Page 14 of All Signs Point to Malibu

Shit. Now I haveactualdamage to fix.

Miraculously, my cell phone has escaped unharmed, so I pace the pool deck as I make a call. Two rings, then:

“Jensen Pools and Lawns.”

“Mr. Jensen! Hailey Harris.”

“Hailey! How are you?”

“I have a bit of a problem...” I barely have to say more before the most amazing man on the planet sets me up for a service call later that day. My ex’s father is the only male role model I’ve ever had. He’s a funny, thoughtful, wise man and the breakup with Liam was that much tougher because I was also losing him and his guidance. Luckily, through his business, we’ve found a way to stay in touch. But it’s not the same. I’m no longer family.

I disconnect the call as my neighbor, Amelia Cranshaw, approaches. We installed a gate in our shared fence for easier access between the yards. She has to be in her late seventies but doesn’t look older than sixty—the perks of being a former Hollywood starlet who always took self-care to the next level. She wears a beautiful kimono and carries a movie script and I know why she’s here.

“I overheard you on the phone just now, dear. How bad is it?” she asks as she looks at the pool.

“Hopefully an easily repairable crack.”

“Must have been that tremor earlier this week.”

That hadn’t even dawned on me as the cause, but it makes sense.

One small crack...

I nod toward the script. Best to get right to it. Amelia is lovely and her stories about Hollywood in the “good old days” are truly captivating, but if I’m not careful, my day will be gone before I realize it. We’ve been neighbors for six years and in a weird twist of fate, I’d say she’s my only real friend.

“New audition coming up?”

Amelia nods. “My agent sent me this adorable family drama, and I was thrilled...until she told me which role they wanted me to read for. Take a guess.”

“The mother?”

“Thegrandmother,” she says as though she’d prefer to play Jabba the Hutt in a new Star Wars spin-off. She catches sight of her reflection in my window. “Guess time really does sneak up, doesn’t it?” she says pensively, almost as though she’s forgotten I’m even here. “Anyway, dear, can you read my fortune?”

“I told you, Ms. Cranshaw, that’s not what I...” I stop. We’ve had this discussion a million times. Amelia believes I’m a palm reader after she caught me in action with a previous client at one of my VIP events and well, it’s better than trying to explain the truth. “Sure. Give me your hand.”

Amelia extends a thin, elegant hand, adorned in expensive jewelry. I take it and study her palm for effect. Then I press my lifeline to hers and the same inexplicable energy runs through me as I’m transported to some indeterminate time in the future...to Amelia’s house next door.

A beautiful but lonely home. Movie posters featuring a young Amelia are on the walls and Oscars line the shelves. Amelia stands in her living room, delivering a monologue from one of her black-and-white films.

On her old-fashioned writing desk is a stack of unsent Christmas and birthday cards addressed to “Aaron Cranshaw.” Her gaze lands on a picture of herself—middle-aged—with Aaron as a boy. She looks sad, regretful as the monologue comes to an end.

“Still haven’t reached out to your son?” I ask gently as I release her hand.

“I’m busy. He’s busy,” she says dismissively. She hates when I get personal, but it’s the only thing I see whenever I “tell her fortune.” I hate to think it’s because Amelia’s days in the spotlight are over. I’d write her a starring role and produce the movie myself before I’d ever disappoint her with news like that.

“What about the role, darlin’?” she asks, almost diva-like. To Amelia, I’m a personal spiritual advisor, neighbor, then friend-adjacent. She has no idea how much I typically charge for this service or how much I value knowing her. While the support and advice giving doesn’t flow both ways, I like to think she’d be there for me if I ever truly needed her.

“Definitely go for it,” I say.

“Won’t I be typecast as a grandma?” She looks worried that this role could prevent her from once again playing the leading love interest, and I genuinely hope she does get those parts again. But until then, “Two words—Betty. White.”

Amelia’s eyes widen with renewed hope. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. Now, go rehearse.”

Amelia hugs me gratefully—the only payment I need—and I cling on a second longer, needing this contact way more than she does.

“Hug’s over,” she says.

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