"That's partly what I'm trying to figure out. Do you know anything else about him? You say things between he and your mom were platonic—"
"Completely platonic. No way I would have missed that one. I was looking for it, too. Hoping." He chuckled.
"Okay, but do you know if he might have had an affair with anyone else? Maybe confided in your mom about it, since they were close?"
"Huh. I don't know. I mean, I guess anything's possible. I know he didn't have the happiest marriage. And his boys, well, they were pretty bratty."
"What made you think his marriage wasn't good?"
"Overhead him talking about it with Mom. They didn't like to do it when I was around, but if I lay on the floor with my ear close to the door, I could hear them pretty well. I think that's one of the reasons they were close. They confided in each other. Wish I'd had someone like that when my own marriage was going south." He shook his head. "There I go again, saying way too much. You're not going to put all that in your book, are you?"
"No. I'll keep it mostly anonymous, anyway. Change the names, that sort of thing."
"That's good. Mom may be gone, but I'm sure not! Still hoping to turn my business around, you know. But boy, if you want stories about Barnacle Bluffs, I could really fill your ear for hours."
"Maybe another time. Right now, I'm really focused on Ed."
"Sure, sure. Hmm. Well, I know he was in Gamblers Anonymous. That's something he talked about, hating the casino opening. He said he almost went back to his old ways. He was heading for the blackjack table a few days after the place opened, and it was only at the last second that he steered himself to the bar instead. I won't forget that story, because he was crying when he told Mom. The only time I remember him crying. He said the whole thing happened five years earlier and he hadn't told a soul—and it could still make him cry! He said a waitress in the bar saved his life, because he wanted to go back to the tables and she wouldn't let him, drove him to her place so he could sober up and get himself together before going home to the wife and kids. He said she not only saved him from going back to gambling, she probably saved his marriage too, because he said his wife would leave him if he ever set foot in a casino again."
"Did he say her name? The waitress, I mean?"
"What? No. Well, if he did, I don't remember it. I couldn't always hear everything he was saying anyway, especially if they were whispering. Why, is that important?"
This was the closest Gage had gotten to a confirmation that what was in the letter, about the affair with Deedee, was true. "Could be. I'm just trying to get an accurate sense of the man. Did he ever say anything about the waitress again?"
"I don't know. That was right after he started coming over, and I was pretty young, five or six. Hard to remember much. Wait, are you saying you think he and the waitress …?"
"Maybe, who knows."
"Well, geez."
"I wouldn't spread it around, though. There's no proof."
"No, no, I wouldn't do that. Hell, his boys, if they grew up to be bigger versions of what they were back then, would probably come back and beat me up. They were real turds."
This was so close to the truth that Gage had to suppress a smile. If Howie knew exactly what Ed's sons grew up to be, he definitely wouldn't be spreading rumors about their father.
They talked a little longer, Gage probing for other details about Ed's life. Though Howie was the opposite of taciturn, there wasn't much more he could remember that was useful.
But what Gage had learned was plenty.
* * *
After picking up the things she wanted for dinner, Gage showed up at the Starfish Motel at half past six. Except for a mammoth RV, a couple of minivans, a Harley, and, of course, Nora's black Lincoln Navigator, the parking lot was empty. It made Gage aware of how conspicuous his mustard-yellow Volkswagen van would be, a van the Elliott brothers had seen, and he debated about parking at his place and walking to the motel. But fatigue and hunger won out over his caution, and he compromised by situating his van behind the RV.
The thick blanket of storm clouds, which was no longer approaching but fully upon them, brought upon an early dusk, the air hazy and cold. The sun was nowhere to be seen. The ocean raging against the beach on the other side of the building sounded close. He'd just reached the top of the landing when thunder rumbled over the city, and he felt the power of it deep in his chest. When Nora greeted him at the door, she ushered him quickly into the room.
"They say a pretty big one is going to wallop us," she said, "with an even bigger one in a couple days."
As if the storm had been waiting for her cue, the sky opened up and a torrent of rain poured down even before she'd closed the door. Nora took the bag and headed for the kitchen. In his absence, she'd dolled herself up, having changed into hip-hugging jeans and a pastel-blue V-neck shirt. He thought he caught a whiff of vanilla, from perfume or lotion.
Lady, who waited for him in the hall, wagged her stubby tail, and he stopped momentarily to pet her. He used the restroom, and when he came back Nora was putting away the groceries and humming to herself with her beautiful voice, her back to him, and he wished he could have gone on listening without disturbing her. She must have sensed his presence, though, because she looked over shoulder and smiled. That was almost as good, that smile.
"You weren't lying when you said you liked lasagna, were you?" she asked, fetching a rectangular glass baking dish from the cabinet.
"Oh no. I don't get to eat a good lasagna nearly often enough. You sure you're okay cooking it, though? I'm fine with just about anything."
"I don't want to make just anything. I want to make something special. And other than singing, cooking is the only other thing I'm good at. Lasagna is not exactly speedy, though, so why don't you catch me up on your day?"
He heard the hope in her voice, the expectation tinged with worry, and that was when he decided he wouldn't tell her about his murder theory quite yet. He would focus on the good news for now, or at least what he thought she would consider good news. While she hustled around in the kitchen, first cooking the hamburger, then preparing the pasta and the cheese, he told her all about his conversations with Dr. Keene and Howie Meyer, at least the parts that confirmed Ed Boone believed he had a daughter. He left out what he'd discovered at the library about the typewriter.
He thought Nora may have teared up at one point, but her face was masked by the steam from the cooking hamburger, so he couldn't be sure. Bored with all this human talk, Lady returned to the couch.
"I'm still doing some really good work on some new songs," Nora said. "Maybe I'll even play something for you later." She smiled over her shoulder at him, and he was sure his heart stopped a little.
"I thought you didn't perform works in progress?"
"Maybe it's not in progress anymore."
"Oh."
After she put the lasagna in the oven, he poured two glasses of an Oregon Pinot Noir and they settled on the couch to wait. The rain clacking on the roof and the balcony was so loud that they naturally sat nearer one another, their thighs so close he felt the warmth of her next to him. It felt right, totally natural. All the early awkwardness was gone. She'd only been in his life, what, two days? Yet it felt like she'd been a presence in his life for much longer. It wasn't long before the room was filled with the wonderful aromas of tomato sauce, roasted meat, and melted cheese. Lady curled up on Nora's lap as if she'd always been there. He wondered how hard it would be to convince her to take the dog when this was all done.
When would it be done? When she got her DNA test results, would that be enough for her? Would she get back in her Lincoln Navigator and disappear from his life forever, leaving him even more alone than before? It was a sad thought but a logical conclusion. She refilled his glass without him asking. Was she trying to get him drunk? Silly thought. She'd already made her intentions perfectly clear. They were going to be friends, maybe good friends, and that was just fine.
Dinner was serv
ed, and it was wonderful, of course. She hadn't lied. The pasta was firm without being brittle. The sauce had just a touch of garlic, but not enough to overwhelm the cheese. Before long, the wine was gone. Who drank most of it? He didn't remember, and his head was swimming too much to care. They talked a little more about Ed Boone, mostly speculating about why, exactly, he felt he couldn't reach out to Nora, but there wasn't much more to say for the time being.
He again wondered why he wasn't telling her he now had doubts that Ed's death was a suicide.
"What is it?" she said.
"What's that?"
She swirled what was left of her wine around in her glass. When she spoke, her voice was slurred. "You were frowning there. Quite the sad face."
"Was I? Oh, sorry."
"What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking … about how unfortunate it is that he never got a chance to know you."
Her eyes misted. She drank the rest of her wine in a single gulp, then put it on the table with a loud clatter.
"Well," she said, shrugging.
"He would have liked you."
"Maybe it's better."
"What do you mean?"
"I've built up all these ideas about what it might have been like. You know, to have a real father. I think my bubble would have been burst pretty quickly. Maybe it's better that I get, you know, the fantasy instead of the real thing. I mean, he is the guy that never bothered to get in touch with me. Maybe he wasn't so nice, you know?"
"Or he just had his own demons."
"Sure."
He thought she might cry, but then Lady, who apparently could endure the enticing smells in stoic silence no longer, whined a long, pitiful whine, a real doozy, and they both laughed. Nora, taking pity on her, put her plate on the floor. For such a small dog, Lady was able to inhale what was left with amazing speed, looking back at them with red sauce on her flat snout when Nora had barely sat back up. This got them laughing again, and then the dark clouds over their table—at least inside the motel room—had passed. Outside, the storm continued to rage.
Gage insisted on cleaning up. While he filled the sink with warm, soapy water, Nora sat on the couch and petted Lady in an absent-minded way, complaining how hard it was for her these days to get a quiet evening like this. He asked her why she kept doing it, and she said the music itself, writing it, playing it, and having people respond to it, was the one thing she truly loved. For that, she was willing to put up with a lot of crap.
"But sometimes I do have this little dream," she said, "of changing my name, my hair, and starting over as somebody else. Just travel around playing in little nightclubs and bars. I know it can't happen, but it's fun to think about. I even have a name picked out."
"Oh yeah?"
"Promise you won't laugh?"
"I will promise no such thing."
"Suzie Starlight," she said.
He laughed.
"It's silly, I know. But hey, you've got to admit, it's memorable."
"It is that."
"Oh, and you can think of a better one, I suppose?"
"How about Megan Moonbeam?"
"Now you're just making fun of me."
"Lucy Lazershow?"
"Careful, or I'll start calling you Grumpy Gary."
"I've shot people for less."
"Really?"
"No."
The tone was light, and they were both laughing, so it was all in good fun. When he finished the dishes, she got her guitar out of the bedroom, nearly dropping it on her way back. Settling on the recliner next to him, she looked at him uncertainly, a pink flush on her nose and neck.
"God, I'm nervous," she said.
"Really? But you've played in stadiums."
"It's always harder to play for one person than thousands. Especially if …"
"What?"
"Never mind. Gotta warm up a little first. Tell me something that makes you nervous."
"Huh? Why?"
"It'll help me. Come on, tough guy, there's got to be something."
She strummed some chords. He marveled at how nimble her fingers were, how they danced over the strings with lightness and ease. Any anxiety, at least outwardly, disappeared as she became fully engrossed with her guitar. He could have watched her like that for hours, not even playing a song, just filling the air with random notes.
"Okay," he said. "I've got something. It's kind of embarrassing."
"Oh, good. Embarrassing is good."
"I'm nervous about … motorcycles."
"Motorcycles?"
"Yeah. I had one in Montana when I was young. Took a bad spill."
"How bad?"
"Pretty bad."
"So bad that the thought of being on one makes you nervous?"
"Oh yeah."
She smiled. The rain subsided from a forceful pounding to a gentle drizzle, at least temporarily, so there was little obscuring her music. Even if the outside world had been engulfed in a hurricane, though, he didn't know if it would have mattered; he was so mesmerized by her that he was barely aware of anything else. She stopped warming and bowed her head. He thought something might have been wrong until she sat back up, her eyes with a distant gaze, and started to play.
The ships, the ships
They come and go,
And always I remain.
The ships, the ships
They come and go,
And me, I stay the same.
I can't teach you to sail
Or give you a course to chart,
But I'll guide you if you let me,
A lighthouse for the lonely heart.
The ships, the ships
They come and go,
And always I remain.
The ships, the ships
They come and go,
But me, I stay the same.
I can't stop the coming storm
Or make all the sorrow depart.
But I'll be here if you look for me,
A lighthouse for the lonely heart.
There were a few other verses, each as poignant. When she was finished, he wasn't sure if he should clap or just sit in appreciative silence. He settled on the latter, not really out of a conscious choice but because he was so moved. It wasn't just the tune, alternating mostly between G and C chords, or the lyrics, which her beautiful voice turned into something akin to gospel music, but that she had chosen him, of all people, to be the first person on this planet to hear it. She'd created something remarkable, something that had not existed in the world until she'd taken bits and pieces of her own life and pain and fashioned it into something that would move other people.
Gage had always been in awe of artists of all stripes, especially ones who'd achieved some level of excellence in their chosen trade. Musicians, painters, poets, even consummate players of the kazoo—it didn't matter what the art was, so long as the spark of creativity and mastery was there.
In the end, when she looked up at him with a vulnerability he found equally amazing, all he could say was, "Wow."
"You liked it?" she said.
"That would be an understatement. How did you do that?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just, you know, how did you come up with that? Did it just come to you all at once, perfect and whole?"
She laughed and put her guitar down next to her. "No. Usually I get a spark, one line, maybe part of a melody. It grows from there. There's some trial and error, some tweaking. Every now and then they come to me all at once, but that's rare. When it's right, I pretty much know it. People tend to know it, too."
"Could you always do it?"
"No. I had maybe some rough talent with my voice, but that's it. Nothing special. I sang in the shower. But then I picked up the guitar and it was like I was home, you know? I knew right away this was what I was supposed to do."
"Because you were so good?"
"No, I was terrible. But I wanted to work at it. That was the key, I wanted it, and I was really happy anytime I made even
the smallest progress. Hours and hours and hours. Took lessons, read books, watched videos—I just knew I wanted to be really, really good, and I was willing to work at it. Because it didn't feel like work, you know? It started here, actually. In Barnacle Bluffs."
"Really?"
Lady, who'd been waiting patiently on the floor for Nora to get rid of her silly guitar, leaped onto the couch, and Nora started petting her. "Yeah. Maybe that was part of it. Things started getting so rough with Mom that I wanted something to focus on, something that was mine."
"How did you get your big break?"
"There was no big break, just lots of little ones. Lots of setbacks, too. But it didn't matter. I was going to keep playing anyway, for me. If I didn't think I could get better, I'd probably quit. I think that's what I'm hooked on more than anything else—always striving to get better. Maybe one of these days I'll actually get good at it. I'm really just a beginner, you know."
It was the second time in less than five minutes that she'd done something that dumbfounded Gage. First she'd blown him away with a song that was obviously, in her words, really good, and now she seemed to sincerely believe that she was a beginner. Nora West, singer, songwriter, adored by millions of fans, a beginner. It boggled his mind.
"Well, I think you're pretty amazing," he said.
She looked at Lady, and Gage was fairly certain he detected a blush. This was no false modesty, either. She was the real deal. Though he shouldn't have been surprised at how genuine she was, based on the quality of her music alone, he still was. He didn't pay much attention to the tabloid world, whether that gossipy garbage was printed on the cheap newsprint that adorned the checkout racks at Jaybee's or posted on the Internet by attention-seeking celebrities and their Insta-something accounts, but somehow the warped and distorted view of Nora West had still seeped into his consciousness. This moment, right here, finally cleared the last vestiges of it away for him. He was glad to be rid of it.
"I'm just trying to keep it real, you know?" she said. "It's hard. It's like the rest of the world around me is totally insane. But the music, yeah."
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 18
