by Robin Hill
“Paps still thin?” I ask as we close in on our building.
“Seem to be. I thought I saw a couple yesterday, but it was quiet this morning.”
“Can’t imagine what they’re after.”
“Last minute promo footage?” We turn into the parking garage. “Something current to supplement what they have? I don’t know.”
“I don’t even want to think about what they have,” I say, loosening my seatbelt so I can reach my laptop bag behind me on the rear floorboard.
“What’s this idiot doing?” Amanda hits the brake pedal with enough force to yank me back into my seat. “Sorry,” she says. “He came out of nowhere.”
“Keep going,” I tell her. “He’s paparazzi. He’ll move.”
The car rolls forward, narrowly missing the guy’s feet as he jumps onto the sidewalk.
“How could you tell?” she asks as she pulls into her usual spot. “I didn’t even see a camera.”
“You learn to pick them out. That bag he had hanging around his neck? Looked like his hand was inside it—probably holding his camera.”
Amanda puts the car in park and cuts the engine. “Where’d he go?”
“Not sure,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“Hey, Darian, over here!”
Nope. Not wrong.
“There he is.” Amanda points to a stream of flickering light coming toward us. “Hopefully he’s alone.”
“Darian, how do you feel about the return of For Julia?” comes another voice along with another series of flashes.
“Dammit,” she says. “Where the hell is the parking attendant?”
“Darian, can you give us the name of your fiancée?”
“Fuck the parking attendant,” I say. “Where’s security?”
Amanda glances at her watch. “It’s almost one. Probably escorting Cross. Want me to call up?”
“Darian, is it true you’re suing Cross to Bear for breach of contract?”
“Don’t call just yet,” I say to Amanda as I turn to look out my window. White lights dance across the parking garage and I stare at them in disbelief. Cameras in every direction, it seems—six, seven maybe? It feels like more, but it’s hard to tell. The constant flash in the dark garage is blinding. “I don’t want to draw attention if we don’t have to.”
But we may have to.
“Fox, my man, long time no chat. How’s blondie?”
“Darian…” Amanda says, her fingers digging into my wrist.
My head jerks around and I come into direct contact with the prick from the taco shack, staring inside the car, leering at Amanda as she squirms in her seat. All the other voices fall away.
“I told you to stay the fuck away from me,” I snap, seething at the memory of finding him alone with Francesca, her tiny form curled up in the front seat of the convertible.
Because you left her there…unprotected.
“You told me to stay the fuck away from blondie,” he says with a smirk. “Not that I’d listen, but she”—he gestures toward Amanda—“ain’t blondie. You steppin’ out already?” His brows waggle above the body of his camera as he aims the lens at us. Click, click, click. “Word on the street is she took off. Guess now I know why.” Grinning, he steps back from the car. “Gotta run. Catch you lovebirds later.”
Amanda’s grip on my wrist tightens. “What’s he talking about?”
“Your door locked?”
“Yes,” she says but checks anyway. “Darian, did Frankie leave you?”
I rake a trembling hand through my hair. “Yes, Amanda, she left. And I didn’t open my birthday present because she never gave it to me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s my own fucking fault. Look around. This is what I lost her for. This goddamn dog and pony show.”
“Darian, what are your thoughts on the re-release of ‘Halcyon Girl’?”
“Darian, have you considered joining your old band on tour?”
“You warned me not to fight it, she warned me not to shut her out, and I ignored you both.” A hollow laugh bursts out of me. “And here we are, stuck in a fucking parking garage with half a dozen hungry paps trying to get footage for a TV show no one will give a shit about.”
“You did what you had to do, Darian. Trying to protect the memory of your family is honorable. I know that, and I promise you, so does Frankie.”
“Then why did she leave me?”
“Look at what this fight has done to you,” she says, lifting her hand to my unshaven jaw. “You’re thirty-seven years old, and you’ve been dealing with this loss for ten years. Frankie’s twenty-one.”
“Twenty-two,” I say, knowing what the distinction would mean to Francesca.
Amanda smiles. “Twenty-two is still young, Darian.”
I rub my tired eyes. “You ready to do this?”
At the count of three, we open our doors and get out of the car.
“Darian, Darian! Over here!”
“Darian, why did you drop the lawsuit against your former band mates?”
“Darian, what do you have to say about Cade Corban’s disappearance?”
“Darian, is it true your fiancée left you?”
I can’t do this. Please don’t come after me.
Amanda appears beside me and squeezes my arm. “What was that funny word you used the other night? Kaput?”
I look down at her and nod.
“Frankie may be a little kaput right now,” she says, “but her love for you isn’t. She’ll be back.”
A small but grateful smile spreads across my lips. We are not kaput. I take Amanda’s hand and walk with her to the door.
8:12 p.m. Friday: “It’s barely eight here and I’m already in bed. I think—I hope—I’ll be able to get some sleep tonight. Today was hard and I miss you so much. I’ll call you in the morning. Love you. Goodnight.”
2:48 a.m. Saturday: “Hey, you know what I just realized? I stopped asking you random questions. I can’t pinpoint exactly when, but I know it was around your birthday. It’s making me crazy that I can’t remember. Anyway, I thought of something I wanted to ask you. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be? If I had to guess, I’d say Paris to visit Morrison in the Père Lachaise—I think I said that right. I watched a documentary on it earlier and it made me think of you. We should go. Okay, I’m gonna try this sleep thing again. Goodnight. I love you.”
“You’ve reached Francesca Valentine. Please leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
“I did some research and found a Paris guide for Morrison fans at an online bookstore. I’ve been reading it all morning. We can do a whole tour and visit all his favorite restaurants and bars and even stay in some of the same hotels. I wish you’d call me. I’m anxious to know what you think. It’s a long flight and I know you’d hate that part. Don’t worry, I won’t book anything until I talk to you. I love you. Hope you’re okay.”
I finish the book and go downstairs, finally motivated to tackle the kitchen. I dumped the soup days ago, but the petrified pastries are still in their box on the counter, as is the loaf of bread Francesca made. I toss both in the garbage along with the newly stacked pile of junk mail, courtesy of Amanda, and carry it out to the garage.
I do a week’s worth of dishes—which really isn’t all that much since I’ve hardly eaten—and a load of laundry. Then I go upstairs to shower and shave my scraggly beard.
I feel human for the first time in days, and thanks to Amanda’s little pep talk yesterday, hopeful, but the combo is making me restless. I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Drew.
Darian: You home?
Drew: Yep. Packing.
Darian: For what?
Drew: Camping.
Darian: When?
Drew: Tomorrow.
Darian: Thanks for telling me.
Drew: Check your messages.
Drew: K.
“Back here,” Drew calls from his bedroom as I step through the front door of his place. “There’s Guinness in the fridge. Bring me one, will you?”
I grab Drew a beer and me a bottle of water and carry it, along with the pizza I brought, back to his room. I find him standing on a chair in his closet, both a sun hat and a baseball cap perched on his head.
“I come bearing lunch.” I set the food and drinks on his dresser. “You’re still packing? To go camping?”
“Half packing, half cleaning out my closet.” He holds up a black Ed Hardy skull and roses T-shirt. “Remember this?”
“I can’t believe you still have that.”
“Believe it. Here, can you get this?” He passes me a crate from the top shelf, stuffed with Ed Hardy T-shirts, and I put it on the bed with the other boxes.
“So where’re you off to?” I ask as he gets down from the chair.
“Somewhere in the Everglades. Buddy of mine has a cabin.”
“Boys trip then?” I hand him his Guinness and he takes a swig.
“There’re three of us,” he says. “You were invited.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. It’s been a long week.”
“How’re things with Frankie?”
“Funny you should ask,” I say, twisting the cap off my bottle of water. “Francesca left.”
“She left left? What happened?”
I give him a pointed look. “Come on, man. You were there.”
“Dude, I’m not about to defend your sorry ass, but she knew you were upset. She wasn’t angry, just worried.” He scratches his jaw. “It doesn’t make sense. Are you sure that’s why?”
“I’m not sure of anything anymore. All I know is, I’ve been a real jerk, and that night wasn’t the first time, nor was it the last. We fought Tuesday too, and then I drank so much scotch, I ended up sleeping in my car. Maybe that’s why she left. Who knows? She had her pick of reasons.”
“Fuck, Dare.” Drew holds up his beer. “Now I know why you’re drinking water. A two-night bender is a bit much at our age.” He takes a pull from his bottle and sets it behind him on the dresser. “And you haven’t talked to her, I take it?”
“Nope.”
“Jane either?”
“I think she may have blocked me.”
“Well, fuck,” he says, crossing his arms. “That night you were here, you kept going on about some TV show. What was that about?”
A hollow laugh escapes me as I sit on Drew’s bed. “I’ll tell you, but you’re going to have to feed me first.”
Drew hands me a slice of pizza and I fill him in on everything that’s happened from the resurrection of For Julia to the WMN series that’s scheduled for fall. His mouth gapes as he takes it all in, as if he can’t quite believe I’d be the subject of any of this, despite the fact that he knew me when.
“Holy shit, man. Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shrug. “I was hoping I could make it go away. Talking about it made it real.”
“And the Behind the Music one airs tomorrow?”
“It’s called That Was Then, but yeah, same concept.” I take a sip of my water. “It’s been a lot, and I know that’s no excuse, but to find the newspaper clipping after everything else…it just set me off, you know? It was such a shock. Why would she have it?” Lying back on Drew’s bed, I stare up at the ceiling while thumbing the lip of my bottle. “And now, I couldn’t care less what her reason was. She could be a damn psycho groupie stalker and I’d want her.”
“You still don’t know why she had it…oh man.” The bed shifts as Drew sits beside me. “Frankie isn’t a psycho groupie stalker, Darian. She’s a grieving daughter.”
I sit up. “What do you mean?”
“How much do you know about her mother?”
By the time I get home from Drew’s, my mind is reeling. Of all the reasons… I shake my head. Is it coincidence? Chance? Fate? Or simply a fluke? I wish Francesca would’ve told me, but I completely understand why she didn’t. How do you tell someone something like that? And I hate to admit it, but I probably would’ve had the same reaction whether she told me or not.
Determined to sleep, I take a couple Tylenol PM and lie down on Francesca’s side of the bed, both her ring and my birthday present close by on her nightstand. Before the pills take effect, I dial her voice mail to tell her goodnight.
“You’ve reached Francesca Valentine. Please leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
“Hey, babe. Drew told me why you had the newspaper clipping of Annie, and fuck, I’m so sorry. I feel like shit. I mean, I already felt like shit, but this confirms it. I hate that you had to go through that—and even worse, that I made you feel bad about it. I should have talked to you, but the truth is, your reason for having it is irrelevant; nothing can change the way I feel about you. I miss you, baby, and I love you. So fucking much. Goodnight.”
I drop my phone behind me on the bed and reach for Francesca’s gift on the nightstand. I know I should wait for her to be with me when I open it, but I miss her so goddamn much and whatever it is holds a piece of her. Without giving it a second thought, I rip off the shiny blue paper and open the box.
A baseball-sized lump swells in my throat. It’s her father’s pocket watch, refurbished and engraved, and I recognize the inscription immediately as her own personal take on a Doors lyric.
Until heaven stops the rain
And the sun no longer shines
I’m gonna love you,
Your Francesca
It’s perfect, and I’ll cherish it for the rest of my life—or at least the memory of it, because if she doesn’t return to me, I’ll have to return it to her.
The possibility of that splinters my heart with fear. I don’t know if I’d survive losing her—not this way. Not because of my own neglect, my own misguided agenda.
I hold the watch to my aching chest, close my eyes against her pillow, and wait for sleep to take me.
“Do you like it?”
Her voice, so clear and pure, cuts straight to my unconscious mind and I sit up quickly, my pulse thrumming so loudly in my ears, I worry I won’t hear anything else.
I rub my eyes and try to catch my breath. “Francesca?”
“So do you?” she says, and my heart leaps to see her sitting beside me, smoothing her thumb over the inscription on her father’s pocket watch. “It was my dad’s.”
“I remember.”
She closes it and smiles. “I wanted you to have it.”
I stare at her, memorize her. The room fills with the scent of honeysuckle, and I inhale it like it’s my last breath. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I? You’re not real.”
Her smile fades. “Does that bother you?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
She lies back and looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve missed it here.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I know.”
My gaze travels the length of her. She’s dressed in my Doors T-shirt and the pajama pants I hate so much. The ones with the damn monkeys on them. The ones she wears when I’ve upset her.
“If I’m dreaming,” I ask, “why are you wearing that?”
“Not your favorites, huh?” she says, rolling onto her side to face me. “It’s your dream. You tell me.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Because you aren’t real.”
She shrugs.
My eyes burn to look at her, but I’m afraid that if I close them, she’ll vanish. Afraid that if I touch her… “Tell me how to fix this.”
“I wish I could.”
But I do it anyway. I lift my hand to her jaw, bracing myself as my thumb glides over her skin. “I want to kiss you.”
“What’s stopping you?”
My fingers slide into he
r hair, and I lean in slowly until my lips brush against hers. I drag the tip of my tongue across the seam, and when she opens her mouth for me, I kiss her, really kiss her, the whole time wondering if I ever will again.
My tears spill onto her cheeks. “I love you.”
“I know that too.”
“Then come home.”
I wake with Francesca’s gift clutched to my chest, and the memory of last night’s dream hits me like a gale-force wind. The pain of missing her is so acute, so exhausting, it’s as if yesterday never even happened. The spark of hope I felt is gone, and it’s left nothing in its place.
I turn the watch in my fingers as my thumb grazes the inscription.
Your Francesca.
She was once, and while I’d like to believe she will be again, something about this morning feels different, final, in a way I can’t explain.
I set the watch on my nightstand and search my tangled sheets for my phone. As expected, there are no missed calls from her, no messages. Ordinarily, this is when I’d remind myself that it hasn’t even been a week—give her time.
But today, I’m not that optimistic. It’s almost been a week—what’s taking her so long?
And like the glutton I’ve become, I dial Francesca’s voice mail anyway, just as I do every morning, and hope I don’t sound as sullen as I feel. Only this time, it rings. Her phone actually rings. And it’s the best fucking sound I think I’ve ever heard.
I jerk upright in bed with my heart in my throat.
“You know you’re not going to get a strong signal until you get to the highway,” she says. “Just email me when you—”
“Francesca?”
I was wrong. Her voice. It’s the best fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
Peace Frog
Evelyn: Any word from Frankie?
Evelyn: What would you say to a night on the town with your favorite mother-in-law? Or I could come over with a bottle of tequila. Call me, sweetheart. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.
Evelyn: I watched it. Couldn’t help myself. And that pre-show with those people harassing you was just horrible. Oh, honey, please let me know you’re okay.
