Dead End Road

by Lori Whitwam

  “Mo, I’ve been really busy writing.” David always belittled her aspirations. He never read any of her freelance magazine articles, and when she shared her plans to write mystery novels, he actually laughed. Since she was finally on her way to becoming successful, she felt she deserved the last laugh, but knew David wouldn’t be impressed even if she achieved an international bestseller.

  “Life’s not only about books and deadlines,” Monique said. “It’s like you’re hiding from us, and when you do come out, you’re getting harder and harder to recognize.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m still me. Or I thought I was.” She drew back and resisted an urge to march to the nearest mirror to see who looked back.

  “You are, hon, mostly. But I think you’ve been living with your characters for so long you forget the world isn’t only in your head or on the page. People are real, and life is real too.”

  Abby didn’t want to think about it, but she knew it was true. No, she didn’t ask an awful lot of her friends beyond the occasional phone call or evening out, but she supposed she didn’t offer very much to them, either. Not anymore.

  Not wanting to see grief or recrimination in her friend’s eyes, Abby refused to meet her gaze. She plucked a glittery gold handbag from the basket and played with the clasp. Oh, great. I’m either a stark raving bitch or an antisocial nutjob. I feel tons better.

  When had she stopped participating in her own life? Could it have been six years already?

  Abby returned the handbag to the basket with a sigh. “Damn. You’re right, Monique. I needed that. I think.” Plus, she needed to end this conversation. She was done dealing with all this Dr. Phil shit for one day.

  “Maybe, hon. Just think about it. Now, let’s go in back and I’ll show you what I found.” Monique gathered the mugs and put them under the counter.

  Abby knew whatever this miraculous article of clothing happened to be, it couldn’t change her life. Only she could make a change. But there was a chance it could cheer her up. “Lead the way.”

  They made their way through the maze of boxes in the storeroom, until they arrived at a battered work table on which rested a lone cardboard box.

  Monique’s gaze was positively dancing as she reached inside. “There was a lot of gauze and patchwork stuff in here, but the second I saw this, I knew I couldn’t possibly let anyone else have it.” She lifted a crocheted halter top and held it out for Abby’s inspection.

  Drawing a deep breath, Abby reached for it. “Oh, Monique, it’s gorgeous!”

  “It’s handmade, so there’s no label, but I’m pretty sure the string is a silk-cotton blend. The lining is probably polyester and acetate.”

  Abby ran her fingers over the intricate, lacy crochet work. The lining was white, and the body of the halter was done in a pattern of green leaves and vines on a snowy background. The entire garment was liberally sprinkled with tiny, perfectly formed crocheted violets. She loved it. She held it up in front of herself and looked at her friend.

  Monique squealed and held one hand to her chest. “I knew it! With your dark hair and fair skin, the white could wash you out, but the green does something for it. Plus it picks up the color in your eyes. I think it’ll be a perfect fit too.”

  “It seems like too much for a couple of concert tickets.”

  “Oh, hon, you don’t know the whole story. Cory’s decided he’s afraid of the dark, and Matt thinks he’s a brontosaurus. Both of them have discovered it’s very hard to get them out from behind the couch, and they say they’re too big for nap time. Sophie’s going to have her hands full, and these tickets are going to buy me at least two nights down in the Cities sitting in a Jacuzzi.” Her eyes sparkled at the prospect of toddler-free relaxation.

  Abby laughed. “Okay, then, we’ve got a deal.” She rummaged in her oversize purse for the tickets and handed them over.

  Monique tucked the tickets into the pocket of her skirt and gave it a pat. “So are you headed home?”

  “I think so. I was going to drop off some signed copies of Brightest Midnight for Paige at the bookstore, but I forgot she’s closed today. If I leave them with you, could you run them up there tomorrow?”

  “Sure. But if you’re heading home, make sure you take some lunch with you. I worry when you forget to eat.”

  “Mom stocked the minifridge in my office two days ago,” Abby said. “She told me diet root beer and Marlboros didn’t fit into any known food group, and I needed actual nutrition and fewer toxic chemicals.” She had to admit the white cheddar cheese was pretty tasty, though.

  Monique handed her a paper shopping bag for the halter top. Abby briefly considered changing out of her turquoise T-shirt in favor of her new acquisition. She decided against it and carefully placed her treasure in the bag. As they entered the front of the shop, she paused to admire a paisley silk blouse, and felt Monique touch her arm.

  “Don’t look now,” Monique whispered, “but there is an extremely gorgeous man…” She aimed a quick glance over Abby’s shoulder, “…wearing jeans and a gray t-shirt leaning on your Jeep and staring at the back of your head.”

  Abby dropped the sleeve of the blouse and sucked in her breath. Her stomach felt as if she’d swallowed a bucket full of hot rocks. “Oh, hell. What should I do? Can I sneak out through the storeroom?”

  “No. No more running. What did we just talk about?” asked Monique. “You’re going to go out there and see what he wants. After you introduce me, of course.”

  “No more hiding from the world. Right.” She could do it, couldn’t she? “But what if he wants to yell at me some more? Because if he yells, I’m either going to cry or smack him.” Her gaze darted around the shop, evaluating potential weapons.

  “Stop it. Let’s go.” Monique took a firm hold of Abby’s elbow and steered her in the direction of the door. Abby extricated her arm and wiped her damp palms on her jeans as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Seth looked directly at her as the door swung shut behind her with a muffled jingle, and she gathered as much of her composure as possible. “Um…hi. This is my friend Monique, and she’s going to get something out of the car and then go away. Right, Mo?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Hi, Seth.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Monique. Great jacket in the window.” Abby thought his response was deceptively mild-mannered. But she wished he’d take his hands out of his pockets so she could be sure he wasn’t clutching something sharp and potentially injury inducing.

  Monique glanced at the well-worn leather motorcycle jacket Seth had complimented. “I have more from the same shipment if you’d like to stop in and take a look.”

  “I might do that.” Abby noticed his eyes didn’t look remotely laser-like at the moment. Maybe she wasn’t about to be the victim of a guitar-related revenge killing after all.

  “Okay, Monique, books. And could you put this in back for me?” She handed her friend the shopping bag containing the halter top. Abby didn’t miss Monique’s appraisal of Seth’s lean-muscled body, from the top of his head to the tips of his Van-clad toes, before she reached into the back seat. When she emerged with the books, Abby removed two from the box and stuck them in her purse before giving her friend a semi-discreet nudge toward the shop.

  “I’m going, I’m going,” Monique said, her voice pitched so low Abby could barely make out the words. “No running, but don’t get carried away, either.” She gave Seth a wave as she went back inside.

  Abby turned back to Seth and braced herself. “What do you want? I already told you I was sorry.”

  His eyes flared, and he straightened from where he’d been leaning against the back of the Jeep. “Save your breath. You could apologize from now till Christmas, and it wouldn’t turn those splinters back into a guitar.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’re here to talk about the weather.” She folded her arms across her chest. She was torn between stalking off to the Jeep, possibly running over his toes as she drove away, and arguing
with him some more. Even arrogant jerks could be pleasant to look at.

  He held the business card she’d given him earlier between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were somehow contaminated. “There’s no address, just phone and e-mail. How am I supposed to send you anything?”

  Arguing it is, then. She brought her palm to her forehead to signify sudden comprehension. “Oh, I get it now. I didn’t realize you were dumb as a post. Email a bill? Call me and ask for the address? You certainly didn’t have to track me down to make me feel worse than I already do.” She was actually getting tired of looking at him now. Stalking away was imminent.

  “Email and voicemail are easy to ignore.” Nobody should look deliciously hot while scowling, but even that wasn’t going to save him now. Abby felt her pressure valve hit the limit, promising explosion at any moment.

  “What makes you think I was planning to ignore them? I already told you I’d cover the cost of replacing the damned guitar.”

  “I figured when you found out it cost four thousand dollars you might start feeling a lot less responsible.”

  Abby barely suppressed a growl. “Listen to me, Caldwell. I know enough about you to know the guitar wasn’t some $39.95 Walmart special, so the price is no shock to me. However, you do not know me well enough to judge the extent of my feelings of personal responsibility.” She was glad there were no pedestrians in the immediate area, because she was no longer using her indoor voice.

  “So you’re saying the cost wouldn’t be a problem?” Abby couldn’t decide if his single raised eyebrow made him look skeptical or condescending. It really didn’t matter, because either one would piss her off.

  “Would it be a problem? Do you mean, like, could I afford it? Holy shit, do you think just because I live in a small town I only shop at garage sales? Should I be pushing around a cart full of pop cans and broken umbrellas?”

  “No, that’s not what I thought at all. Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass to talk to.” He cast his eyes skyward, as if hoping for divine intervention.

  “I can’t believe you just said that.” Abby was so frustrated she was starting to sputter. What she wouldn’t give for a broken umbrella right now. She had several ideas what she might do with it.

  He swiped one hand across his face. “Will you stop talking, please?”

  “Please?”

  “Yes, please. I need a minute to try to stop this train wreck.”

  Abby made a show of pressing her lips together and tilting her head, indicating he should speak.

  “Look, I’m seriously upset about the guitar…”

  “Oh, really? I never would’ve guessed.” Being quiet was going to require practice.

  Seth let out a soft, exasperated-sounding groan.

  “Fine.” She would give him about ten seconds. Possibly.

  “I’m really pissed I lost a guitar I spent six months hunting down, and I didn’t expect you to actually understand what it meant to me. So, yeah, maybe I came here to twist the knife a little bit.” Abby hoped the knife was just a figure of speech.

  “So I guess you feel better now.”

  “As it turns out, I don’t.”

  “And that’s supposed to be my fault too?” She decided trying to be quiet was no longer an option, despite the curious look from a woman biking by, towing a child in some sort of aerodynamic pod.

  “No, and I get the whole thing was an accident. Okay? I also realize you do have a clue about what it might mean to me, and you probably do feel bad about what happened.” He paused and took a deep breath. “And I’m starting to think I’m only yelling at you because there isn’t anybody else to take it out on.”

  “Oh? You think so?” Abby injected her words with as much sarcasm as humanly possible. It was a talent.

  “Can we back up a little? I might’ve gone kind of insane there for a while.” He scrubbed his hands across his face, as if trying to erase all the recent scowling and glowering.

  “Maybe.”

  One corner of Seth’s mouth twitched, the beginning of a smile. “Good. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Chapter Two

  Abby and Seth walked toward the park at the end of the block. Why was she going anywhere with someone who had insulted and browbeaten her twice in the space of an hour? She thought it must be because he finally started to sound like he might harbor an actual human being under all the guitar-grieving hostility.

  She tried to convince her heart to stop pounding and her palms to stop sweating. To calm herself, she focused on the spring breeze and the sight of birds darting around in full nest-building mode. She breathed in the rich scent of fresh mulch in the sidewalk planters. Several of the shopkeepers were busy setting up their outdoor display tables. Emporia was a quaint little town, if you meant it in a complimentary way, which she did.

  She kept sneaking looks at Seth, trying not to be too obvious. She’d seen him in person before, but never closer than from the foot of the stage. He looked different in the May sunshine, younger somehow, and she loved the way the sun brought out the gold glints in his light brown hair. It was longer than the last time she’d seen him, brushing his shoulders. She also detected a new tattoo peeking from beneath his right sleeve. But she definitely wasn’t staring.

  Seth cleared his throat. “Honestly, I’m not usually such a jerk, but it was a freakin’ Taylor Cujo. From the Stephen King novel, you know? Did you see the amazing inlay on the neck?”

  Abby stopped in her tracks. “This is you not being a jerk?”

  Seth stopped too, and to her surprise, he laughed. Damn. Who knew lurking beneath the razor stubble on those cheeks were actual dimples? Unfair.

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry, okay? It was an accident, it was insured, and I’m not going to send you a bill.” They started walking again, and Abby’s annoyance began to abate.

  She considered what he said. Pursing her lips, she reluctantly admitted her own behavior hadn’t exactly been above reproach. “I guess I probably let you push my buttons a little too much too. Plus, I’ve recently been informed I lack a filter stopping me from saying things I should keep to myself.”

  “No, I had it coming.” He paused for a moment as two chattering shoppers passed them. “I kept thinking about what you said, about how you finally met me and we ended up yelling at each other. It bothered me, and I felt like I should come find you and fix it. I guess I should’ve waited till I cooled down, though, because I made things worse. But I really wanted to talk to you again.” His head dipped a fraction and he looked up at Abby, a startlingly vulnerable expression making her hesitate.

  “Oh.” Her equilibrium struggled to catch up with the sudden change of conversational direction. “Well…that’s okay, then.” His voice wasn’t what she’d expected, when he wasn’t yelling at her. It sounded different from the way he bantered with the audience between songs, and even from interviews she’d heard. Softer, the smooth Texas drawl he’d picked up living in Austin for ten years more pronounced. And she liked it. A lot.

  They arrived at the park and took a seat on a bench under dappled sunlight peeking between the branches of a large oak tree arching overhead. They no sooner settled on the bench when Abby saw two girls lingering on the sidewalk. Wearing frayed jeans and skimpy tank tops, they had “groupie” written all over them. She didn’t think much of the type, personally. All the squealing and jumping and “please sign my boobs” were more than a little nauseating. She assumed if you were on tour most of the year, being accosted every time you showed your face would get old awfully fast.

  The girls stopped trying to look aloof and cool, and began whispering furiously, heads together. The tall blonde one clutched the arm of her brunette friend. They seemed to have formulated their plan and advanced on the bench, a tiny tsunami of fangirl enthusiasm.

  Seth saw them coming and whispered to Abby, “Hang on. I’ll make this as quick as I can. Part of the job.” He gave her an apologetic look and added, “Please don’t leave, okay?”

 
Abby made shooing motions with her hands, sending him off to face his fans. She sat on the bench, watching the girls fawn all over Seth. He signed their shirts and posed for pictures, while the girls displayed their considerable feminine attributes for maximum effect.

  True to his word, Seth wrapped things up quickly, and Abby heard them call, “See you at the show, Seth!” as they jiggled their way down the sidewalk. He made a visual sweep of the area, seemed to decide they were safe from further interruption, and returned to the bench.

  “Doesn’t it get tiresome?” Abby asked.

  “Sometimes,” Seth admitted. “But what success we have is from the people who come to hear us play, so it’s worth it as long as they mind their manners.”

  He scooted a few inches closer to her, which Abby found quite interesting.

  “Are you coming to the show tonight?” he asked.

  “No, not this time. My friend backed out on me this morning, and I just gave the tickets to Monique for her sister. Guess I’ll go home and get back to work.” The idea seemed much less appealing than it had an hour ago.

  “Your card said you’re a writer. Were those your books Monique was getting out of your Jeep?”

  She nodded. “I promised the owner of the bookstore some more copies, but they’re closed today. Mo is going to drop them off tomorrow.”

  “What kind of books are they?” His open, direct gaze was a little unnerving.

  “It’s a mystery series.” It felt strange to be discussing her books with such a talented songwriter, but this day had been strange all around. “Well, it’s not officially a series yet. The first book came out last year, and the second will be released in July. The third one is due to the publisher by October.”

  “Great. It’s a special feeling to create something and know other people enjoy it.”

  “I guess you know all about that. It’s the first thing I noticed about the band, the lyrics to your songs. Once I saw a live show, though, I was hooked.” Probably best not to mention a large part of the appeal was Seth himself. She didn’t want to boost his ego when she was still getting over his obnoxious behavior. It wasn’t like she couldn’t understand why he was upset. She just didn’t want to let him off the hook too soon.