Then he returned to tracking room A. Jade walked in the opposite direction, back through the tiny office with all the hard drives of projects she was working on and into the control room. She closed the door, sealing herself in a space designed to tame and deaden sound. The control room was more than command central: it was the chamber of a heart. With the wooden diffusers on the wall and ten inches of insulation above the cloud—the ceiling panel angled low over the console—it pumped silence.
The studio had no exterior windows, but in here two huge sections of plate glass looked into the tracking rooms. On the other side of the larger pane, the singer talked to Darius while the bassist watched Sasha with greedy eyes. No surprise there. For a stick-thin white girl Sasha was one hot chick, but the last thing they needed this weekend was a megastar who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Darius glared at the bassist. Good, he’d picked up the vibe.
The control room glowed with warm light from the old standing lamp, her lava lamps, and the red holiday lights looped over invisible command hooks. Smiling at her collection of rock-and-roll bobble heads, Jade bobbed Iggy Pop. Then she flopped onto the leather sofa Marianne had found on Craigslist—Nightjar was filled with rescued junk or rediscovered treasures, depending on your outlook—and picked up Darius’s phone. Many guys had drifted through Marianne’s life pre-Darius. All of them totally off their rockers. Marianne wasn’t drawn to straightforward guys, which meant that if Reverend Gabriel Bonham had been Marianne’s first love, chances were high he was fucked up. Fucked up and religious? This could get super weird super quick. Across the Atlantic, a phone rang once.
“Newton Rushford rectory,” a male voice whispered.
“Is this Gabriel? Like the Gabriel?” On her mixing desk little boxes of light framed her white computer screen. She should ask Marianne’s dad for the scoop on this dude, assuming he could even remember his daughter’s first sweetheart. So many guys, so little time had been Marianne’s motto until she turned forty.
“The Gabriel? Interesting, I’d always assumed there were many Gabriels. Including the archangel.” He yawned.
“I’m looking for the Gabriel who was Marianne Stokes’s sidekick way back yonder.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been given that label, but yes, this is he. Gabriel Bonham.” His voice wavered as if he was walking, and then a door closed. “How can I help?”
“My name is Jade Jones, and I’m trying to track down Marianne.” Jade curled her legs underneath her. The pain in her temple returned, pounding like the crack of a snare drum. “Is she with you?”
“Ah,” he said, as if it all made sense. “I’m not at liberty to answer that.”
Jade sat up and gave the leather cushion a victory punch. She’d found her. She’d found Marianne! “Are you Catholic?”
“No. I’m an Anglican priest.”
Her mind flashed to the sleazebag on the streets with the clerical collar and the wandering right hand she’d broken. “No idea what that means. Do you have sanctuary, the confessional, all that jazz?”
“Not per se, but I do hear confessions and have a code of professional confidentiality that—”
“How’s her mood?”
“Excuse me?”
“Her mood.” Good grief. Did the guy need a PowerPoint? “Marianne’s manic-depressive. A person with a mood disorder. Have you seen her take her meds? Has she slept, eaten? How does she seem to you? Agitated? Overly happy? Frantic? Depressed? Is she talking too fast?”
“I wondered when you’d pause for breath,” Gabriel said.
“Is she with you and is she safe?”
“Do you know what time it is over here?”
“No clue.”
“Hang on a sec, let me—” Birds tweeted down the phone line. “That’s the dawn chorus. It’s four in the morning.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, let’s cut the crap. I have a dilemma. I know she wants space, and I intend to respect that, but her psychiatrist won’t speak to me or her husband, and I need proof that she’s safe and on her meds. Do you have any idea what she’s like unmedicated?”
“Can I ask what your relationship is with Marianne?”
Interesting. She hadn’t expected a display of male protectiveness. He’d better not be planning on rekindling teenage love lost. And he’d better not be part of some secret plan. The moment they were off the phone, she was Dumpster diving through Marianne’s email and Facebook messages. If these guys had stayed in contact, she wanted to know before Darius.
“Okay, buddy. Let me back up.” Jade shifted position and the leather sofa creaked. “You want a credible detail so you know I’m not bullshitting you? You guys used to lift candy from the village store and smoke weed in the cemetery. How do I know this? When I was the same age, I was living on the streets and Marianne rescued me. She’s my best friend, my mom, my employer, and the one person on the planet I would die for. So I need to know she’s safe, and you will give me a straight answer or my next call will be to the cops over there in the English boonies.”
“Boonies?”
“The boondocks.”
“We appear to be speaking a different language.” His voice was jovial, right up until he sighed. “Please don’t call the police. I think that would be most unwise.” He paused. “People have the right to disappear.”
“Not if they’re a danger to themselves.”
“What evidence do you have that—”
“She’s been in a good place for years, but there was this car accident in February and something shifted. I think she might be in a mixed state, which is the worst of the worst.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Marianne blames herself for the accident, although the other driver was at fault. And I’m worried she’s up to something with her meds. And without treatment and properly used medication, bipolar is a fatal disease that comes with a one-in-five chance of suicide.” She may have shouted that last bit. “Do you know her mania can morph into hallucinations and psychosis? Do you know she’s been hospitalized five times, three of those for attempting suicide? Do you know how to handle that shit?”
“Yes, I believe I have both witnessed it firsthand and handled it. And I can assure you that I have saved her life once and would do so again if need be.”
“That’s not enough, Gabe.”
“Gabriel.”
“If I can’t get confirmation that she’s okay and taking her meds, her husband’s going to be on the next flight to London, and that’s not a situation you want to provoke. He’s the jealous type and won’t take kindly to someone pissing in his paddling pool.”
“Delightful image. Thank you.”
“Come on, Padre.”
“I’m not a—”
“Give me something I can work with or I’ll make your life hell.”
“Are you threatening me?” His voice lightened. “Because if so, it seems only fair to warn you that I’m six two and a former rugby player.”
“Yeah? I’m five feet, four inches of New York attitude with a black belt in tae kwon do. Rock-paper-scissors, I win. Plus I can hang up and call the cops.”
“Truce,” he said. “How about I inform you that my drinking buddy is a semiretired psychiatrist who lives two villages over?”
“You drink?”
“Isn’t that rather a personal question?”
“Aren’t you all saintly and abstaining?”
“Again. Isn’t that rather a personal question?”
“Let’s get back to your shrink.”
“My friend.”
“The shrink.”
“Why does this conversation feel like a chess match?”
“Because I outmaneuvered you?”
Gabriel laughed. “I believe you did.”
“Look. I don’t care what went down between you guys in the past. And I’m not asking you to betray a confidence. I just need to know that someone I love is safe. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”
“If Marianne were
here,” Gabriel said, his voice slow and hushed, “I’d give you my word that I would ask my friend Hugh, the shrink, to come for a visit. But not tomorrow, since I have a wedding to officiate. I believe something could be arranged after services on Sunday. Possibly a picnic. I have neglected my afternoon walks of late.”
Just when she was beginning to like the guy, he turned all pompous.
“Not till Sunday?”
“I do have a job, you know, quite a demanding one.”
“Here’s my final offer: you get your psychiatrist buddy to meet with her on Sunday, but you have to check in with me at this time tomorrow—”
“At four in the morning?”
“How about six p.m. my time. That’s what over there?”
“Eleven at night.”
“You’re still up then?”
“Yes. I’m something of a night owl.”
“Me too.” She paused. “And if anything happens that you’re not comfortable with before then, you call 911.”
“911?”
“The emergency services. Men in white coats with big syringes of happy meds.”
“Ah. 999.”
“And I’ll need evidence she’s taking her meds. I’m going to give you some phone numbers. Grab a pen.”
She recited her cell phone number and the landline at the house. “If you text me tomorrow and assure me that Marianne’s okay, I’ll prevent her husband from calling the cops or issuing a hit on you. You do know how to text, right?”
“I’m a clergyman, not a dinosaur. Yes, I know how to text. I even own an iPod Classic.”
“Dude, you know you can’t text on that, right?”
“Yes, I do. I was merely trying to make a point. But if I were to agree to this hypothetical situation”—Gabriel’s tone turned serious—“you would need to assure me that her husband is not abusive.”
As Jade watched through the glass, Darius turned his back on the band members and covered his eyes with his right hand. “What has she told you about him?”
Sasha tapped Darius on the shoulder. He swiped at both eyes and, turning with a fake smile, mouthed, Headache. Good recovery, but the poor bastard needed a hug so bad. If not for the megastars, she would hang up and go give him one. And take him out for espresso gelato. How could Marianne treat him this way?
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Gabriel said, “but a few seconds ago you mentioned a hired assassin. That leads me to believe this man might be dangerous.”
“He’s a pussycat who likes to flash his claws. Darius can spend an entire afternoon trying to capture a skink trapped inside the house so he can release it back into the wild without physical or psychological trauma.”
“What’s a skink?”
“A small lizard. They shoot in from the deck when one of the girls leaves the door open.”
“Girls?”
“In addition to the recording studio, Marianne runs a nonprofit group to empower teen girls through music. Well, I do, these days. Some of the girls end up working in the studio. The high-risk ones end up sleeping at the house. Look.” Jade stared into a speaker cone. “Despite the messed-up brain chemistry, Marianne’s found some kind of equilibrium with her illness, especially in the last ten years. But this thing with the car accident—I’ve never seen her like this. You should know she sustained a head injury, which means we’ve entered the vast unknown. And Darius is about to snap. Worry for Marianne is ripping him in two, and I’m hoping that’s part of the reason she left—to protect us. I’m also hoping she’ll come back, because God only knows what’ll happen to Darius if she doesn’t.”
“And you—what will happen to you?”
“That’s not a place I can go.” One of her red lightbulbs had blown. The fat, old-fashioned Christmas bulbs that were getting harder to find. “There’s something else you should know. A piece of information that stays between us, whether you do confessionals or not. She made Darius a promise, when they got married, that she wouldn’t try to kill herself again. I think she might be struggling to keep that promise.”
“You said part of the reason she left. What do you think the other part is?”
“Something to do with a teen stud called Simon. Do you know him?”
“He was my brother. He died.” Gabriel’s breathing changed. “The first time she tried to kill herself, it was on his grave. I’m the one who found her.”
“Wait. You two had a thing and then she moved on to your brother? Man, that’s harsh.”
“Thank you for explaining that to me.”
“Out of curiosity, how did he die?’
“Car crash. He was driving, but Marianne and I were in the car.”
“That’s it. That’s the link. Omi-fucking-god. That’s it!”
He coughed.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to swear, Father.” She paused. “One last thing. Marianne left Darius a letter, asking for space to figure out whatever it is she needs to figure out. If she knows we’re talking, she could run again—and I don’t want to think about what could happen if she’s in crisis and alone. Clearly she trusts you. You need to keep that trust, and we need to pull together to watch over her. Even if that means acting in secret.”
“I can’t lie, Jade.”
“Is it lying if you omit to tell the truth? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing with me for the last fifteen minutes?”
“She’s safe,” he said.
“Thank you.” She rested her head on the back of the sofa. “Thank you.”
“And you, are you alright?”
She sat up. “Me?”
“Yes, you. You sound weary.”
“Killer headache.” Unlike Darius’s, her headache was real. “And a famous band just arrived for a week of recording. Marianne’s timing’s a little off.”
“Or maybe she did this so you and Darius could focus on work and not on her?”
“Nice idea, but the bipolar part of her brain has poor impulse control. I think it has more to do with a broken finger. That can be tomorrow’s bedtime story.”
“If Marianne is here—”
“Which you can’t confirm or deny, but we’ve established she’s safe.”
“Precisely. If she is here, how about I try to persuade her to stay while you deal with your band. When do they leave?”
“Next Friday.”
“I could probably handle an imaginary houseguest till then.”
“You would do that? Omigod, I could kiss you. Or not. Sorry. That was completely inappropriate.” Jade stood up. “But she has to stay with you. And you must check in with me every day at the same time. You miss one message and the cops will be pounding on your door. And I—Oh shit! You moron!” Jade screamed through the double-plated, soundproof glass.
“Excuse me?” Gabriel said.
The bassist, eyes still on Sasha, had leaped up—straight into the boom arm over the drum kit. He appeared to be out cold, while the singer, frowning as attention in the room shifted to the body on the floor, raised her arm dramatically to her forehead and collapsed next to him.
“One of the band members knocked himself out on an overhead mic. Another appears to have fainted. Welcome to my life.”
“Gracious. I hope no one needs a doctor. Call if I can be of assistance.”
Was this dude for real?
“Marianne’s family, capisce?” Jade said as she flew out of the control room door. “You screw this up and I’ll have your balls for breakfast.”
“Jade!” Darius screamed. “Get your ass in here.”
“Go.” Gabriel laughed. “I’ve got this.”
Jade stopped. People never said that to her, and if they did, she didn’t believe it, certainly not if it came from a man.
SEVEN
MARIANNE
Still wearing her clothes from the flight, Marianne woke to the scraping of a chair across a noncarpeted floor, a phone ringing, and a bizarre picture of an angel bent double in anguish. A celestial being with issues was an odd choice, especially for Ga
briel, the guy who only knew how to proceed on a steady line of normalcy. She’d done everything a girl could do to provoke his anger, his jealousy, his passion, and gotten nowhere.
Do you have a breaking point, Gabriel?
Brr, the room was freezing. As she stretched over to relatch the window, her diamond engagement ring flashed. Unless he was a masochist, Gabriel couldn’t still be in love with her, but how did you waltz back into someone’s life after thirty years and not let in a gust of past emotions? Or was she, once again, measuring him by her standards? She might never have outgrown her mom’s nickname of my emotional mess, but Gabriel had matured into a staid-looking adult.
Below, a pair of blue tits splashed in a concrete birdbath centered in the neatly trimmed rectangle of lawn. On one side a thin flower border rioted with color. Not the hot tones of the American South, but tall spikes of crimson hollyhocks, blues of Canterbury bells, and a mass of lavender. How her mom had loved that plant. Marianne crossed her hands over her chest. She would buy Jade the biggest basket of lavender when she got home: pass the love forward a generation.
Hopefully Darius and Jade would see that she’d made the right decision, that she’d run away to protect their future as a family. Her mom would’ve understood, and Gabriel would too, once she’d extracted an open-ended promise from him. Easy-peasy, provided she could find the boy thief inside the man.
Marianne grabbed a hair claw from her unpacked bag. After securing her hair in a haphazard french roll, she opened the bedroom door. No evidence of Gabriel or a sleeping bag. Maybe she’d imagined the whole thing. Wouldn’t be the first time.
When she reached the bottom step, she smelled fresh coffee. Gabriel’s voice called through the open kitchen door. “Morning.”
She walked in, rubbing her arms. Gabriel was sitting at the kitchen table in a T-shirt and sweatpants, one leg resting loosely across his knee, his feet bare. He rustled the Church Times and peered over his turquoise reading glasses. They amplified the blue of his eyes, like a visual version of Fender reverb—the effect Darius loved to use to expand bass tracks.
“Cold?” Gabriel said, as if they had breakfast together every morning.
“This”—Marianne pointed at her mouth and mimicked teeth chattering—“is a big clue.”
Echoes of Family Page 7
