Page 1 of Something That Could Last

ChapterOne

ARDEN

“Are you having fun yet?” my friend Harlow James asks, her voice brimming with excitement.

As I gaze at the beach in front of me, the volleyball courts already claimed by people playing in two-person teams, and the surf crashing against the shore, I have to admit I am having fun. Too bad I can’t articulate it as enthusiastically as I want to without looking foolish.

“Can’t you tell? I’ve been pinching myself since Erik gave me the keys to the place before they left town.” Erik Maystrom is Harlow’s friend, a fellow doctor who lives right on the Strand, a 20-mile bike path from Will Rogers State Beach in the north to Redondo Beach in the south. “It’s been twenty years since I’ve been back, but here I am.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” Harlow and I used to be neighbors when we lived in New York before she moved to Taos, New Mexico, after her divorce. “Your only assignment for the week is to have fun, okay? Erik assured me you’ve got everything you need, and the neighbors know you’re staying there.”

I set my coffee on the patio table and sit down. “Speaking of neighbors, I swear the house next door has to be where I babysat this kid for one summer before I went away for college. It looks nothing like I remember but the address matches.”

“Wouldn’t it be a trip if it’s still them?”

“They’ve probably long moved on. From what I saw driving here last night, a lot has changed in twenty years,” I say. “Hey, you didn’t tell me Erik and Sam have a separate studio apartment on one side of the house with its view of the beach.”

“That’s where Sam used to paint, but she got tired of people looking at what she was working on, so they turned it into a studio apartment for guests,” Harlow says. “You’re going to have a lot of fun, Arden.”

“Oh, I know I will.” Even though I’m staying in the studio apartment, I have full use of the house, including its amazing kitchen, private theater, and a patio overlooking the Strand. Right now, people are walking, jogging, rollerblading, or riding their bikes, a scene replicated in a vast hyperrealistic painting in the living room.

“You could even get in a few volleyball games,” Harlow says.

“And hopefully not make a fool of myself.”

She scoffs. “Don’t shortchange yourself, Arden. You could beat every single one of them if you wanted to. Beach volleyball isn’t any different from indoor, and you know it.”

I chuckle. “Try chasing a ball on the sand one of these days. But don’t worry. I’ll try to get a few games here and there.”

“The twins want to know when you’re coming back.”

“On my way home.” I smile as memories of my stay at the Pearl, the name they’ve given their home, return to me. The sunrise and sunsets, the millions of stars in the night sky. The clean air. And then there are the twins. Being around children makes one realize that maybe you were too hasty to tell yourself you didn’t want any.

“You have a lovely family and a beautiful home, Harlow.” She and her husband, Dax Drexel, a world-famous furniture maker, live with their twins in a sustainable home outside of Taos, New Mexico. With a foundation that includes old tires rammed with dirt and lower halves of colorful glass bottles taped together and then arranged in graceful designs on dividing walls to filter in the light, it’s surprisingly cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

I stayed with them for a month, taking pictures and documenting their lives “off the grid,” as they say, along with their friends who live nearby, fellow residents who traded the big city for the high desert.

How I went from covering conflicts and humanitarian crises worldwide to documenting the lives of ordinary Americans off the grid is a story for another day, but I’m not complaining. Sure, I miss the adrenaline rush that came with every feature assignment, but after the last one landed me in a makeshift hospital with a bloodied arm that now trembles whenever I hold my camera, I’m afraid my days of documenting such things are over.

Well, kinda over.

I still haven’t told my producer that I’m leaving the field. All he knows is that I’ve taken time off to deal with my divorce, an inevitable consequence that comes with the territory. How foolish to think Barry and I would be the exception… until we weren’t.

But until I make the announcement, all it’ll take is one text message informing me of the next assignment, and I’ll be on the next plane. After all, I’ve been carrying my gear since I left New York three months ago.

Suddenly one of the kids bellows in the background, and Harlow groans. “That would be the twins fighting over the same superhero toy again,” she says. “I have to go.”

I chuckle. “Go, woman, and be the awesome mom that you are. I’ll talk to you later.”

As I hang up, I take a deep breath, the clean desert air I’d breathed in for the last month now replaced by the cool salty ocean air and sunscreen.

Growing up, Hermosa Beach was my old stomping ground, especially during the summers when it was too hot to stay inland. My friends and I would ride our bikes to the beach and play volleyball from sunrise to sundown, peruse the shops along the main strip or sit on the low cement wall that divided the Strand from the beach and people-watch. One summer, I heard of a family looking for a nanny, and I jumped at the chance. I lived on the Strand for two months and loved every minute.

I spend the morning sunbathing while listening to the surf and eavesdropping on the people around me. It feels strange not to be on assignment, but at least I’m working on a proper tan.

Two hours later, I’m returning to the house when someone calls out my name.

“Arden, is that you?”

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