Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series)

by Breton, Laurie

  Yet that thing with teeth latched onto her every time she saw a mother walking with a baby in a stroller. It took a sharp bite out of her heart each time she noticed a pregnant woman on the crowded sidewalks of downtown Boston, or watched a child chasing squirrels on the Common. It sank even deeper into her every time she walked onto the children’s ward at the hospital.

  And now this. Was this some kind of test? Because if it was, she feared she had failed it dismally.

  Casey glanced again at the tearstained letter in her hand and questioned what kind of mother her sister would be. Colleen was a spoiled, self-involved, boy-crazy teenager with a strong aversion to all domestic chores and less than zero interest in anything baby-related. What possible chance would this baby have, with a mother like that?

  But it wasn’t her place to question. The damage was already done. She had no power to change the past, and it was too soon to determine what the future might bring. Colleen would muddle through somehow, and Casey would settle for being the best aunt in the world. That was her place in this disastrous scenario. She would offer love and support, and keep her pain to herself. In the meantime, she would intensify her efforts to move Danny’s career forward, for at the end of his rainbow lay her own pot of gold.

  She took a ragged breath, squared her shoulders, and pulled open the kitchen drawer in search of a writing tablet and a pen. At the kitchen table, as the morning sun poured in around her, she paused to think for a moment, then began to write.

  Dear Colleen,

  Of course you can wear the dress. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Mama would be so proud! Danny and I wish you both the very best. We are beyond thrilled about our new niece or nephew. There is no blessing more precious than a new life. If you need any help with anything, you know where to find me.

  Love always,

  Casey

  chapter eight

  Anxiously examining her reflection in the mirror, Casey adjusted the navy suit and tried to settle the butterflies cavorting in her midsection. With the suit, she wore a white tailored blouse and a single strand of pearls that had belonged to her mother. Her navy pumps matched the suit, and she’d pulled her hair up into a sleek bun atop her head.

  The cool, professional woman who looked back at her from the mirror seemed older than her nineteen years. She wore the clothes with a flair that said she’d been born to money and elegance. Nobody looking at her would have guessed that she had bought the suit at a thrift store, or that the pumps were borrowed from Rob’s sister Rose. Or that she was so nervous, she felt like throwing up.

  She was well prepared. She had spent days in the library, devouring the entertainment sections of two years’ back issues of the Globe, the Herald, the Phoenix, making photocopies of any mention of Danny Fiore and his band. She had spent more hours listening to local radio stations, tracking programming patterns and analyzing play lists, acquainting herself with on-air personalities, targeting the stations and jocks she believed would be most receptive to new local talent. She had rehearsed her spiel so many times, she could recite it in her sleep.

  At a knock on the door, she gave herself a final cursory glance and went to let Rob in. He took a look at her and let out a long, low whistle.

  Casey smiled ruefully. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  He was wearing a red paisley shirt and an Army jacket that had passed disreputable eons ago. Rob always looked like a rag picker beside Danny, who, even in Levi’s, always managed to look as though he’d stepped from the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. “The shirt has to go,” she said. “And the jacket. Let’s see what we can find.”

  She found a green silk shirt in the closet, and a charcoal tweed jacket. “Try this,” she said.

  Although Rob was tall, he was whippet-thin, and Danny’s shirt hung off his bony shoulders as if it had given up all hope. Casey found a green striped tie to go with it, and he stood like an obedient little boy as she knotted and adjusted it for him.

  “There,” she said, patting it for good measure. “You’ll do.” She paused to study the results of her work. “You should wear green more often,” she said. “It brings out the color in those nice green eyes of yours.”

  He flushed and quickly changed the subject. “What’s our first stop?” he said.

  “WBAC. Rocky Harte, boy-wonder programming director. They play primarily Top 40 and have been known to give airplay to unknowns.”

  The WBAC studios were located in one of downtown Boston’s elegant older buildings. The elevator glided silently to the fifth floor, the doors slid open, and they found themselves in an ornate, cavernous hallway. “Hell of a dump,” Rob said.

  She took a deep breath to steel herself as they approached a glass door painted with WBAC’s call letters. “Just back me up,” she said. “No matter what outlandish thing I say, just play along and back me up.”

  “I’m with you all the way,” he said. “Ready?”

  She took one more breath, letting it out slowly, relaxing her features to erase her nervousness. “Ready,” she said, and together they went through the door.

  The receptionist gave Rob a cursory glance. “Hi,” she said to Casey, and snapped her gum. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. My name is Casey Fiore, and I have a ten o’clock appointment with Rocky Harte.”

  The girl looked doubtful, but she picked up the intercom and held a brief, low-keyed conversation before covering the mouthpiece with her hand. “I’m sorry, Miss Fiore,” she said, “but Mr. Harte says he doesn’t have a ten o’clock appointment.”

  “That’s impossible,” Casey said. “It’s written right here in my book.” She opened the briefcase she’d bought on sale at Filene’s and took out her leather-bound appointment book and opened it to a blank page. “It’s right here. I—oh, damn.” She closed her eyes. “I did it again.”

  Rob, who had been unhurriedly studying the Warhol print on the wall over the couch, scowled at her. “You didn’t,” he said.

  “Oh, Rob,” she wailed, “I did.” Turning to the receptionist, she said, “I have the wrong day. I’m so embarrassed.”

  The receptionist looked from Casey to Rob and then back. “What day were you supposed to be here?”

  “You dragged me all the way down here on the wrong day?” Rob said. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Jesus, woman, can’t you ever keep anything straight?”

  “I’m sorry!” she hissed. “Do you think you could keep it down? I’m embarrassed enough as it is!”

  The receptionist, still holding the phone, gave him a nasty look that spoke volumes. “Hang on,” she told Casey. “Maybe there’s something I can do for you.” There was another quick, whispered conversation, then she smiled. “If you’d like to sit down, Mr. Harte will be with you in a minute.”

  “Thank you so much,” Casey said. She cast a quick glance at Rob, who had returned, scowling, to the Warhol. Leaning toward the girl, she whispered, “You saved my life. When that man gets angry, he’s a beast. An absolute animal.”

  The receptionist sent a frosty look at Rob’s back. A door opened, and a wiry, dark-haired man emerged. “Casey Fiore?” he said.

  She offered her hand. “Mr. Harte,” she said. “I’m Casey Fiore. And this is my business partner, Rob MacKenzie.”

  The two men shook hands, and Rocky Harte ushered them into his office and shut the door. He perched on the edge of a battered walnut desk and picked up a Styrofoam coffee cup. Turning it in his hand, he said, “I don’t know who the hell you two are, or why you’re here, but I appreciate a good bluff as well as the next guy.” His gaze left the coffee cup and fell on Rob, then on Casey. “That’s why instead of having you thrown out I’m giving you exactly five minutes to tell me what you want.” He checked his watch. “Starting right now.”

  It was all the opening she needed. From the briefcase, she pulled out a white-jacketed 45 record. “This,” she said, “is why we’re here.”

  They spent nearly an hour with Rocky Harte
, leaving with his promise of two weeks of airplay, more if there was enough demand. Stomach churning, Casey left Rob waiting for the elevator and dashed for the nearest washroom and threw up.

  And then they hit the next station on her list.

  ***

  Like most children, Benny Juarez was tougher than he looked. He bounced back from chemo with amazing resiliency, surprising everyone when the doctors declared that his cancer appeared to be in remission. Casey obtained special permission from Dr. Harris to take him out for an afternoon, and they spent it at the zoo, where Benny stared in open-mouthed amazement at the monkeys and the llamas and the elephants.

  But his favorite animal, by far, was the peacock. When the flashy bird strutted across his pen, his brilliantly-colored tail feathers splayed for the benefit of the peahen, Benny squealed with delight. It was all Casey could do to drag him away when it was time to leave. In the gift shop, she bought him a single peacock feather that he clutched in his grubby little hand as though it might disappear if he loosened his hold.

  Danny met them for dinner at McDonald’s. He offered Benny his hand and said solemnly, “So this is my competition. It’s nice to meet you, Benny.” Benny said nothing, but his gaze never left the blue-eyed giant who bought him a Happy Meal and treated him like an adult.

  After dinner, they returned Benny to the hospital, and while Danny waited in the car, Casey carried the child to the ward and undressed him. His head flopped from side to side in exhaustion as she untied his shoelaces and pulled off his shoes and socks. He fell asleep immediately, a smile on his face and the peacock feather still clamped in his fist.

  Danny was double-parked outside, and she scooted for the Chevy through a light misting rain. Slamming the door behind her, she said, “It looks like he’s smitten. I’m jealous.”

  Turning on the windshield wipers, Danny said, “He’s probably just lacking a strong male role model.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Freud. You took one psychology course in college and now you have all the answers.”

  The next day, Ruth Mendez, the hospital social worker, called Casey into her office. “Shut the door,” Mendez said, “and have a seat.”

  Curious, she took a chair near the window. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve heard that you and Benny Juarez have a special relationship.”

  Defensively, she said, “He’s a wonderful little boy. I can’t help loving him.”

  Mendez nodded. “I imagine you know a little bit about his background, but let me fill in the gaps for you. Benny’s mother was fifteen when he was born. Since then, she’s been married and divorced twice, she’s had three other children, and now she’s living with a boyfriend who has a history of abusive behavior. She’s decided she can’t take care of Benny.”

  Casey’s heart skipped a beat. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” Mendez said, “she’s decided to turn his custody over to the Department of Child and Family Services.”

  “She doesn’t want him?” Casey asked in disbelief.

  Mendez’s mouth thinned. “I’d prefer to be kind and say she’s overwhelmed.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “He’ll go into foster care. If he’s very lucky, he’ll find adoptive parents. But the odds aren’t in his favor. He’s four years old, he’s Hispanic, and he has a life-threatening disease.” Mendez drummed her fingers idly on the desk. “There aren’t many people out there willing to adopt a child with that many strikes against him.”

  Casey had to hunt for her voice. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Mendez smiled. “Just playing a hunch,” she said.

  She worked her shift that night in a daze. If she’d read Ruth Mendez correctly, what the social worker was suggesting was an impossibility. Danny would never agree to taking in a child. He would have an arsenal of arguments, reasons why it wouldn’t work, and every one of them would be valid.

  But her heart ached for Benny, and when her shift ended at eleven, she took the T directly to the Back Bay to talk to Danny.

  ***

  With Heart of Darkness getting heavy airplay, her telephone had rung incessantly all summer. As pro bono booking agent for the band, she’d actually had to turn down several lucrative offers because the boys were booked solid. This weekend, like the past two, they’d packed people like sardines into a Boylston Street watering hole known as The Bull Pen. Casey could hear the throbbing of the music while still on the sidewalk, and when she opened the door, sound poured out over her in a rolling wave. She warmly greeted the black giant who stood in the foyer. “Hello, Dud. How’s it going tonight?”

  “Hot.” He flashed her a wide, white grin. “Very hot.”

  She checked her coat and purse and began working her way through the crowd, murmuring vague apologies and smiling distractedly at the men who turned to give her a second glance. She could feel it tonight—something loose in the room, some magic that spread like wildfire through the tangle of bodies and bound them together. It didn’t always happen. There were good nights and bad ones, receptive audiences and apathetic ones. But Dud was right. Tonight, the electricity crackled in the air.

  The final notes of Heart of Darkness faded away, and Danny hung up his microphone and left the stage. The crowd was rowdy, and he was stopped several times by spirited Saturday-night revelers. He kept darting glances her way as he worked his way through the crowd, and the set of his shoulders told her he was upset about something. He reached her at last, his face thunderous, his eyes steely. “I need some air,” he said, brushing past her without stopping.

  In the alley outside, he lit a cigarette and began pacing. His voice tight, he said, “Jake’s quitting the band.”

  It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Jake Edwards was a talented drummer, and he’d been with Danny for years. “Oh, no,” she said. “Why?”

  “Brenda’s pregnant.”

  Her mouth went suddenly dry. “And?”

  “And,” he said bitterly, “they’re flat broke. He’s going to sell his drums and go to work in her father’s shoe store.”

  “Oh, Danny. Isn’t there any other way?”

  “He says they’ve talked the subject to death, and it’s the only answer. He’s throwing away his whole damn future.”

  The warm glow inside her had gone cold. “Maybe,” she ventured, “they wanted a baby.”

  He snorted. “She wanted a baby, not they. She stopped taking her birth control pills and neglected to mention it to Jake. I’d throttle any woman who ever did that to me.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Not that you ever would,” he added. “You have your priorities in order.”

  For some reason, she was having difficulty breathing. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “We run an ad. Audition people. Hope to Christ we find someone we can work with.” He flung his unsmoked cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. “Did you feel it tonight?”

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “I felt it the minute I walked through the door.”

  He leaned against the dirty bricks of the building across the alley and kicked at a clump of dead weeds. “We’ve never sounded better, we’ve got more work than we can handle, and he decides to walk. Why? Why now?”

  Casey thought about Benny Juarez. About Brenda Edwards, and about her own sister, Colleen. Then, squaring her shoulders, she crossed the alley to her husband. Beneath the cool silk of his shirt, his muscles were taut, hard. “We’ll figure something out,” she said.

  And he took her in his arms.

  ***

  The week the band began auditioning drummers, Benny Juarez left St. Peter’s for the foster home of a young black couple in Mattapan. Casey could have made the trip out to Mattapan to visit, but what was the sense? Her heart had already been broken once, and she wasn’t sure it could take any more good-byes. It was better for both of them if she made a clean break.

  So she buried her despair in work. The drum auditions weren’t going well. Jake was gett
ing antsy because of the heat Brenda was putting on him. Travis paced and muttered and shook his head, while Danny and Rob turned down hopeful after hopeful, both of them intent on finding a drummer of Jake’s caliber.

  It wasn’t easy. From Lowell to Fall River, every young hotshot with a drum set wanted to be a member of Boston’s hottest rock band. Hoping to weed out the amateurs from the professionals, Danny reworded his ad to say serious musicians only. But it seemed that all the kids thought they were serious. Everybody wanted a piece of the action. So he tried again: working musicians only. But that was a flop, because the working musicians weren’t looking for work.

  A month later, when they still hadn’t found anyone suitable, Brenda Edwards issued an ultimatum: her or the band. Brenda had been raised in a devout Christian home, and she’d always hated Jake’s involvement with rock music, hated the late nights and the raucous atmosphere and the trashy women who threw themselves at him. Her father had offered Jake a job that he wouldn’t hold open forever, and she’d already found a buyer for his drum set. Brenda made it abundantly clear that Jake’s loyalty belonged to his wife. He didn’t owe anything to Danny Fiore and the rest of that bunch. If they couldn’t find another drummer, that was their problem, not his. It was time for Jake to settle down and become a responsible adult.

  So in the end, they had to settle for what they could get. Out of the plethora of young drummers they’d auditioned, they picked Peter Farrell, a twenty-year-old from Somerville. Pete was a personable guy, slightly intimidated by Danny but eager to please. Although he had a tendency toward flashiness that Danny planned to break him of immediately, Pete’s sense of rhythm and timing weren’t bad, and while Danny popped Rolaids like they were candy, the band went into intense rehearsal.

  And during off-hours, Casey and Rob wrote furiously.