What Never Happened, page 35
The story though is priceless
No time passes when he texts back, Fuck a story
Stories ain’t worth shit
Stupid rabbit.
How many people died on Avalon, all for a story?
As a journalist, I should be explaining the schemes between the McIntyres and Nilsens to buy up the island—and do it by killing, if needed. But for now, I’m in possession of Noah’s hidden camera and holding it over the heads of both families—and the Swensons. They think I’m gonna keep it to myself, that I won’t share with the world just how they’ve rotted Avalon. They are the invasive species, far worse than a throwaway tangerine seed. But I never agreed to not talk. I am Reginald Weber’s daughter. I am Gwyneth Rose’s niece. They will go to jail. Flynn (who survived), Helen, and anyone else involved.
Carson McIntyre Junior spotted me at his arraignment and made great effort to send spit in my direction. Bail revoked.
He’d been caught by Santos not just because his prints matched the print on my cheek, but because Santos caught him using a key to enter my house. He’d planned to vandalize, just as he had been doing all that time. Squirting toothpaste, spilling coffee grounds, and throwing flour and beer bottles. That was his cigarette butt that I’d found in the dirt.
After Maddy’s private memorial—I wasn’t invited, but I hadn’t planned to attend the funeral of a serial killer—and after checking up on Noah recovering in the hospital in Torrance, I drove my aunt’s cart up to Middle Terrace and sat in front of that vacation rental that changed my life. I tried to cry, but by then, I was too exhausted to find a tear to shed.
Tucked between Los Angeles and San Francisco (and 206 miles from Catalina Island), Paso Robles is known for its almond orchards, hot sulfur springs, and more than forty wine grape varieties, from Cabernet Sauvignon to Viognier. With more than two hundred wineries, Paso Robles could offer an old man a new start. And while none of the wineries are open for tastings, there is still grape cluster thinning to do, and leaf trimming and pest-control monitoring . . .
According to my attorney Ted, Harper Hemphill worked at a winery known for its Bordeaux and Rhône-style wines and for the boxcar and caboose next to its tasting room.
And now, I’m here.
A friendly-faced man wearing a floppy straw hat meets me in the winery’s dirt driveway.
“We’re closed, ma’am,” he says, standing more than six feet away.
I remove my mask. “I’m here to see Harper.”
The man looks over to an old rickety shack with peeling white paint and fading green trim. “He expecting you?”
I take a deep breath, then push it out. “Don’t think so. Please tell him that Colette Weber is here to see him.”
The man shuffles over to the shack.
A gray cat hops onto a picnic table and runs its pink tongue along its paw. The wind rustles the lavender bushes, and I inhale deeply, hoping for on-the-spot organic aromatherapy. My pulse races and revs, and I can very well have a heart attack before speaking to Harper Hemphill.
Dr. Tamaguchi agrees—making amends is an important part of my therapy. Ted, always thinking like an attorney, thinks my visit can open me up to a lawsuit.
They are both right.
I close my eyes now and focus on slowing my heart rate. Back in LA, my hairdresser replaced old hair with new extensions, but she braided my cornrows too tight, and my scalp pulls with each deep breath.
“Coco?” The man wearing dusty jeans and a chambray shirt is stooped, and no longer six four and 210 pounds. He wears a green baseball cap over his brown head.
Tears swell in my eyes. “Harper?”
“What you doing here?” He offers me a cold bottle of water.
I accept the gift, not ready yet to offer him mine—a check to help him start his new life and a fresh-baked lemon pound cake, Gwen’s recipe. Instead, I square my shoulders, and say, “We have a lot to talk about.”
Colette Sienna Weber
[DRAFT]
Colette Sienna Weber of Los Angeles, California, left this world on [insert date]. She loved her family hard and missed them even harder after their deaths on June 23, 2001. [Mention Aunt Gwen—come up with something positive since I can’t right now.] She remained in Avalon, California, for [insert #] years, inheriting a house filled with silk robes and jeweled baubles, dusty throw pillows, and a phallic-shaped cactus she named Rambo. Almost everything in that house on Beacon Street (including the cactus) was stolen property.
Preowned, Colette liked to say.
Unauthorized recycled and reused, she’d say on her chattier days.
She served as editor in chief of Avalon Breeze for [insert #] [months/years], an unexpected twist in a life filled with unexpected twists. Over the course of her leadership, she [list my accomplishments]. A Grimmy Award–winning obituary writer, Colette wrote the final words for the extraordinary people and the everyday citizens—CEOs, mistresses to billionaires, small-heist queens, and old ladies who simply wanted to live their lives on Paradise.
On [date], she met the love of her life, [name]. He worshipped Colette and ensured that in her final days she [insert something fun]. She married [name] for his [insert good traits] and insisted that he [do this thing—he’ll be interesting, so it won’t be too hard to come up with something]. Together, they sailed to the Galápagos Islands, skied in the French and Swiss Alps (okay, he skied, and she sat by a fire with glasses of the finest bubbly waters and a book), and sunbathed on countless beaches. She found peace and love with [name].
Colette was born on April 25, 1985, to Reginald and Alyson Weber, fire and ice, sea salt and smoky paprika. She was big sister to Langston “L Boogie” Weber, the star wide receiver for the Crenshaw Cougars, two-time science fair winner, and the best brother in the world. They were taken from her too soon.
The Webers are now together again . . . except for Gwen. They are no longer interested in sharing a mansion in the Kingdom with Gwen.
Colette is survived by [who’s left??].
Visitation will take place on [date and time] at [place] with the funeral and burial at [place and location].
To Colette’s chagrin, there are still only [insert #] Black people living full-time on Santa Catalina Island.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am writing these acknowledgments on the Monday after Thanksgiving 2022. On Sunday evening, I said goodbye to my writing partner of fourteen years. Lucky, our family’s golden retriever, gave so much love to David, Maya, and me. She served as a sister and another daughter, as the household Kong-catcher and prime peanut butter lover. She nudged me awake every morning at four thirty. After taking her out to pee and feeding her (and as she got older, also giving her estrogen and painkillers), I’d settle at my writing desk and she’d settle at my feet, and together, we’d write stories. Except for my first book, Lucky has helped me complete every story I’ve written since 2008. This morning, Lucky isn’t snoring at my feet, and my heart is broken. Thank you, Lucky Hall, for being my ride-and-die at zero dark thirty every day. I love you, Ducky-Bucks.
Thank you, Jill, for always looking out for me. Your continued guidance and advice through these years . . . I couldn’t ask for a better agent and friend.
Jessica and Clarence, you both are incredible editors, and I appreciate your advice, guidance, and sharp eye. Thanks to all my team at Thomas & Mercer. My stories—and my writing life—are so rich and wonderful with you standing with me.
Thank you, Kaytee Canfield, PhD, for sharing your expertise on Catalina Island. Your dissertation, and then, our conversation and emails, helped provide the background I needed to fully realize this story on page.
Thank you, Letty, for that incredible golf-cart tour of Avalon. I couldn’t write fast enough to capture all your incredible stories and experience. Everything that I learned from you that afternoon can be found in these pages, and if I got something wrong, it was due to my own mangling of words.
To my writing friends, I love y’all for loving me. Keep writing great stories and coming up with new tricks. You know I love figuring out your tricks!
Thank you, readers, for supporting my work, for reaching out with positivity and excitement. I have the opportunity to share my stories because of you!
To my parents, Nate and Jackie, and siblings, Terry, Gretchen, and Jason, you will always be inspiration for every story I write. You will forever be my perfectly imperfect family.
Maya Grace, my love for you is boundless and you, too, are not here as I write. I’m glad that you’re thriving in your first year of college—I miss you, though. You still serve as my muse and my delight, and now that you’re experiencing another part of life, I will sap you of all your experiences as a college student in post-COVID America.
David, what can I say? No engagement ring commercials show the life after the “I do’s.” We’ve experienced so many highs, and right now, we’re in the valley of loss. I’m glad that we’re battling together, side by side, co-op playing this video game called Life. I love you, and I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, for Meatz, for GusGus and Major, and for our golden girl, Lucky. Can’t wait to live the Royal Caribbean, dancing on white sand, watching food being flambéed-part of our empty nest experience.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2019 Andre Ellis
Rachel Howzell Hall is the New York Times bestselling author of We Lie Here; These Toxic Things; And Now She’s Gone; and They All Fall Down; and, with James Patterson, The Good Sister, which was included in Patterson’s collection The Family Lawyer. A Los Angeles Times Book Prize finalist as well as an Anthony, International Thriller Writers, and Lefty Award nominee, Rachel is also the author of Land of Shadows, Skies of Ash, Trail of Echoes, and City of Saviors in the Detective Elouise Norton series. A past member of the board of directors for Mystery Writers of America, Rachel has been a featured writer on NPR’s acclaimed Crime in the City series and the National Endowment for the Arts weekly podcast; she has also served as a mentor in Pitch Wars and the Association of Writers & Writing Programs. Rachel lives in Los Angeles with her husband and daughter. For more information, visit www.rachelhowzell.com.
Howzell Hall, Rachel, What Never Happened
