by Ellie Danes
“So, that’s it? Time to liquidate your father’s life?” Tyson yelled.
I snatched my sandwich off the cutting board and tried to back out of the kitchen door. The argument seemed very private even though both men looked exhausted, as if they’d had the same fight many times before.
“Wait, maybe Cora can help.” Storm marched over to the cellar door and motioned me to follow.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude,” I said.
“Nonsense. This is the perfect thing for you to photograph. You’d make a mint off selling prints,” Storm said. “Tell her, Tyson.”
Tyson crossed his arms firmly over his burly chest. “There’s a vault downstairs that keeps Ian Morris’ full collection safe. I was just pointing out to Storm that special precautions will have to be taken before we can just sell the place and move.”
“Do you really want to lug around such priceless things?” Storm asked Tyson. “Wouldn’t it be better to sell it all to collectors and museums, people who would really care for it?”
“You won’t feel that way when you actually see what’s in there.” Tyson refused to believe Storm could really shed everything his father had given him.
“Ah ha! I’ll take that bet.” Storm strode across the kitchen toward me. “Looks like you’ve got yourself another assignment: photo archiving my father’s collection.”
I felt ridiculous cowering in the doorway, holding an overstuffed sandwich. I should have been miles away at a monthly report meeting, not in the middle of what felt a lot like a family argument.
“What investment?” I tried to change the subject.
Storm shook his fists at the kitchen ceiling and then stomped outside. Tyson and I watched him stride across the back lawn, change direction, and head straight for the old greenhouse.
“Guess with a name like Storm you have to expect that now and again.” Tyson gave me an apologetic shrug. “Want a soda or anything?”
I remembered the sandwich in my hand and took a big bite just so I didn’t have to say anything. The cellar door was still open, and I was too curious. I sidled over to glance down while Tyson took my choking and chewing to mean a soda would be nice. He cracked it open and handed it to me as I stared down the steep cellar staircase.
“Don’t worry. It’s not all packed away in cobweb-covered boxes. Ian was a serious collector.” Tyson flipped on the lights. “Though I suppose you’ll want to take things out of cases to get the best photographs.”
I edged back to the kitchen island to finish my sandwich; a carefully maintained collection did not seem like the right place for a quick snack.
“A serious collection?” I asked.
Tyson looked up, his sad thoughts breaking up. “What? Oh, yes. Ian was already an avid collector before I started working for him. Before Storm was even born.”
“That’s a lot of stuff to hang on to,” I said.
Storm’s manager blinked his eyes hard. “I know. And it’s not that I don’t want Storm to be happy. It’s just I think he’d regret selling everything later in life. Seeing that would be worse than hearing him yell about it today.”
I felt bad for Tyson. He was clearly caught in the middle, but this was also his life. I finished my quick lunch and grabbed a notepad off the counter.
“I’ll just take notes today, but let’s go see it,” I said.
An hour and a dizzying crash course in true rock ‘n’ roll history later, I dragged myself back upstairs and blinked down at my notes. It had been like uncovering a pharaoh’s tomb or a sunken ship, and I leaned against the kitchen island to catch my breath.
Tyson grinned as he shut the cellar door. “You’ll have to ask Storm about the Crossroads Guitar. He swears that Ian played it one night.”
I nodded and wove my way to the door, needing some fresh air. “I’ll just go see if Storm’s still in the old greenhouse.”
I took my time through the gardens, trying to sort out everything I had seen and learned. It was easy to empathize with Storm’s need to get free of everything. But the truth was I had seen so much of Storm in the collection. It had been as if Ian had handpicked pieces of Storm’s personality, items that had truly formed his son’s extraordinary life.
If Storm liquidated the collection, he would quickly find he had sold off little pieces of his own soul.
The closer I got to the old greenhouse, the better I could hear the music coming from inside. I skirted closer to the juniper bushes, in the hopes that Storm wouldn’t see me. I had found myself humming his new song, and I wanted to hear more.
Storm’s guitar playing had been the biggest surprise to me. It wasn’t the same pop frills that had made him so instantly famous. His sound had mellowed, morphed into a new blues voice, and it felt earthy and grounded even as the melodies soared.
Just as I reached the door, Storm’s improvising picked up an old familiar tune. He found himself playing one of Ian Morris’ most famous songs. There was a sudden stream of obscenities and then a twang as Storm stopped playing.
“Why’d you stop?”
Storm flinched and caught me peeking in the door of the old greenhouse. “I thought you and Tyson were busy up at the house.”
“That collection is overwhelming. I ran at my first chance,” I said.
His frown softened. “I think my father liked it better that way, all carefully preserved and protected. That way, it was more fun when he went in and just grabbed things off the wall.”
I inched farther into the old greenhouse. “Tyson told me half the reason the cases were created was to stop Ian from messing around with everything.”
Storm laughed at that. “Makes my father sound like an overgrown toddler. Sounds about right.”
“Except for the whole cosmically talented thing,” I pointed out. “Why don’t you play his songs?”
“They’re kind of unavoidable.” Storm scrubbed the back of his neck and considered his old, beat-up guitar. “I don’t know. The same reason you cringe every time someone says your photography shows talent?”
I groaned. “That’s one step away from being called an artist and, in my experience, artists cause chaos and uncertainty.”
Storm’s laugh filled the old greenhouse. “Exactly! And everyone wonders why I grew up wanting a simpler life.”
I took my chance and sat next to him on the dusty wicker sofa. Storm had brought a few amps from the house, unrolled a vintage Berber rug, and made the old greenhouse a comfortable clubhouse. Pulses of heat swept through my body as I remembered the first time we had been there, but I didn’t want to let that get in the way of being there with Storm.
It had never occurred to me that my childhood was very similar to the boy in the mansion. Growing up, the Morris Mansion had been a dazzling place of legend. All the local school kids knew there was a boy there our age, and we’d assumed he lived like a prince. Now it turned out Storm was more like me; wishing for structure and discipline in an artistic house full of chaos.
“I’d even give up simple for normal,” I said.
Storm leaned back on the sofa and sighed. “That’s what I keep telling Tyson. Maybe he should just stay here. You and I can run away. Let’s get a little house in the midwestern suburbs.”
My heart tripped into a fast gallop. Storm’s suggestion was just a joke, but even so, there was the lingering feeling that it could be just us two against the world.
“Tyson wants to stay,” I said to change the subject and slow my heart rate.
Storm heaved himself off the sofa. “I know. I don’t get it, though. This place works him ragged, I don’t do anything but complain, and he could have left a thousand times.”
“Family’s weird like that,” I said.
“He must be insane. I mean, we were born into our weirdness, but Tyson chose to stay with me and Ian.”
“And maybe that woman he’s been flirting with in town,” I pointed out.
Storm stopped pacing around the rug and gaped at me. “A woman? Tyson?”
“She’s one of those crazy people who’s adopted a messed-up family, too.” I stopped myself and held my breath. Had I given too much away?
Luckily, Storm was still distracted by the idea of Tyson being in love. “Oh, my god, is it that bouncy little woman? I’ve seen them talking on Main Street, down by that art gallery.”
“Her name’s Susie Q.” I would have told him anything to avoid more talk of my mother’s gallery.
A brightly whistled version of Susie Q’s namesake song burst through from the old greenhouse’s back door. Bobby, a Murtaugh local who traded penny stocks and spent the rest of his time at the record store, strolled in. He was hauling a large instrument case that bumped to the floor when he stopped, surprised to see me. My heart was in my throat, but Bobby was well-known for keeping his mouth shut.
He winked at me. “I’m early?”
Storm laughed. “Late as usual. You didn’t bring Rick with you?”
Bobby glanced back at me. “Ricky’s organizing my trunk or something. He’ll be right in.”
“Bobby plays stand-up bass,” Storm explained. “And the owner of the record store, Rick, plays drums sometimes. They’re nice enough to jam with me now and then.”
“We play. Rick gossips,” Bobby said.
I stood up. “I should get out of your way.”
Bobby was content to stay out of everyone’s business, but he was right about Rick. As soon as my old classmate and friend saw me, there would be no more pretending I was a renegade journalist turned photography. My big lie would be exposed, and I hadn’t even told Storm about how badly his departure would affect Murtaugh!
Storm caught my hand and stopped me. “Rick’s been nosing around ever since the night of the party. Better to let him meet you or his imagination will run wild.”
“Cora?” Rick appeared in the greenhouse door.
I shook free of Storm’s hand and rushed over to greet Rick before he could give me away. “Nice to see you again! Ricky here was nice enough to let me take photos in his record store when I arrived in Murtaugh.”
Rick chewed his cheek. “Photography?”
Storm stepped in. “She just poses as a journalist; turns out photography is her real passion. Tyson’s hired her to archive Ian’s collection and take some good shots of the house.”
“Sure. Great.” Rick sidestepped me and put down the drum he was carrying. “You two met at the party?”
“Gossip,” Bobby said.
Storm laughed and caught my arm again. “Maybe you want to take off before he really starts the interrogation.”
As much as I wanted to stay and hear their unlikely trio play, it was better to run away. Ricky was an old friend and would keep my secrets, but he looked unhappy. I needed to get out of there and compose a text message to Rick, trying to explain everything.
First, though, I had to figure it all out myself. What was I really doing at Morris Mansion?
“I always wanted to see inside this place,” Rick said. He set up his drums without looking at anything.
“All right. Out with it. What’s with you?” I asked.
Bobby plucked out a funky bass line and ignored us both. The look on his face pointed out that the acoustics of the old greenhouse were much more interesting than some awkwardness.
Rick shrugged. “So, that’s the woman I saw you with at the party?”
His casualness rubbed me the wrong way. “Do you know Cora?”
“Do you?” Bobby interrupted with a suggestive twang.
I snapped my mouth shut, not ready to talk about my one night with Cora. “You’re right. Let’s just play.”
Bobby picked up on the song within seconds and laid down a subtle bass line beneath it. Rick took his time adjusting his kit and then finally tapped out a light beat. Once they were in, I started some variations and waited to see what got them going.
“It’s been a long time,” Rick said.
“I know. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be inspired,” I said.
“I meant seeing you with a woman. And she’s staying at the mansion?” Rick asked.
I scowled and worked my way into the bridge. “Like I told you, she’s been hired to photograph the place and now Ian’s collection.”
Rick’s drumbeat got louder. “It’s just the last woman I saw with you here was Betsy, and that was like two years ago.”
I faltered and had to go back to the main melody. Rick’s words were like a knock in the head. I suddenly realized how intimate it felt to have Cora staying at the mansion. We hadn’t slept together again but I’d said goodnight to her barefoot and watched her climb up the stairs to bed.
It had just felt so natural that I hadn’t noticed until now.
“Man, this place has really got it,” Bobby interrupted again with his easier point of view. “Hang some lights up, throw down some more rugs, and you’ve got a sweet little club here.”
“Now that would be something worth investing in.” Rick looked up at the domed ceiling of the greenhouse and tried out some sharper drum hits. “Great sound, great look.”
“Too bad I’m not making any more investments in this mausoleum,” I said. “It’s time to move on.”
“With Cora?” Rick asked.
I shook my head. She may have been the inspiration for the song we were playing, but now the music had a mind of its own.
“Shut up and play.”
We played for a few hours with only a quick pause to order some food. I was in no mood to have another run-in with Tyson but once our session was done, there was no other reason to avoid the mansion. Rick and Bobby headed for the only room we ever hung out in: the kitchen.
Tyson was there with loaded pizzas, pasta, and fresh garlic bread. “Don’t worry, I paid the bill for you,” he said.
I groaned and went straight to the refrigerator to grab a beer. “Thanks. You remember the guys, right?”
Tyson ignored me and shook hands with Rick and Bobby. He laid out the food for them and grabbed dishes from the cupboards. I got the cold shoulder then another exasperated announcement. “I also took the liberty of ordering groceries, so you have something to feed your houseguest.”
I choked on a huge bite of pizza. “I meant to invite Cora down. Could you press the intercom?”
Tyson gave me a cold look. “I already told Cora to come down when she’s ready.”
We drank beer and ate in peace for all of two minutes before Tyson burst out again, “So, did Storm tell you he cashed out the house account and hired a real estate agent?”
Rick and Bobby exchanged looks. Bobby started filling up a plate to go and Rick downed his beer.
“Yeah, we’ve heard rumors,” Rick said.
“Your choice, man.” Bobby cut off Rick and jerked his head toward the door. “See you at the shop.”
“You better buy the beer because Storm is now flat broke,” Tyson called.
“Don’t all real musicians start out that way?” I asked.
Rick and Bobby agreed on their way out of the door and left me to face Tyson’s upset on my own. I took my time eating my pizza but soon I had to throw down the slice and face him.
“Look, I’m not going to leave you out in the cold, Ty. You’re pretty much the only family I’ve got. But I’m selling this place and striking out on my own,” I said.
“And you really think that investment you made is going to be your safety net?” Tyson asked.
“Sink or swim,” I retorted.
“Some people sail in boats.” Cora paused in the doorway, unsure of what to do, until Tyson started making her a plate.
“Exactly. Stop denying you’re a sailor,” Tyson snapped at me.
I ground my teeth and tried to distract him by getting a beer from the refrigerator for Cora. She thanked me in a minute whisper, very aware of the tension in the air.
“Please don’t leave,” I whispered to her.
Cora smiled and picked up a piece of garlic bread. “Don’t worry. I’ll at
least stay through dessert.”
Tyson changed tactics. “Cora had a great idea. She thought the east wing could easily be renovated into a private museum. Visitors could come and go through the solarium and not bother you at all.”
“Sounds like a good thing for me to tell the real estate agent,” I said.
Cora kept her eyes on her plate and took a long sip of beer. Again, it struck me how natural it seemed to have her at the kitchen island. Tyson must have felt the same because he argued in front of her without any reserve.
“If your investment comes through, why don’t you buy your own place on top of keeping the mansion?” Tyson asked.
“Vacation house in the midwestern suburbs,” Cora said. She looked up at me with a tentative smile.
I took a breath to steady my frustration. I didn’t want to scream and yell in front of Cora. In fact, watching her eat and keep the peace was making me want to kiss her more and more.
“Are you really telling me you’re going to miss all the upkeep and rehab and random expenses of this place?” I asked Tyson.
He snorted. “And are you really telling me you can walk away from the place your father loved, the home you grew up in?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I seem to remember growing up on the road or in boarding schools.”
Cora gave me a sympathetic smile but couldn’t help asking, “You really don’t love this place? You know it’s amazing, right?”
I couldn’t blame her. She’d spent all day looking over the mansion’s best treasures with the biggest fan of ditching my plan and staying. “So, Tyson’s turned your head, huh?” I asked Cora.
“No.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin before saying, “I got lost three times today, so I’m not going to say this is the best home ever.”
Tyson gave a cry of dismay as his ally remained neutral. “This is more than just a home!”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s a slice of rock ‘n’ roll history and blah, blah, blah,” I said. “I’m sure Cora knows the mansion was historic almost one hundred years before my father bought it.”
