Wild at Whiskey Creek

by Julie Anne Long

  Of course he was. Francone might be a lightweight whose authority stemmed from excellent DNA, family connections, and the good luck to fall into a hit television show years ago, but Eli didn’t make the mistake of thinking Francone was stupid. Bethany was quite hot by any guy’s standards, but Franco knew women and he had taste, and he wanted Glory, because he recognized something rare when he saw it.

  “Next time you’re applying mascara—oh wait, clear gel, I remember—to Franco or however you get him ready for the camera, try telling him that hot women like guys who drive the speed limit.”

  Bethany laughed and laid a hand flirtatiously on his forearm again. “I’ll tell you a secret: he still breaks out. At his age. He’s probably about forty. It took me an extra half hour to disguise a zit he had near his temple. And in the age of HD, every tiny flaw shows up on camera.”

  News of this flaw gave Eli a very unworthy surge of satisfaction, even though he was certain he probably wouldn’t survive HD’s scrutiny without a good spackling. “You should get hazard pay for hiding Francone’s zits. Wonder where our wine is?”

  He lifted his water glass and took a sip.

  “I talked to your friend Glory a little today at the Misty Cat. She’s nice, isn’t she?”

  He nearly did a spit take. “Nice?”

  He didn’t think anyone had ever ascribed such a pallid word to Glory before.

  “Yeah. I think Franco said he was going out with her tonight. Maybe he was rushing her home just now to get her in the sack. He seems to really be into her.”

  Eli put his glass down so hard that Bethany jumped and her roll shot out of her hands again.

  It landed with a soft thud on his side of the table.

  He retrieved it and gently put it on the little plate next to her.

  And said nothing.

  In a minute Bethany was going to think he was some kind of Neanderthal who had trouble with his motor skills.

  Suddenly he couldn’t come up with words. Any words. Let alone idle, light, sparkling words. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he’d ever said to the Tiffanys and Brittanys in high school between making out with them in his Fiero.

  Probably because there hadn’t been much talking.

  He remembered a conversation he’d had with Glory once. “Why are flies called flies?” she’d said once. “A lot of things fly. Were they the first things to fly?” He liked how being with her was like roaming a building with infinite corridors and atriums. You never knew where you would wind up.

  “I can get more rolls,” he said finally. “I have connections.”

  “We still have plenty,” Bethany said with a game smile.

  He helped himself to one, drove the knife almost violently down through it to split it.

  Maybe it was all metaphorical, and exactly as it should be: Glory racing at high speed in one direction in a movie star’s Porsche.

  Eli remaining in place, in a restaurant he’d been to a dozen times before. So many times he knew which curtain hanging in which window had a tiny burn hole from some diner’s wayward cigarette, back when people actually smoked in restaurants.

  The waiter interrupted the silence by bringing over the wine. And after the sniffing and sipping had taken place, he poured and then vanished.

  Eli raised his glass. “To wonderful company.”

  “To wonderful company.” Bethany, sounding relieved, clinked her glass against his, and then sipped and settled it down again.

  A little silence fell.

  Her long slim fingers absently played with the stem of her glass. She stroked it up and then down. Up and then down.

  Maybe doing warm-ups for later.

  He was aware, however, that he’d fallen awkwardly—perhaps even darkly—silent again.

  It was a physical struggle not to peer out the window in the direction of that Porsche. If he was a cartoon character, his head would transform into a giant magnet and suck the car back down the road.

  He smiled at Bethany instead.

  “Okay, Eli,” Bethany said brightly. “So, I happen to know it’s your birthday this week. And we can’t let your birthday go by and not acknowledge it at all.”

  He groaned good-naturedly.

  She laughed. “I promise I won’t ask the waiters to sing.” She pushed a little flat square package over to him, tastefully wrapped in brown parchment paper and tied with a wide, sheer orange chiffon ribbon. Minimalist and pretty.

  “It’s just a silly little thing. And I mainly did it because I like wrapping things.”

  “It’s pretty,” he said.

  “The gift is actually on the inside,” Bethany teased dryly. But as she said it, she fingered the top button on her dress. Whether she knew it or not, it turned her sentence into an innuendo.

  She was a nice person, Bethany was. And a big flirt. But he had a feeling that she’d be cool with a fling, or whatever they decided to do.

  And it occurred to him that once you really just let go and were halfway on your way to having sex—maybe the clothes were mostly off or on their way there, the bra was unhooked, that sort of things—you could forget nearly anyone or anything.

  Problem was, he had a feeling that everything he’d ever felt and never said aloud was too close to the surface, kicked up like some kind of monstrous, spinning dirt devil, bigger by the minute. It had been growing for days now. It was playing havoc with his internal equilibrium.

  Something had to give. A few minutes of shattering oblivion might just be the ticket.

  “Let’s see what’s on the inside.” He tugged the ribbon open, and slid a finger beneath the tape.

  He found a little cardboard box with a lid.

  He glanced over at her and she lifted her eyebrows encouragingly.

  He sneaked a glance at their outside edges. Not a stray hair there. He’d notice that from now on in every person he met, he was pretty sure, dammit. And yet every little detail about a person told a story, and as a cop, he was sort of glad he knew about eyebrows now.

  He pried up the box lid and parted some tastefully beige tissue paper.

  He gave a little laugh. “It’s . . . I’ll be damned!” He lifted out an old forty-five RPM record of Led Zeppelin’s “The Immigrant Song.”

  “Your local music store had it. Do you like it?”

  He smiled. “Yeah! Very cool.” He turned it over to the flip side. “So thoughtful of you. Thank . . .”

  He was suddenly as airless as if he’d been gut-punched.

  And as he stared down at the name of that song on the flipside, it was like sunlight blasted through his every cell. Joy and fury and grief and yearning were suddenly one hybrid emotion as he was being dragged backward roughly through time.

  He couldn’t look up at Bethany. Not yet.

  He breathed in.

  Breathed out.

  He was going to have to finish his sentence.

  But he was pretty sure he couldn’t finish this date.

  He finally lifted his head.

  “. . . you,” he finally managed.

  New restaurants in Hellcat Canyon weren’t precisely on Glory’s radar, since her radar only picked up things she could afford, and eating out wasn’t one of those things lately.

  Cafe Cinnabar managed to be shiny and cozy and modern. One wall was painted a glossy deep green. Another was a glossy cayenne. Another, butter-yellow. She was certain the food would be farm-to-table and served in little vertical stacks centered on white plates, like framed modern art. It was almost too hip for Hellcat Canyon, but rent in town was cheap and the place was small enough to actually make a go of it. She wished them luck.

  Getting here had been fun. It was interesting to see Hellcat Canyon go by in a blur through the window of a Porsche. Kind of like an impressionistic painting of a small town.

  “So Glory Hallelujah Greenleaf . . . what made you decide to go out with me?” Franco asked when they were settled in and the wine had arrived.

  “Maybe I’ve just be
en mulling pros and cons all this time.”

  Maybe she was doing it so she wouldn’t have to think about Eli and Bethany on their third date.

  “You? I have a hunch you would have given me a flat out yes or no from the beginning. Unless you wanted to toy with me a bit. Or there was some other consideration.”

  “I’ve been known to toy.” Which wasn’t a complete lie.

  Franco smiled. “Have some more wine.”

  She’d already downed a half glass with almost unseemly haste. It was fantastic wine, nuanced and expensive, and ought to be savored. But she’d all but belted it back after she’d seen Eli’s truck parked outside Cafe Elegante.

  Her senior ball date, Mick Macklemore, had taken her to Cafe Elegante for dinner lo these many years ago. There were little white eyelet half-curtains on skinny rods in the windows and cane-backed chairs and votive candles in frosted glass holders. It was romantic and charming and unsurprising and the food was very good. It was where you took dates you wanted to impress. At least in Hellcat Canyon.

  After seeing Eli’s truck, getting a handle on her mood was going to be like stuffing a porcupine into a burlap sack. A few barbs were bound to escape, and Franco was sitting in their path.

  “I don’t get any looser when I’m drunk,” she warned Franco. “In fact, I’ve been known to throw things.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” he said with relish.

  “How did you hear about this place?” Glory twisted slightly in her chair to look around at the tasteful little original paintings on the butter-yellow wall. They were all for sale.

  “I have people who find things out for me.” He waved a hand airily. “It opened not too long ago. And it met your criteria.”

  Which was “nothing fancy, some place where I can wear jeans.”

  It was tremendously odd to recite criteria to a gorgeous, famous man. And then have him do her bidding.

  A little silence fell. She twisted her wineglass in her fingers.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re beautiful?” Franco said.

  She stared at him. “Seriously?” she said finally.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Of course. C’mon, Hollywood, I’m expecting better patter from you.”

  He grinned. “Okay. Beautiful and a handful?”

  “I gave up a whole night of watching repeats of Wheel of Fortune with my mom for this,” she teased, but she was aware her teasing was getting edgy.

  She imagined Eli pulling out a chair for Bethany. Maybe putting his hand on the middle of her back in a gentlemanly way. Smiling in that way he did when he was really listening, so that you knew he actually cared what you were saying.

  “You could watch repeats of Blood Brothers instead. I get a nice little check every time you do.”

  “I certainly could, except it’s on local television stations earlier in the day so the retired ladies at Heavenly Shores can watch it.”

  He gave a startled laugh. “Ouch.”

  She sighed, ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry, Franco. That was ungracious. I might be a little nervous and it just comes out that way. I’ll try to be nicer.”

  This was true, but Franco didn’t have much to do with her nerves, or that hollowed out feeling in her gut. Like her stomach had taken an elevator down two floors below the earth’s surface.

  “I like surprises, Glory Hallelujah Greenleaf. So don’t apologize. Bring it on.”

  “So what’s your criteria for a date, Franco? Something pretty to look at across a table while you enjoy a good meal?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that everybody’s?”

  She gave a short laugh. “But what do you usually like to talk about on dates?”

  “Well, myself, mostly,” he said, with self-deprecating irony.

  She smiled. “But don’t you get bored staring at pretty things who just listen to you talk about yourself?” She was genuinely curious. “Couldn’t you just get a mirror, like a parakeet?”

  Franco’s eyes widened, startled. He looked undecided as to whether to laugh or scowl at this.

  His expression finally settled into something like reluctant amusement. Maybe even admiration.

  “I’ll admit it’s lost some of its shine, finally. And yet it was once so reliably pleasant.”

  “Hard to know what to do next, isn’t it, when the things that used to work for you don’t work anymore.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Usually I get over those kinds of humps by buying another Porsche,” he said blithely. “Hey, did you know I went to Harvard?”

  She furrowed her brow. “No. I’m also not quite sure what to do with this information.”

  He smiled at that, too. As if she kept presenting him with little surprises. “I’m bragging, I guess. Because I want you to think I’m smart, because I think you probably are.”

  “Soooo . . . if I’m understanding this correctly, your implication is that college is where you go to get smart? Or . . . wait! Is college where they hand out talent? Kinda like the Tin Man getting a heart from the Wizard?”

  He leaned back in his chair and stared at her. “Damn, woman. You are hard on me. Okay, when you put it that way, no. I guess not.”

  “If you want me to think you’re smart, Franco, just say smart, insightful things,” she said relentlessly. “Your daddy pull some strings to get you into Harvard?”

  He shook his head. “Man, you do have my number. I had to get passing grades, though. And I had to work for the roles I got. I’m not a complete slacker.”

  “Ohhh, passing grades,” she teased. “Be still my heart.”

  He grinned. “What did your report cards look like?”

  “Well, I’ve never gone to college. But my last report card was ‘A,’ ‘B,’ ‘A−,’ ‘A,’ ‘D,’ ‘C.’ I wrote a song using just those chords. D minor, of course, because the D was a bummer. That was for P.E. I hated those polyester shorts we had to wear because they itched and made me sweat, and wearing a uniform always makes me kind of uneasy. I kept getting docked points for ‘forgetting’ . . .” She put that in air quotes. ” . . . to bring them.”

  Franco smiled all the way through this. “You’re not one of those people who think it’s more virtuous to struggle for success, are you? That you have to do penance in order to deserve it?”

  “No,” she said vehemently. “There’s no virtue in struggle, believe me. I think there’s virtue in working toward a goal, sure. You just have to play the hand you’re dealt the best you can.”

  “Completely agree. It’s not like my picnic has been completely ant-free, you know. I never did win an Emmy.”

  Boy. Some people’s problems.

  Then again, it was a problem she hoped to have one day—worrying about whether she was going to win that Grammy. And she could certainly sympathize with wanting what she didn’t currently have.

  “The Emmy could still happen, right, for your role in The Rush? Or some other show?”

  “Sure. But J.T. McCord got one and I didn’t. I can’t turn back time and get it before he did.”

  Men.

  “Well, tenacity is sexy.”

  “Tenacity is a pretty good word for someone who never went to college.”

  “What makes you think there’s a relationship between college and vocabulary? Maybe I just read a lot.”

  “Yeah? So do I, as it so happens. Can’t really read you, though.”

  That was an interesting observation. She studied him with a faint smile.

  He smiled back at her. He seemed to have realized he’d finally said something that officially intrigued her. “Did you know I’m pretty good friends with Wyatt Congdon?”

  Glory’s lungs seized up.

  She lowered her wineglass carefully.

  “Was . . . that a smart, insightful thing to say?” Franco said mildly.

  She couldn’t speak yet. She surreptitiously released a shuddering breath.

  “You do know who Wyatt Congdon is,” he pressed.

  “Of course. If
you’re a musician, you know who Wyatt Congdon is,” she said quietly. “Come on.”

  “He’s actually my godfather. He’s got an estate in Napa. Beautiful . . . you should see it. Lawns like velvet carpets. Vineyards. Soft rolling hills. Spectacular sunsets, just unreal. Hot tubs and saunas. He’s flying up to it next week from Los Angeles. He’ll be there off and on through Thanksgiving, give or take a few meetings in New York.”

  Kismet. Maybe it was a thing. Maybe this was why Franco Francone had blown into her life. Shouldn’t she feel more elated, though?

  “Napa’s just a couple of hours away,” she said faintly.

  “Yeah. He invited me to go up there the week before Thanksgiving. And he said to bring anyone I might want to bring.”

  She was pretty sure she knew where this was going.

  “I’d like you to come with me. If you want to,” he added.

  Yep. And there it was.

  A rather loud silence ensued.

  “That’s a very kind invitation,” she said as formally as someone accepting the collection plate at church.

  “I expect you’ll want some time to mull,” he teased.

  “If that’s all right with you.”

  The waitress brought over a charming appetizer, unrecognizable as food, frilled with some sort of green vegetable, floating in a shallow pool of some artfully scribbled dark sauce.

  It was delicious and she didn’t let on that she didn’t quite know what it was as she ate it.

  “So . . . you know I think you’re hot, Glory,” Franco said after a moment, putting his fork down. “And I think you’re smart in an original way, and original in a smart way. And I’m a little in awe of people who have talents that I don’t have, especially ones that can make me forget where I am on the planet for a moment. Because when you have enough money to get nearly anything you want, that kind of experience is hard to come by.”

  A silence beat by.

  This didn’t feel like conversation. It felt like negotiation. Or persuasion.

  “I’m leaving this quiet space so you can now lavish me with compliments, if you so desire,” he said, lightly.