But when you want to say That there’s no other way, That’s the thing to never say... Never… never…" Inside
the recording booth, Danielle Taylor finishes the final chorus of “Never Say Never,” a new song she recently wrote. She looks through the booth’s glass panel toward where Jimmy Trask and his friend Luis, the sound engineer, sit at the control panel. Jimmy flashes Danielle a thumbs-up sign.
“I think you got it. For real,” Jimmy adds. “What is that, five songs already?" “They still have to be mixed and mastered,” Danielle says. “Still. You’re killing it.” Jimmy gives her a reassuring smile. “Thanks
again for letting us use your studio,” Danielle tells Luis. “It’s been really good for me to get in there again. It makes these songs feel… real." “That’s ‘cuz they are real now.” Luis stands from his seat at the board. “What are you guys aiming for? An EP? A full album?" Danielle and Jimmy exchange a look. “I
guess an album,” she says, a little thrown at how foreign the words sound coming out of her mouth. It’s been over a decade since she did this. “Yeah. I’m making an album.” Both men clap. Danielle turns to Jimmy. “I can’t thank you enough for pushing me. I couldn’t do this without you." He
holds up his palms. “I’m just here for support. This is all you, Dani.” He pulls out his phone and checks the time. “And I’m gonna keep supporting you, but I’ve gotta get going in a minute." “Hot date?” Luis says, elbowing him in the side. “Actually, sort of. Yeah.” Jimmy grins. “We’ll see." “Who’s the lucky lady?” Danielle asks. “I met her at the chili cookoff.” Jimmy picks up his keys from a nearby folding table. “You’ll hear more if it goes okay. Deal?" “Deal.” Danielle smiles at him. “Fingers crossed for you." “Have you met this guy?” Luis says. “Like he needs luck." Danielle laughs. “I have a kid with him — so believe me, I know." ----- The
enticing aromas of takeout Italian food fill Diane Bishop’s condominium. With the scents of garlic, tomato, and parsley dancing through the air, Diane sets the family-style containers of food on the round dining table. Her daughter is already seated in one of the chairs. “Thanks, Mom,” Samantha Fisher says. “This looks delicious." “Sorry,”
Diane says to their other guest as she takes a seat herself. “Sam has probably told you, but I’m not exactly a master chef." “Nah, this looks great,” Tempest Banks says. “Thanks for getting it." A broad smile crosses Samantha’s face. “I’m glad we can all do this. Look how far we’ve come in a year." “It’s great,” Diane agrees. She reaches for the open bottle of cabernet sauvignon on the table. “Now who wants wine?" Diane fills all three of their glasses. As Samantha heaps spaghetti and meatballs onto her plate, she says, “I dropped off the gift for baby Peter today." Diane pauses, the wine bottle hovering over her own glass. “Thanks for sparing me any face time with that harpy." “Y’all don’t get along?” Tempest asks. “My sister and me? Not even close.” Diane sighs. “I can’t believe Jason let her trap him with a kid." “You don’t really think she did that, do you?” Samantha says. “I think Uncle Jason loves her." “Jason thinks he loves her — because he hasn’t met the real Natalie yet." “I’m with your mom,” Tempest says as she reaches for the garlic bread. Diane serves herself some of the green salad. “Speaking of family… I met someone you know at the chili cookoff." Tempest freezes, her wine glass halfway to her lips. “What did that sneaky heffa do now?" “Just
introduced herself,” Diane says, casting a curious side glance toward Samantha. “I take it you aren’t thrilled to see her." “I left her house for a damn reason.” Tempest quickly takes a gulp of her wine. “Did she tell you she was coming?” Diane asks. “Have you spent any time with her?" Tempest stares across the table for a moment, then sets down her glass. “Pass the salad, would you?"  After
a stop at the post office in downtown King’s Bay, Molly Taylor finds herself moving toward Platz Street as if steered by some mystical hypnotic force. She knows this is not a wise idea, and yet she soon finds herself standing outside the Objection boutique, taking in the window displays. The
clothes featured on the mannequins are familiar, though Molly has not seen them in person since several iterations ago, before they actually went into production. And since then, she sees, the third ruffle has been returned to the pullover silk blouse, and the buttons on the slim black blazer have been changed to the textured bronze ones that she has always hated instead of the gunmetal ones Molly selected. Unable to resist, she passes through the doors into the store. It looks the same: calm, spartan in a way that she has always hoped would convey luxury and peace. As she moves through the well-spaced racks and tables, she notes other changes to various garments that she conceived or helped develop. Though several of them bother her, at least the store and brand are maintaining their identity: hip, upscale clothing at a manageable price. She
touches the price tag on a fall skirt, turns it over, and sees the number printed. She has to read it twice to process what she’s seeing. The skirt’s price is a good 30 percent higher than where Objection has traditionally priced similar items.
A wave of discomfort whooshes over Molly. “I was running some errands— it’s been so long since I was in here, I thought I’d stop by and see—“ She understands that, no matter how she explains this, her presence here is strange; she hates to admit it, but perhaps this is how it would’ve been at the office every day had the board not placed her on leave. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” Joanna asks. “No,
I’m just browsing.” Suddenly Molly feels completely out-of-place here, in this store full of items whose design she oversaw, in the brick-and-mortar manifestation of the company that her mentor, Camille Lemieux, entrusted to her nearly a decade ago. “Okay.”
Joanna clasps her hands together awkwardly, then blurts out, “We’re all rooting for you. It’s soon, isn’t it? The trial?" “Very
soon. Yeah. And thank you.” Molly casts a sweeping look over the rest of the store. There are two other customers and one other employee visible, which is about average for the dinner hour on a weekday, but the space now seems so cavernous and empty. “I
need to go pick up my boys,” Molly says. “Keep, um, keep up the good work.” Clutching her purse to her body, she quickly shuffles out of the store. Once
she is out on the sidewalk, she sucks in the ever-cooling autumn air. She never imagined that she would feel like a stranger at her own business. Then again, she never could have imagined that she would be days away from going on trial for the murder of her ex-fiancé, who killed her father, her brother, and several others. She really did think that when she told the police it was her, not her mother, who’d shot Philip, they’d quickly rule it an act of self-defense and move along. But now she faces being taken away from her sons and being cut out of her own company. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she tells herself as she starts down the sidewalk in the direction of her car. Now all she can do is pray that the trial goes according to plan and that this is all over soon.  Jimmy
waits in a booth at 322 Bar & Grill, the sleeves of his checked flannel shirt rolled halfway up his forearms and his hands resting on the tabletop. He gives the menu an occasional glance and only once checks the time on his phone; he isn’t especially concerned that his date won’t show up, even if it’s a few minutes after their planning meeting time. Sure enough, ten minutes after they agreed to meet, Kathleen Bundy appears in the restaurant’s doorway and looks around. Jimmy holds up an arm to signal her. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she says as Jimmy stands to greet her with a quick hug. “Traffic coming up from Tacoma was terrible." “It’s
no trouble at all,” Jimmy says, taking his seat again. “I was gonna order you a beer, but I didn’t want to get something you wouldn’t like." Kathleen slides into the booth opposite him. “That’s sweet of you. But I’m a simple gal. A beer sounds great, though." She
picks up the drink list, and Jimmy signals the waitress. After Jimmy orders an IPA and Kathleen chooses a pale ale, they refocus on one another. “Thanks for picking someplace casual,” she says. “Sometimes I feel like a bull in a china shop in those fancier places!" He chuckles. “I know the feeling. And thanks for coming to meet me." “It isn’t every day I meet a handsome stranger,” she says with a smile. “Same.
So you’ve gotta tell me — if you live all the way in Tacoma, what were you doing up here for that chili cookoff? You were just that sure you were gonna win?" “Not exactly. Though it was damn good, I’ve got to say." “It was." “No, my son was the host,” she explains. “How about you?" Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Travis is your son?" “Yeah. Well, it’s a long story." The waitress arrives with their beers, and they thank her before Kathleen continues: "I didn’t raise him — in fact, we’re just getting to know each other lately.” “You’re
gonna laugh,” Jimmy says, “but he used to date my daughter. They were high-school sweethearts.” He thinks better of mentioning his affair with Travis’s other mother on a first date, however. “But I know a bunch of that long story, so you don’t have to worry about making sense of it all." Kathleen lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. Because it’s a little complicated." They share a good laugh. “Elly’s your girl, then? Travis has told me about her." “Yep.
I didn’t raise her, either. Her mom gave her up for adoption — best thing we could’ve done at the time. We were both musicians and kinda… living the wild life. But we all kinda came back together in the last few years, and that girl— she’s really something. She’s kicking ass in law school now." “That’s
so nice,” Kathleen says. “I wasn’t ready to be a mom at all, but it’s pretty great that Travis has kinda let me in lately. Tim and Claire did a really great job raising him, way better than I would’ve done." Jimmy
shifts uncomfortably at the mention of Claire, though he isn’t sure why; it isn’t as if his past relationship with her has any real bearing on his intentions toward Kathleen. Eager to move the conversation along, though, he picks up his beer. “There’s something about this town,” he says, “that makes everything a little more complicated. You noticed that yet?" “I haven’t spent much time here, but I’m getting that idea." “Here’s to being uncomplicated." “I’ll drink to that.” Kathleen throws him a free-spirited grin as they clink glasses. ----- After
the three women have finished eating, Tempest excuses herself to go to the restroom. Diane leans over the table toward Samantha. “What’s going on with Tempest and her mother?” she whispers.
“Except that isn’t really up to her,” Diane says. “And she thinks she’s gonna fix whatever happened by stalking and badgering her kid?" Samantha
shoots a cautious glance toward the hallway to make sure Tempest hasn’t returned. “That’s how it seems. Tempest isn’t happy at all." “Yeah, I could tell. I half-expected her to fire lasers out of her eyes right at me." “She just thinks that ignoring it will make Yvette go away." The sound of the toilet flushing causes Samantha to jump back in her seat. “That isn’t how you get rid of someone,” Diane says. “Believe me, I know." From the bathroom, they hear the water of the sink running. “What are you thinking?” Samantha asks nervously. Diane reaches for her wine. “Nothing you need to worry about." The
sink shuts off, and the bathroom door opens. By the time Tempest returns to the table, Diane has smoothly changed the subject back to Molly’s upcoming trial. END OF EPISODE 841 Will Yvette meet her match in Diane? Will Molly’s trial go the way she hopes? Can Danielle forge a new beginning for herself? Talk about it all in the Footprints Forum!
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