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go-to
person, the one he could call or text at all hours, the one who knew his history
and didn’t judge him for it, the one who loved hearing his good news.
Correction—she used to love it. Now she didn’t even pick up the phone.
    Inside the church, he ran into the pastor, a paunchy, sober man
who took great pleasure in marrying starry-eyed couples in his storybook-cute
church.
    “Hey, Reverend Munson,” he said. “I’ll be out of your way
shortly. Just needed to make a plan for Saturday’s ceremony.”
    “Take all the time you need, Zachary. I know how important the
video is to the bride.”
    “Yep,” he said. “You’re right about that.”
    “Jenna’s back from her mission trip to Korea,” said Reverend
Munson, referring to his youngest daughter. “I imagine she’s going to want to
tell you all about it. She always did like you, and she took a lot of video
footage over there. I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”
    She’d already been in touch, Zach reflected. It was awkward as
hell making small talk with the reverend, who was clearly unaware that not so
long ago, Zach had spent a few pleasant hours sipping Zima from his daughter’s
navel. And doing some other things as well.
    “I think I’ve got everything I need,” Zach said with hearty
decisiveness. “See you on Saturday, sir.”
    “I’ll be camera ready.” Reverend Munson playfully framed his
face with his hands. His clean pale hands, the ring finger encircled with a band
of gold. For some reason, Zach started feeling guilty.
    What the hell, he thought as he left the sanctuary. He’d been
working as a videographer and editor for Wendela’s Wedding Wonders since
college. Nothing wrong with the gig except that he was forced to work crazy
hours, endure bridezillas and their maniac moms, and he hadn’t seen a Saturday
night since he’d become old enough to drink.
    And what Zach wanted, what he longed to do, was tell stories.
Not his own. God, no. Other people’s stories. He’d been doing it ever since he
was old enough to hold a camera. He had a knack for capturing a subject’s
emotions on film, finding their hidden vulnerabilities, peeling away the layers
to reveal truths that were often raw, but beautiful. He wanted to go out into
the world and find those stories. He ought to get out of Avalon before he got
stuck here forever.
    But that took dough, lots of it. For a long time, it had seemed
like an impossible dream as he dug himself out of student loans, made regular
payments to the town of Avalon in an attempt to make up for what his father had
stolen and gambled away, and simply went about the business of living. There was
no law requiring him to make restitution for the damage his father had done, but
the night with Sonnet had reminded him that this was not a dress rehearsal.
    In order to move ahead in the field, he needed to go where the
work was. L.A. or New York. He’d been sending out his portfolio for the past
couple of years. So far he’d won loads of admiration and a prestigious award or
two, but no offers of paying work.
    Pissed at his thoughts for circling around to Sonnet again, he
scrolled through his contacts, the digital equivalent of a little black book,
and without much thought, hit on one. Shakti. She always picked up.
    “Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.
    “Waiting for you to call.” She gave a soft, ego-stroking
purr.
    “I’ll be right over.”
    * * *
    Later that night, Zach went to the Hilltop Tavern, an
Avalon watering hole favored by locals. Two of his buddies were there—Eddie
Haven, a talented singer and songwriter who had settled in town to hide from his
past as a troubled child star, and Bo Crutcher, a pitcher for the Yankees who
used to play bass in Eddie’s band, and kept a vacation cabin on the lake. Zach
had filmed both guys’ wedding videos, and they’d become friends along the
way.
    “I got girl trouble,” he said, sliding into the booth with
them.
    “My favorite kind,” Bo said, filling