Page 91 of Hula Girl

37

Ava

That certainty that Ford and I aren’t over hasn’t faded, but I haven’t come up with any grand idea for how to act on it. The next few days go by as I put in long hours at the office. Between my normal case load and working with Manny on the succession plan for Randall, I’m swamped. Being busy helps to avoid thinking about Ford as much as possible. It’s only when I return to my generic home, as Ford called it, that I disconnect enough to let my mind wander to him.

He never did answer my text telling him I was proud of him for the way he handled his shares. I understand that he might need to take a step back. But it still hurts every time I look at my phone with the hope that he might have responded.

I’m on the verge of sleep when I hear the chime signaling an incoming text. Exhausted, I almost don’t bother to look. But hope springs eternal, as the saying goes, and I groggily grab my phone.

It’s from Ford.

I laugh in surprise when I see that he’s sent a photo, because that means he’s given in and gotten a smartphone.

I quickly click on the photo, and it comes into focus. He’s taken a selfie of himself holding the photograph of us that I had printed and mailed to him as soon as I returned from Maui. I had sent it to his mother’s music school because he doesn’t have an actual address. He must have only just now gotten it. In the picture he sent, he’s shirtless, his hair is wild, and his smile is wide. He looks like he just came from surfing. And he looks like he’s in his happy place, even if he does text:

Miss my hula girl. Thanks so much for sending the photo.

I’m smiling through tears. And also kicking myself over this being the only selfie we’ve taken together. How did that happen? How didn’t we think to take a photo of us when we were together here in LA? I should have at least gotten one of us at his father’s party when we’d accidentally dressed so perfectly to complement each other with him in his navy suit and me in that light-blue dress. And now there’s a very good chance that I’ll never see him in a suit again.

Not that seeing him in a bathing suit is a bad thing …

Sighing, I turn onto my belly and try to think of what I should reply. I miss him. I could tell him as much. But where would that get us? I’m still no closer to figuring out where we go from here.

I finally decide to keep it neutral.

You got a smart phone! Welcome to the present.

His reply comes back in mere seconds, almost as if he’s showing off his new phone’s capabilities:This is strictly my “In case of Ava emergency” phone.

His reply makes me laugh and I can’t stop myself from replying:

I’m glad to know I can still reach you.

I watch as the little bubbles appear, showing that he’s typing his reply. I bite my lip, anxious for his next text.

Always.

I take an involuntary, gulping breath when I read that. I want to believe him. I want to believe we have all the time in the world to figure this out. But I’m realistic enough to know that life—and love—doesn’t wait forever.

* * *

We keepup texting each other sporadically over the next couple of weeks, usually light banter about the Dodgers or surface-level updates on our days. I’ve let him know that I’m committed to being Randall’s advocate as he steps down, and he’s fully supportive. It’s nice to still feel some kind of connection with him, but that doesn’t stop me from aching for him each night as I go to bed alone.

Randall doesn’t want a lot of fuss for his retirement, and so when the time comes, it’s marked by a simple champagne toast in the main lobby of our office with all the staff gathered around. So that he doesn’t go off script, or forget the script entirely, Randall has written his speech on an index card.

I watch him give it with mixed feelings. I love him dearly and respect all that he’s accomplished, but I’m sad that it’s come down to a three by five inch piece of paper. Still, he is dignified and says all the right things as he hands off the managing partner duties to Manny.

As soon as he’s done, everyone raises their glass to him and shouts out their thanks and congratulations on all that he has accomplished. That part is nice. I can see tears in Randall’s eyes at this and know it’s not spurred by helplessness, but at having done something truly meaningful with his career. He has inspired a lot of lawyers, not the least of whom has been me. I’ve told him before what an incredible impact he’s had on my life and how grateful I am, but when I see an opportunity to steal him away from the group, I grab it.

Looping my arm through his, I steer him toward the wall of windows that showcases the Staples Center and LA Live entertainment complex. This area has become a much different place than it was when Randall first took a single suite four decades ago. It used to be on the edge of downtown Los Angeles with not a lot of hustle and bustle. Now, he has three floors in this high-rise, and the area is a huge attraction for locals and tourists alike. The times and environment may have changed, but Randall never has. He’s always been someone I can admire for the way he treats the law and his clients with respect and integrity.

“Randall, before everyone tries to get a word with you and I lose my chance,” I say, “I just want to thank you. Thank you for every—”

“Alice will be here to take me home soon,” he says, looking at his watch.

I’m thrown by the interruption but understand that I have to be flexible and let him express himself in whatever manner makes him comfortable. And obviously, his comfort level right now is not in listening to me blather on once more about what a great mentor he’s been.

I smile and decide to take a different tact. “Well, I’m sure—”

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