“DON’T YOU DARE!” Flo yells from the back, then disappears from the order window.
I look to the Mafia to interpret what just happened, but they just shrug. Thirty seconds later, Flo marches out of the kitchen holding a file. She slaps it on the counter in front of me, then opens to a page inside.
“Frankie’s emergency contact.” She points aggressively to a phone number next to the name Archibald Forsythe. “Call him, find out where Frankie is. Don’t call her, and for the love of all that’s pink and holy, DO NOT TEXT HER! You go to her, Cal.”
Suddenly, she grabs me by my collar and yanks me close enough I can see where she’s penciled in her lips. “Go. To. Her.”
After emphasizing each word, she lets me go, then smooths the wrinkles she’s created in my shirt, smiles, and pats my chest. Hardly a breath passes before her brow furrows. “What are you waiting for? Get out of here!”
The Mafia echoes her orders, and I grab the sheet with Archie’s name, pause long enough to kiss Flo on the cheek, then run after Frankie.
Chapter 30
Cal
Running after Frankie is a lot easier in theory than in reality. I realize this as soon as I rev up my truck. I’ve got a job and I’ve got a kid to get covered before I run anywhere. And Frankie’s got a brother who, if he feels anything like I do about my sister, won’t be interested in taking calls from the guy who told her she was too complicated.
On my way to the clinic, I call Archie. I don’t have any other options, even if Protective Brother is the worst kind of gatekeeper. Nobody’s slipping past them.
He doesn’t answer.
After I convince the doc I bought my practice from to cover any calls for the next few days and leave a note on the door for walk-ins to try the other vet in town, I call Archie again.
Still no answer.
I call multiple times on my way back to the ranch to pick up an overnight pack, because by this point, there’s no way I’m making it to LA and back in a day, unless things go very, very badly with Frankie. Assuming Archie ever answers his phoneand actually tells me where I can find Frankie. Which seems less and less likely every time I get Archie’s voicemail.
Mom’s not at the house, so once I have my bag, I call her.
She picks up on the first ring. “I hope you’re on your way to L.A., son,” she answers without a hello.
“Not yet, Ma. Thought I’d make sure you were okay handling Junie for a day or two.”
“Don’t waste your time asking silly questions,” she says sharply over the music playing in the background signaling she’s at the grove with the crew. “Dad and I have already planned for Junie. Cassidy’s on her way. You just get on the road and win Frankie back.”
“I’m going,” I tell her, more grateful than usual for an interfering family, but still not sure where I’m going. “I don’t know where to find her, Ma. L.A. is a big city.”
“Flo said she gave you her brother’s number,” she says before giving some instructions in Spanish.
I wait for her to finish talking to whoever’s with her. “He’s not answering.”
“Hmmm. I’ll see what I can do. You just drive.” She ends the call without a goodbye before I can thank her.
But when Mom wants info, she’s like James Bond on steroids. Or Tom Cruise doing his own “Mission Impossible” stunts, if those stunts involved plying someone for information with delicious sandwiches. Or even just a long, uncomfortable stare down.
I do what she says and drive, with no idea where I’m going beyond south to LA.
I try calling Archie a few more times on the drive, if for no other reason than to feel like I’m doing something during the hours I spend driving past green groves of avocado trees and winding grape vines. Their straight rows providing structure and familiar patterns on a day filled withuncertainty.
On a rise near Santa Barabara, the fields give way to the coastline, and the view opens to the Pacific below me. White waves lap the shore with a consistent ferocity that urges me to pick up speed. I’m nearly to Frankie’s world, and the closer I get, the quicker I want to be there. I can’t erase what I’ve said or our time apart, but I can make sure nothing separates us again. Including distance.
But then I encounter the one thing impossible to avoid in LA: traffic.
It’s four o’clock on a Friday, and traffic is at a standstill from Ventura to…I don’t actually know yet. Archie hasn’t answered my calls or replied to my voicemails. Mom’s gone dark—I haven’t heard a word from her. I’m desperate enough that I’ve almost tried calling Frankie directly, but I’m afraid if I do, the next time I’m at Flamingo’s, Aunt Flo will do something even worse to my eggs than fry them.
That’s when Cassidy calls. If she hadn’t told me already that I’d made a huge mistake, I’d be afraid she might be calling to stop me. But after sending up a quick hail Mary, I answer and put her on speaker.
“Go to Frothed in the South Bay. Dex’s wife, Britta, owns it. You might be able to find information about Frankie from her,” she says, sounding a bit out of breath.
