Gem Bellows's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Gem Bellows had sold out stadiums, graced magazine covers, and heard thousands of people scream her name. But tonight, she was elbow-deep in greasy dishwater, scrubbing the bottom of a cast-iron pot that looked like it hadn't been properly cleaned in twenty years. And strangely enough, she couldn't have been happier. The little cookhouse sat along the muddy banks of a swamp village, where the air was thick with humidity and the smell of fried fish never quite disappeared. Locals came and went in muddy boots, gossip traveled faster than the fishing boats, and nobody seemed particularly interested in anything happening beyond the marsh. It was perfect. Gem kept her wide-brimmed hat pulled low, her long hair tucked beneath it, and her dark glasses on, even indoors. She knew she looked ridiculous. Who wore sunglasses while washing dishes at night? But ridiculous was better than recognizable. To the rest of the world, she was Kiki Blu, the chart-topping pop star famous for her electric-blue hair, extravagant performances, and larger-than-life personality. Here, she was just Gem. Well, mostly. There was one person in particular she hoped would notice her. River Pell. He was a fisherman who came into the cookhouse almost every evening, usually smelling faintly of lake water, woodsmoke, and whatever he'd been hauling in that day. He rarely spoke more than necessary, always ordered the same stew, and never stayed longer than it took to finish his meal. He was rugged, broad-shouldered, and undeniably handsome in a way that made Gem feel like a ridiculous schoolgirl. And the best part? He had absolutely no idea who she was. No asking for pictures, no awkward compliments about her music, no pretending to know her. In fact, River barely acknowledged her existence. For some reason, that only made her want his attention more. "You're going to scrub a hole straight through that pot." Gem startled at the voice beside her. Fern Flockwood stood with one hand on her hip and the other holding a damp kitchen towel. Her copper braid hung over one shoulder, and her soot-stained apron looked no cleaner than the dishes. "Sorry." Gem dropped the sponge into the water. Fern followed her gaze toward the dining room. "Looking for your fisherman?" Gem rolled her eyes. "He's not my fisherman." "Mmhmm." Fern smirked. "Funny how you manage to know exactly when he comes in every night." "I know when everyone comes in." "Oh, really? What time does old Mr. Brindle come in?" Gem opened her mouth. Nothing. Fern laughed. "That's what I thought." Gem splashed a little water in her direction before turning back to the dishes. It was nice having someone tease her without worrying about whether it would end up on the internet. But Fern's smile faded as she glanced over Gem's shoulder. "Speaking of people watching," she whispered, leaning closer, "you might want to keep an eye on that woman at the bar." Gem didn't need to turn around. She already knew. Calla Grenn. She'd been sitting at the far end of the bar for nearly an hour, sipping the same martini and watching Gem with unsettling interest. Calla was pretty in a sharp, deliberate sort of way. Her dark hair was twisted into a messy bun, her clothes were noticeably cleaner than those of most of the regulars, and her mossy-blue eyes seemed to catch everything. Especially Gem. She didn't quite fit in with the fishermen, trappers, and swamp locals. Even the way she held her glass seemed too elegant for a place that served most of its drinks in chipped mugs. "She's been asking about you," Fern whispered. Gem froze. "What do you mean, asking?" "Where you came from. How long you've been here. Whether you've got family nearby." "What did you tell her?" "That you washed dishes, minded your business, and came from nowhere interesting." "Fern." "What?" Fern shrugged. "I figured if you wanted people knowing your business, you'd tell 'em yourself." Gem softened. "Thank you." "Don't thank me yet. She's a curious one, that Calla." Across the room, Calla lifted her martini glass, but her eyes stayed fixed on Gem. Gem knew that look. She'd seen it in airports, hotel lobbies, restaurants, and grocery stores. It was the look people got when they were trying to match the person in front of them to someone they'd seen on a screen. The slow narrowing of the eyes. The slight tilt of the head. The sudden, terrible moment of recognition. Please don't. Gem turned quickly toward the sink, knocking a spoon onto the floor. The sharp clatter cut through the cookhouse. When she glanced back, Calla was still watching. Only now, she was smiling. "Wonderful," Gem muttered. Calla placed her glass on the bar and slid off her stool. With an almost casual determination, she started toward the dish station. Gem's stomach tightened. She couldn't just run. That would be suspicious. She couldn't hide in the kitchen forever, either. Fortunately, the front door swung open before Calla could reach her. River Pell ducked beneath the low wooden frame, bringing in a gust of damp evening air. He wore his usual weathered jacket, his beard slightly wet, his heavy boots leaving muddy prints on the floorboards. He gave the room a brief glance, nodded toward the cook, and settled into his usual seat near the window. Gem's heart did its nightly stupid little leap. An idea struck. "I'll take his stew," she announced. Fern raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you serve tables?" "Since now." Fern looked from Gem to River, then toward Calla, who was still approaching. A knowing grin spread across her face. "Well, look at you. Suddenly full of initiative." "Just give me the bowl." "Careful. It's hot, sweetheart." Gem took the stew, straightened her apron, and stepped into the dining room. She passed Calla close enough that the woman was forced to move aside. "Excuse me," Gem said sweetly. Calla said nothing. Gem could feel those blue eyes following her all the way to River's table. "Here you go." River glanced up as she set the bowl in front of him. "Thanks." His voice was low and a little rough, like he didn't use it often. For a moment, Gem lingered. She had spent weeks imagining a hundred different conversations with him. Clever introductions. Charming jokes. Something witty enough to make him actually look at her. Now that she was standing there, she couldn't think of a single thing to say. She pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head. "You know," she began, "you come in here practically every night, and I don't think I've ever caught your name." River looked up from his stew. His brown eyes settled on her face. For one terrifying second, Gem wondered whether he'd recognize her. But there was nothing. No surprise. No sudden realization. Just a tired man looking at the girl who'd brought him dinner. "River," he answered. Gem blinked. "River?" He nodded. "Your name is actually River?" The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "Sure is." Gem couldn't help it. She giggled. Of course his name was River. Of all the things a beautifully rugged fisherman living in a swamp could be named, it had to be River. "Sorry," she said quickly. "It's just very fitting." He leaned back a little. "Fitting?" "Well, you know. You're a fisherman. You live in a swamp. You're named River." She smiled. "It's almost too perfect." River gave a quiet chuckle. It was the first time she'd heard him laugh. "You always make fun of people's names, or am I special?" Gem's cheeks warmed. "Oh, you're definitely special." Oh, God. Had she actually just said that? River raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "I mean—" She laughed nervously. "I just meant it's a good name." "Well, thank you." He took another spoonful of stew. Gem was about to retreat when he spoke again. "And yours?" She stopped. "Mine?" "Your name." For someone who could sing in front of eighty thousand people without missing a note, she was doing an astonishingly poor job of having a normal conversation. "Gem," she said. He considered it for a moment. "Gem," he repeated. Something about hearing him say it made her stomach flutter. "That's a pretty name." She smiled before she could stop herself. "Thanks." He nodded and went back to his food. That was it. No dramatic moment. No instant romance. No invitation to sit with him. Just a compliment, a small smile, and a man who clearly valued his dinner more than conversation. Still, Gem practically floated away from the table. He thinks my name is pretty. It was ridiculous how happy that made her. She'd received flowers from famous actors, expensive gifts from producers, and love letters from complete strangers. None of those things had made her feel quite like this. For once, a man had complimented something about her without knowing who Kiki Blu was. She was still smiling when she turned toward the bar. And nearly collided with Calla Grenn. The smile disappeared. Calla stood just a few feet away, her gaze fixed on Gem's face. Her uncovered face. The glasses. Gem reached up, but it was too late. Calla's eyes moved slowly over her features, as though confirming the final pieces of a puzzle. Then she smiled. "I knew it." Gem swallowed. "Knew what?" Instead of answering, Calla reached into the little pouch at her waist and pulled out a carefully folded magazine page. She smoothed it flat against the bar. Gem's stomach dropped. There she was. Bright lights. Flowing blue hair. Dramatic dark glasses. A glittering stage outfit that probably cost more than the entire cookhouse. Behind her, enormous purple neon letters spelled out the name: KIKI BLU It was a photograph from her last tour. The same tour she'd walked away from three months earlier. Calla tapped one perfectly manicured fingernail against the picture. "Funny," she said softly. "Don't you think?" Gem stared at the page. "I don't follow." "Come on, now." Calla leaned closer. The scent of expensive perfume cut through the familiar smell of fish and woodsmoke. "You're her." For a moment, the noise of the cookhouse seemed to fade. The crackling fire. The clinking dishes. The fishermen arguing over their boats. Gem could hear nothing but the blood rushing in her ears. She glanced toward River. He was still eating his stew, completely oblivious. Good. At least there was that. Gem forced a little laugh. "Kiki Blu?" She looked down at the magazine again, pretending to study it. "You think I look like Kiki Blu?" Calla's expression didn't change. Gem shrugged. "I wish. Have you seen the places that woman gets to travel?" "Have you?" Calla asked. Gem hesitated. It was only a fraction of a second, but Calla noticed. Of course she did. Gem recovered with another smile. "I mean, in magazines. Obviously." Calla tilted her head. "Obviously." An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Then Calla carefully folded the magazine page and slipped it back into her pouch. "Don't worry," she said quietly. "I won't tell." Gem studied her face. There was something almost playful in Calla's expression. Not friendly. Not cruel, exactly. Just pleased with herself. "Yet," Calla added. The single word landed like a stone in Gem's stomach. Yet? What was that supposed to mean? Money? A favor? A threat? Gem had dealt with plenty of people who wanted something from Kiki Blu. She'd just never expected to find one in the middle of a swamp. Still, she refused to give Calla the satisfaction of seeing her panic. Instead, she reached for the empty martini glass resting on the bar. "Well," Gem said brightly, "if you ever meet her, tell her I'm a big fan. Another round?" Calla didn't answer. She simply narrowed her eyes, pressed her lips together, and watched as Gem took the glass. "Coming right up," Gem added. She turned away before her smile could slip. Behind the bar, Gem busied herself preparing another drink, grateful that her hands had something to do. Who even drinks martinis in a swamp? There was something strange about Calla Grenn. Something too polished, too observant. Like she'd wandered into the wrong story and was simply waiting for everyone else to realize it. Gem glanced toward River. He'd finished most of his stew and was now looking out the window, where the last of the evening light reflected off the water. For a brief moment, he turned and caught her looking. He gave her a small nod. Gem smiled back. Just like that, the warmth returned. She wanted more evenings like this. More little conversations. More opportunities to make him laugh. She wanted to find out what he did when he wasn't fishing, whether he lived alone, and whether the quiet man with the kind brown eyes was as gentle as he seemed. Most of all, she wanted to know what it felt like to have someone fall in love with Gem Bellows. Not Kiki Blu. Just Gem. "Quite taken with him, aren't you?" Calla's voice startled her. Gem turned. Calla was standing on the other side of the bar again, watching her with that same knowing smile. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Of course you don't." Gem placed the fresh martini in front of her. "Here you go." Calla picked up the glass but didn't drink. Instead, she leaned forward just enough for only Gem to hear. "Would be a shame if he found out who you really were before you got the chance to tell him yourself." Gem felt her face go hot. Calla lifted her glass in a small, almost mocking toast. "Lovely little place you've found here, Gem." Then she walked back to her stool. Gem stood motionless behind the bar. Outside, frogs had begun their nightly chorus, and somewhere along the docks, a boat engine sputtered to life. Everything carried on as though nothing had happened. Fern called for someone to clear a table. Two fishermen erupted into laughter near the door. River asked for a piece of bread. And Calla Grenn sat quietly at the end of the bar, sipping her martini. Watching. Waiting. Gem took a breath and reached for the breadbasket. She wasn't going to let this woman scare her away. She had spent years being photographed, followed, adored, and judged. She had performed in front of crowds so enormous she couldn't see where they ended. Surely, she could handle one nosy woman in a swamp village. At least, she hoped she could. Please, Gem thought, stealing one last glance toward Calla. Please don't let Calla Grenn ruin this.