mess o’ Me” by
Jezebel, the latest hip-hop sensation on the national music scene.

The reason he recognized the piece—and the artist—was that she
was so damn mesmerizing, you couldn’t look away. From her first album, she’d
been a sensation. She’d burst onto the music scene a few years back, angry and
unapologetic, and unselfconsciously…large. Her lyrics were anthems of fury and
injustice, thumping like a sledgehammer.

Then came the seemingly inevitable battle with fame and
notoriety. Zach wasn’t quite sure what had happened to Jezebel, but he knew by
the end of the video, he’d find out.

“She’s good, eh?” asked C. Bomb.

“The best,” agreed the art director. “Whatever happened to
her?”

“That’s my favorite part. She was with this loser guy, a
second-rate hipster named Goose, who she claimed beat the crap out of her.
Defrauded her of her earnings, too.” C. Bomb advanced the image on the screen to
show an issue of the
New York Daily News
, its
headline screaming Hip-Hop Star Arrested for Battery, Destruction of Property,
Grand Theft Auto. Next came a video clip of her arrest. As fierce and defiant as
a combat soldier, she glared straight into the camera with her one good eye and
one swollen eye.

“So they’re fighting, her and this Goose character,” the
producer explained. “I’m thinking she gives as good as she gets.”

“Better,” murmured a woman named Cinda.

“Yeah, and she seems to hit him where he lives. She messed up
his two most prized possessions—his BMW Z4 and his Tibetan mastiff.”

“Oh, my God, she hurt a dog?”

“Nope. We couldn’t feature anyone who hurt a dog.” C. Bomb
showed another visual. “She spray-painted her favorite obscenity on his side, in
DayGlo orange paint.”

There were high fives and fist bumps around the table. “You’re
right,” someone said. “She’s awesome.”

The producer took them through the rest of the sordid story.
After doing time at Bedford Hills, Betty Lou Watkins—aka Jezebel—was released
under house arrest, on condition that she didn’t leave the state. An electronic
ankle-bracelet monitor ensured her cooperation.

“Holy cow,” said the DP, turning to high-five C. Bomb. “Nice
going. So you’re…what? Going to set her loose on the unsuspecting town of
Avalon?”

Zach glanced over at Sonnet. She sat statue-still, staring at
the final image on the screen, a shot of Jezebel looking as livid and defiant as
ever, leaving some courthouse or other and heading toward a shiny black
Hummer.

“Better than that,” said the producer. “We got a lot of tricks
up our sleeve.”

* * *

When the meeting broke up, everyone dispersed, laden
with assignments, which had been handed out with brisk efficiency by Sonnet
herself. She was already indispensable to the producer; Zach could see that. It
was one of her gifts, that knack she had for anticipating what needed to be done
and then doing it before she was even asked. It used to drive him crazy when
they were kids. In school, she’d be the one getting her homework done when the
rest of the class didn’t even see the assignment coming. Senior year, she’d been
voted the girl most likely to succeed, though he used to tease her, calling her
the girl most likely to annoy.

Overachieving had served her well—academically and career-wise,
at least. As the photography unit was getting organized to head for the train
station to shoot Jezebel’s arrival in town, Zach cornered Sonnet.

“Seriously?” he demanded. “Are you serious?”

She clutched her clipboard against her chest. It seemed she’d
been carrying a clipboard since the second grade. “I needed a job,” she stated
defensively.

“Aren’t you a little overqualified for this?” He thought about
her years at college and grad school, the internship overseas, the work at the
UN.

“It’s a way to be near my mom. That’s all that matters.” A
shadow flickered over her face.

And just like that, his annoyance vanished. She’d always had
that power over him, the power to move him, somehow reaching his heart and
touching it in a spot only she seemed to have access to.

“Let’s go,” someone on the team called. “Who knows the way to
the station?”

“I’ll show you.” Sonnet held Zach’s gaze for another moment,
then dashed away to the lead van. Zach followed in his work van with Perla
Galleti, his newly hired assistant. They’d only just met a couple of days ago
when she’d arrived from the city. Though she dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl,
she had the mouth of a dock worker and a degree from NYU’s Tisch Film School.
Now that he realized the show was going to be about a disgraced hip-hop star, he
understood why Perla had been assigned to him. Her resume contained a list of
music videos a mile long.

Not only that, she was a digital geek. He’d always considered
himself pretty good at multitasking, but she truly had a gift. At any given
moment, she could juggle up to three devices. She might be tweeting on her
iPhone while taking a call, at the same time scheduling something on her iPad
and uploading a video to the internet. He was in awe of her for that.

“What’s the scoop on Jezebel?” he asked, putting the van in
gear. “Ever worked with her before?”

“Yep, I assisted on a shoot for ‘Hell Hath No Fury’ a couple of
years back. It was an MTV video of the year.”

“What’s she like?”

“Oh, just you wait. You’re gonna love her.”

* * *

“Get the hell outta my way,” bellowed Betty Lou Watkins.
These days, the hip-hop icon went by one name only, a stage name summing up her
image. With the presence of visiting royalty, she brushed aside a guy in a black
sweatshirt who seemed to be with her security detail. Then she descended from
the train to the platform, planted her hands on her hips and scanned the area
with narrowed eyes. Thrusting on a pair of thick-framed sunglasses and tossing
back her mane of shining braids, she struck a powerful stance, projecting a
do-not-mess-with-me message. Despite the mismatched stack of amulets encircling
her arms, and the house-arrest bracelet unabashedly displayed on her ankle, she
had the look of a queen surveying her domain.

Sonnet had always admired black girls who were comfortable
being black. She wished it had been that simple for her, wished she could simply
look in the mirror and feel comfortable in her own skin. She remembered being
ten years old and wondering if she could use a magic marker to change the color
of her eyes from deep brown to blue. As a teenager, she’d spent the better part
of her allowance on smoothing and straightening products for her hair. And of
course, the only thing she looked like was a mixed race girl trying to look like
a white girl.

Now she tried to maintain a professional demeanor as she
watched the scene unfold. The camera crew—with Zach at the helm, stepping into
his role with a mastery she’d never seen from him before—surrounded Jezebel, who
seemed completely at ease with three high-tech lenses and several mikes aimed at
her. She’d been on a special called
Hip-Hop Horrors,
Sonnet recalled. All she could remember about the show was a lot of bleeped-out
dialogue and smashing of scenery.

“Where’s my ride?” Jezebel asked, heading for the stairway.

Zach moved smoothly along with her. Sonnet had always liked
watching him work before. She’d always known videography was more than simply
pointing a camera at someone and pressing the record button. Zach seemed to have
an innate understanding of the grace and subtlety it took to capture a
sequence.

Jezebel’s luggage was a collection of couture bags and what
appeared to be army surplus duffel bags and rucksacks. Sonnet watched with
fascination as the entourage moved en masse toward the parking area. Jezebel
stopped at the curb and looked around. “My ride?” she repeated with an imperious
tone.

A couple of the production workers traded glances, then
shrugged.

“Did anyone order a car?” asked one of the producers.

No one responded.

Jezebel gathered herself to her full, impressive height. “What
the f—”

“I’ve got this,” Sonnet said. “We can go in my van.” She was
driving one of the Inn at Willow Lake courtesy vehicles used for shuttling
guests around town. “Over here.” She gestured at Jezebel.