She should have known Lissa had an ulterior motive. People were so predictable. And sometimes disappointing. Paige squared her jaw. “He’s my step-cousin. My aunt’s married to his father. What the hell difference does it make to you?”
“You can pull in the claws, New Girl. I’m on your side. I just thought I should warn you. Your little tête-à-tête did not go unnoticed. The local gossip lines are already burning up with the story.”
“What story?”
“New Girl Snags Attention of Hottest Boy in School.”
“There is no story. We’re related. Our families break bread together.”
“Whatever. I just wanted to make sure you were prepared.”
She stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, causing a near-collision. Grabbed Lissa by the elbow and dragged her over to the lockers that lined the wall. “What?” she said. “Prepared for what?”
“The jealousy. The hating. Every one of the girls in the prom queen set have made a play for Mikey, but he’s shown zero interest. So you can imagine the buzz it generated when he was seen sitting with the new girl. And an underclassman to boot.”
“Shit.” Not that she was looking to be Miss Popularity. On the other hand, she really hadn’t expected to start out in a new school with all her markers in the negative column before she even spoke a word to anyone. If she was going to fail, she’d like to at least do it on her own terms. “Okay,” she said. “You know these people. I don’t. What do you propose is the best way to deal with it?”
They started walking toward class again. “If there’s nothing going on between you and Mikey,” Lissa said, “ignore them. It’ll eventually die down. If there is something going on between you and Mikey, ignore them. It’ll eventually die down. Probably.”
“Great,” she said. “That’s just great.”
Casey
When she came through the door after her morning run, the first thing she saw was the duffel bag, crammed with clothes, perched on a kitchen chair. Her Samsonite carry-on bag sat on the table, its yawning mouth open and waiting to be filled. But it was the guitar case that cinched the deal. She knew that case, knew it intimately. Could clearly remember the day, seven or eight years ago, when he’d called her and said, “I need help picking out a new guitar, Fiore. Come with me.” And even though what she knew about guitars you could put in a thimble, she’d gone with him anyway, had listened intently while he explained the virtues and vices of various brands and models, then watched in mild horror as he pulled out his American Express card and paid six thousand dollars for a Fender Stratocaster. Although he kept it tuned and polished and played it regularly, he never used it for studio work. It was his performance guitar, and that one fact told her that wherever he was headed, the trip would probably involve buses or planes.
Her stomach went into free fall. It had finally arrived, the moment she’d dreaded since the day they married: He was leaving her. Not forever, of course. But once the precedent was set, more partings would inevitably follow. She should know; she’d lived the life for years with Danny. She understood how it worked. That didn’t mean she had to like it.
He came into the room, carrying a fistful of toiletries. Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. When he saw her standing there, he stopped dead and said, “Hey.”
She glanced at him, at the assorted luggage, then back at him. “Is it something I did? Something I said?”
“‘scuse me?”
“I really thought you’d give the marriage a little more time before you decided to bail.”
“Hah. Very funny. You should take that comedy act of yours on the road.”
“It seemed funny to me. And it looks like you’re the one who’s going on the road. Is there something you forgot to tell me?”
“You have no idea,” he said, cramming toiletries into the bag as he spoke, “how sorry I am to be springing this on you without any warning. But you weren’t here, and it was a crisis situation, and Chico needed an answer right away. So I made an executive decision without consulting the boss.”
“Chico?”
“Chico Rodriguez. You remember him?”
“Of course. We drove down to Atlantic City with him back in ‘78.”
“Woman, sometimes that steel-trap mind of yours terrifies me. How the hell do you remember what year it was?”
“It was while Danny and I were separated. The first time.” After the miscarriage. And the infidelity. Both of those incidents had forever altered her life, and both were memories better left untouched.
“Well, a while back, Chico started a band called Cold House. They’re on the last leg of a tour right now, and the lead guitarist just ruptured a disc in his back.”
“Ouch.”
“He’ll be out of commission for a while, and of course, they can’t function as a band without a lead guitar. They need somebody who can learn all their material in forty-eight hours, or they’ll have to cancel the rest of the tour.”
“And you were at the top of their short list.”
“Actually, I was their short list.”
She closed her eyes, reminded herself to exhale. “How long?”
“That’s my girl. No whining, no screaming. She just cuts right to the heart of the matter.”
“Damn it, MacKenzie, how long?”
“Three weeks.”
She resolved to look at this philosophically. It could be worse. It could be three months. Or three years. “I know the timing couldn’t be worse,” he said, “with the Paige situation. I’m so sorry to leave you holding the bag. But I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
His words sent an icy finger down the center of her spine. “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t say that.”
He zipped the carry-on bag and straightened. Studied her with mild curiosity. “Why?”
“Because that’s what Danny used to tell me every time he screwed up. And we both know how that story went.”
He squared his jaw. “I’m not Danny.”
“No,” she said. “You’re not.”
He lay a hand over his heart and vowed, “As God is my witness, I’ll never again promise to make anything up to you. From now on, what you see is what you get.”
“Isn’t that pretty much how it’s always been with you, anyway?”
“Look, if this was my gig, I’d take you with me. You and Paige. There’s no way I’d leave you behind if I had a choice. But we’re talking low budget here.”
“How low?”
“Tiny venues. Under 500 capacity. Roadhouses. A creaky, ancient tour bus. The occasional sleazy motel room, with hot and cold running roaches provided at no extra charge.”
Dryly, she said, “Sounds quaint and lovely.”
“Picture the most primitive, the most godless and soul-sucking tour we’ve ever been on. Then multiply the horror factor by ten, and you might have a vague picture of the next three weeks of my life.”
“In other words, you’re returning to your roots.”
“In a manner of speaking.” He moved to the refrigerator, opened the door, and stood there surveying its contents.
“I so hate to ask this question, but how much are you being paid to participate in The Tour From Hell?”
Instead of answering, he took out a bottle of Coke, closed the door, turned and leaned those lanky hips against it. Opened the bottle with a soft hiss, squared his shoulders, and just looked at her.
And she shook her head. “What am I supposed to do with you, MacKenzie? You do realize you’re one of the most brilliant and sought-after guitarists in the Western Hemisphere, and you keep giving away your services for free?”
He raised the Coke to his mouth and took a long, slow swallow. “I don’t need the money. If I never worked again a day in my life, I wouldn’t need the money.”
“That’s not the point. The point is that you’re devaluing yourself and your work. Tell me this. Did they ask you because you’re one of the most brilliant and sought-after guitarists in the Western Hemisp
here, or because you’re a big enough name to give legitimacy to the rest of their little band of misfits?”
“Probably a little of both. Why does it matter? Sammy Hagar had a solo career before he joined Van Halen. I don’t remember you having a problem with that.”
“I wasn’t married to Sammy. And you’re deliberately missing the point.”
“I think you’re the one who’s missing the point. The point is, Chico’s running this thing on a shoestring. He’s in a bind, and I’m in a position to help him.” He crossed his bony ankles and waved the Coke bottle for emphasis. “Look, I’ve been there. When I had to fire Tony Izzard after he showed up for work so stoned he could barely stand. When Kitty fell off the stage during rehearsal and broke her ankle. I know what it’s like to be in the middle of a tour and have to find some way to yank a miracle out of my ass. I couldn’t live with myself if I turned him down. I’ve learned a couple of things over the years I’ve been in this business. One, you never forget where you came from. And two, you always remain loyal to your friends.”
She let out a hard breath. “How can I argue with that philosophy? It’s one of the things I admire the most about you, your immutable code of honor. You live your life by it.”
“Damn right, I do. So you’re not mad at me?”
“Of course I’m not mad at you. You’re a grown man. You don’t have to ask me for permission to do anything.” She crossed the room, and he set down the Coke and wrapped his arms around her. She lay her cheek against his chest. “It’s just…three weeks is a long time.”
“Ish.”
She stiffened, raised her head, met his eyes. “Ish?”
“Three-ish. It could be a little longer. Depending.”
“On what?”
“On how well it goes. We could pick up a few more dates if it goes well.”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you? Damn you.”
“The getting back on stage and playing part? Absolutely. The leaving you behind part? Not so much.”
“I should be used to this by now. After all the years with Danny.”
“I hear a ‘but’ in there.”
“But. Most of the time, I hardly noticed when he was gone. This is different.”
He flashed her one of those smiles that could turn the most hard-hearted woman into a quivering pile of mush. Leaning closer, he toyed with a strand of her hair and said with an exaggerated Boston accent, “So Momma’s gonna miss Poppa wicked bad, is she?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, MacKenzie.” She tugged her hair away from him and took a step backward. “I’ll survive just fine without you. For three-ish weeks. I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Paige.”
“I wasn’t about to drag her out of school to tell her. One more thing she can hold against me, skipping town without saying good-bye to her. I’m sure she’s keeping tally somewhere.”
“You can call her later and smooth things over.”
“For what it’s worth. I honestly don’t think she gives a rat’s ass whether I live or die.”
“She’ll grow out of it. She’s a teenager. It comes with the territory.”
“There’s one more thing. Since you’re not mad at me, I need a favor.”
“Do I dare to ask?”
“My plane leaves for L.A. in three hours. Can you give me a ride to the airport?”
***
She wasn’t able to shake the edgy, anxious feeling that took hold of her the moment he was in the air, couldn’t figure out what was wrong. They’d been flying away from each other for years, but for some inexplicable reason, watching that 737 carry him into a cloudless blue sky filled her with an uncharacteristic dread. Was it leftover anxiety from the accident? She’d already lost one husband, and had no intention of losing another. Or was it simply the physical act of separation, after they’d been inseparable for so long?
She arrived home ahead of the school bus, and broke the news to Paige that her father would be out of town for an indeterminate time. The kid eyed her coolly, said, “Figures,” and headed to her room. Twenty minutes later, Luke pulled into the driveway, honked the horn, and Paige blew through the door, tossing the breathy words, “Band practice,” over her shoulder.
Casey killed time with housework. Whenever she was at odds, it was always her drug of choice. She vacuumed, dusted, watered all her plants. Scrubbed lavatories and toilets, the bathtub, the shower stall. She knew it was compulsive behavior, but it was comforting in some twisted way.
Paige called around five to say that she’d been invited to supper at Rose and Jesse’s house, and one of the boys would drive her home. Still feeling a little lost, Casey drove to the cemetery, pulled a few weeds, and watered the rosebush she’d planted last year on Katie’s grave. The habitually restless ghost of Danny Fiore was oddly still tonight, and she had nothing pressing she needed to talk over with him, so she cut the visit short and went home.
While she was out, Rob had called to leave the number where she could reach him for the next forty-eight hours. He was heading over to the studio so they could start rehearsing right away. God only knew when she’d hear from him again, but at least he was safe on the ground, and she was able to exchange a little of her anxiety for relief.
She picked a late cucumber from the garden, sliced a ripe tomato, made a salad for supper, and ate it alone at the kitchen table. When Paige came home, they watched a movie together before retiring to their rooms for the night. But sleep was elusive. For some reason, she was feeling agitated, weird, a little unglued. The room was too hot, the bed was too empty, and her insides were churning with anxiety. She rolled and flipped and thrashed, until the bedding was a totally disheveled hot mess, and then she lay for hours, watching the hands of the bedside clock move with agonizing sloth. She calculated the time difference between Maine and California, wondered whether he’d even be in his hotel room. He could be out all night, especially if he had a mere forty-eight hours to learn Cold House’s set.
At three-twenty a.m., she gave in, picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d left on her answering machine. In the darkness, she cradled the receiver to her ear, feeling a peculiar sense of déjà vu. How many late-night phone calls had they shared in that dark and murky time after Danny died? Those calls had kept her functioning, had kept her upright and breathing. They’d been an odd blend of comfort and courtship, for there had been no traditional courtship between the two of them. Only fifteen years of emotional foreplay before they became lovers. Nobody would ever accuse her of being conventional when it came to husbands. She’d married Danny three days after they met. With Rob, it had taken sixteen years.
Three thousand miles away, the phone rang. Five times, then six. Just as she was about to give up, he answered, sounding hoarse and muzzy from sleep. Something inside her went all soft, like chocolate left too long in the sun. “Hey,” she said.
He paused for an instant, trying to pull himself out of sleep, then said groggily, “Hey.”
“I woke you. I’m so sorry.”
“S’okay.” He made some kind of soft sound in the back of his throat, and her chocolaty insides went softer. “I live to be dragged out of sleep by you.” He paused for another instant, then said, “Everything okay?”
“Bad night.”
She heard the rustle of bedding. “What’s wrong?” He sounded more awake this time.
“Nothing, really. Not anything I can put my finger on. I’ve been trying for hours, but I can’t sleep. I’ve just been so antsy ever since you left. All jittery and weird.”
“That’s not like you, babe. If you really didn’t want me to go, you should have said something. I could have called Chico back and told him I couldn’t do it. You know I would’ve stayed with you if you asked.”
“And that’s why I didn’t ask. You’re a musician. It’s what you do. It makes you happy. I would never interfere with that.”
“You make me happy.”
“Maybe it’s just that this is the first time we’ve been
apart.”
“Ever since the day you tracked me down in Boston and told me we were getting married.”
In the darkness, she smiled and said, “I did no such thing.”
“I stand corrected. You strongly suggested we get married.”
“I proposed to you. That’s a little more than a strong suggestion.”
“Call it what you want, I’m glad you did it. So you really miss me that much, do you?”
“Apparently so,” she said, hearing the surprise in her own voice. She couldn’t figure out what was wrong, why she was feeling all weak and shaky and anxious. She’d never been the clingy, needy type of woman, never been the kind to come unglued just because her man was out of town.
“Are you crying, Fiore?”
She swiped at a tear and said, “Of course not.”
“You’re a really lousy liar. Do you want me to come home? Because if you do—”
“I’m fine now. I just needed to hear the sound of your voice.”
“Next time I go out of town, you’re coming with me.”
“I think that would probably be a good idea. But I’m okay now that I’ve talked to you. Really.”
He cleared his throat and said, “So…are you in bed?”
“I am. Why?”
In a really bad Pepé le Pew accent that sounded more like the Count from Sesame Street—or possibly Zsa Zsa Gabor—he said, “So, ma cherie, tell me vhat you’re vearing.”
She let out a soft snort of laughter. “MacKenzie,” she said, “you are such a letch.”
“I’m just trying to be accommodating. I figured since it’s the sound of my voice you needed, I could talk dirty to you. Get you all hot and bothered, then you could maybe—”
“Very tempting,” she said, “but no. There will be no phone sex.”
“Fiore, you are such a disappointment as a wife.”
She let out another soft breath of laughter. He always had a way of making her feel better. “Babe?” he said.
“What?”
And he said softly, “Hi.”
Impossible as it might seem, her sticky liquid insides went even softer. “Hi,” she said.
Days Like This Page 15
