“I’d love to, babe, but your timing is terrible. The girls and I are on the train, halfway to Coney Island. I promised them the beach, and they’re getting the beach.” She paused. Said, “You could always hop a train and join us.”
The dead-last place he wanted to be on this sunny summer day was on a train headed for Coney Island. A little disappointed, he said, “I think I’ll take a rain check. I have plenty here to keep me busy. Give Emmy a kiss for me. I’ll see you later.”
Even without Casey’s companionship, it was a rush, playing hooky from work. Dealing with Phoenix Hightower and his antics had turned into one big headache. Funny, back when he was producing for Danny, it had never felt like work. Nor had it with the handful of artists he’d signed to his own fledgling record label in the last fifteen months. It had felt more like play, the kind of play that left him elated and made his soul sing. But Danny Fiore, and the artists Rob had signed to his Two Dreamers label, were people he believed in, artists who were deeply invested in their own careers. Artists who listened to what he had to say and who respected his opinions and his input. Even when they didn’t agree, they were still willing to try his ideas on for size.
Phoenix wasn’t there yet. He might not ever get there. Right now, the kid was too caught up in the fame and fortune, the parties and the drugs and the easy women, to care one whit about the quality of the material he produced. He was just taking the ride, without a thought for the future. But the future would come, as surely as tomorrow’s sun would rise, and when his ride slammed into that brick wall, Phoenix Hightower would crash and burn like so many others Rob had seen over the years.
He ducked into a small bakery, bought himself a glazed doughnut, and ate it while he walked. Rob loved the quiet of home, loved raising his kids with the kind of safety, comfort, and community that a rural Maine town like Jackson Falls could provide. But at heart, he was still a city boy, and New York was the ultimate city, one loaded with novelty and excitement, a place he didn’t think he could ever tire of.
He’d passed this music store a hundred times, had admired all the guitars displayed in the window just as often, had itched to take one in his hands and make it sing. But he’d always been in a hurry, always on a deadline, always headed somewhere else. Today, there was nowhere else he had to be, and today, he was going to treat himself to a little bit of bliss.
He licked the doughnut glazing from his fingers, wiped them on a wrinkled tissue he pulled from his pocket, and sauntered into the store.
It was a guitar player’s heaven. Guitars of all shapes and varieties stood on stands, hung overhead, sat shoulder-to-shoulder on shelves, an abundance of rapture so magnificent that, like a kid dropped into a vat of cotton candy, he didn’t know where to begin. He started at the beginning, picked up the nearest guitar, a shiny Fender acoustic, figuring he’d work his way through them all, one riff at a time.
“Can I help you?”
He paused, guitar in hand, strings throbbing beneath his fingertips. The sales clerk, a twenty-something kid, clean-cut and eager in a white dress shirt and navy blue tie, was undoubtedly as knowledgeable about guitars as Rob was about alligators. “Just looking,” he said.
The kid nodded, as though he’d said something sage and significant. “What kind of music do you play?”
He carefully replaced the Fender, moved to a shiny blue Yamaha. Picked it up, ran callused fingertips along smooth, lacquered wood and almost shuddered at the rich, sensual delight it brought him. “A little of this, a little of that.”
“Country? Folk?”
“Rock. Blues. Jazz.”
“A rocker. Well, then, I have this sweet little Jackson over here that you’ll love. Come check it out.”
Rob followed him, noted the price, took the Jackson hard-body electric in hand, ran a finger up and down one of the strings, fluttered it a little at the end. “Nice,” he said. “Nice sound. Good and responsive. Easy on the fingers.”
“I can give you a great deal on it. Twenty percent down, small monthly payments.”
“What else do you have? A little higher end than this?”
The kid reminded him of a used car salesman, the words higher end sending dollar signs rolling around his head where there should have been eyeballs. “Right over here in the window,” he said, “there’s this very nice Gretsch.” He bounced up three steps to the window display, took the Gretsch from its stand, came back and handed it to Rob. “This is real quality.”
With the kid beaming like a proud papa, Rob checked it out, tested the sound, the feel. Running his hand over the smooth, glassy finish, he said, “I come home with another guitar, my wife’ll be showing me the door.”
“Oh, come on. Play the lady some pretty music. Woo her with it. She’ll love it.”
“I’m not looking to buy,” he said. “I’m just looking.”
“But I bet you’re dying to try it out.” The salesman’s cheeks were pink with excitement over the prospect of a sale, and of course he was right; Rob was dying to try it out. His face was too damned expressive. Casey always said he wore his heart on his sleeve. It was why he was such a lousy poker player. And the kid was smart enough to know that, just like selling a new car, getting the customer into the ride was the first step in making a sale.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll try it out .”
The kid, practically rubbing his hands together in glee, disappeared into the back room. He returned a minute later, carrying a wooden stool, a small amp, and a power cord. He set down the stool, the amp, and began unwinding the cord. “We just plug it in here,” he said, “and here, and, voilà! There you have it. Now, let’s see what you can do.”
The guy obviously had no clue who he was, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. He preferred anonymity. He didn’t want people chasing after him the way they had with Danny, because that pretty face of Danny’s had been splashed across every magazine cover, every television screen, from coast to coast. Although he’d done a couple years of solo work after they split, the bulk of his career had been spent backing up Danny Fiore’s soaring vocals. He’d been content to let Danny be the front man. He was much happier staying in the background, where people could enjoy his playing without paying too much attention to his face.
He settled himself on the stool, adjusted the amplifier, spun a couple of dials on the guitar, played with the tuning knobs until the strings were in perfect tune. While the clerk stood by, arms crossed and a smug expression on his face, Rob launched himself into some classic twelve-bar blues as a warm-up exercise.
The Gretsch was a joy to play. His fingers glided over the strings like hot buttered popcorn as he added in a playful riff or two, improvised a melody line. When he glanced up from the guitar, the kid, his expression changed from smug to astonished, had been joined by the girl who ran the cash register.
Rob nodded to her, closed his eyes, and lost himself in the music as he played a haunting, weepy blues melody that came from deep in his core. When he finished, he opened his eyes and saw that a couple of customers had stopped to listen. He rose, prepared to hand over the guitar, but the cash register girl said, “Don’t stop! Please don’t stop!” So he reclaimed his comfortable spot on the stool, closed his eyes again, and let the music wash over him.
He had no idea how long he played. Ten minutes? An hour? He played a little Clapton, a little Stevie Ray. Some of his own originals, songs he and Casey had written for Danny that had become big hits. As he played, he heard whispers coming from all around him. A couple of times, he thought he heard his name being bandied about. But he was too wrapped up in the music to register the fact that his cover was blown, his anonymity tossed to the wind.
When he finally finished, the last note still reverberating, he emerged from his fog and blinked a couple of times, surprised to remember where he was, more surprised to discover that a small crowd had gathered. Their applause stunned and exhilarated him. He hadn’t been playing with any audience in mind. But now, filled to overfl
owing with music and feeling the love from his impromptu audience, there was an inner satisfaction that had eluded him for years. This was the reason he’d been put on this planet. How could he have forgotten?
He handed the guitar back to the sales clerk, stood smiling stiffly as people approached him, one after another, enthusiastically shaking his hand, patting him on the back, gushing their admiration: I saw you guys at the Hollywood Bowl, man. What a show that was! Why’d you stop playing, dude? You were so damn good. You didn’t need Danny. You were the one with the talent. When are you putting out a new record? When are you going back on tour? Please, make it out to my sister: D-E-A-N-D-R-A. She’s gonna flip when I give it to her!
It took a while, but he finally made his escape, slipped on his Oakleys and melted into the sidewalk crowd. He felt all weird and jangly inside. Agitated, yet at the same time, more like himself than he had in so long he couldn’t remember. Where the hell had the real Rob MacKenzie gone? What had happened to that absolute certainty that made him who he was? When had he stopped being the guitar wizard and become—
Dull. Boring. Stagnant.
He’d never thought of himself as an adrenalin junkie. That had been Danny’s gig. Rob had been so much more—and so much less—than that. Never one to hold back, he’d gone after what he wanted in life. First, it had been the music. And then it had been Casey. But it seemed that somewhere along the way, he’d given up the one for the other. It was dangerous territory he trod these days.
Fame hadn’t mattered to him, not one bit. Nor had the money, not if you really wanted to be honest. It was a perk, one he enjoyed, but one he could have lived without, as long as he still had the music. He’d given up performing because of the bullshit that went along with the money and the fame. And he hadn’t missed the bullshit. Giving it up had been a relief.
But the connection with the audience—that was a whole different thing, and until today, he’d forgotten what it felt like. The rush. The outpouring of love. The absolute understanding that flowed both ways, from the stage to the audience and back. The people, the ones who knew every word of every song he and Casey had written, every note of every song he and Danny had turned into household words. The fans who refused to stay in their seats, standing instead in a crowded, hot, overpriced venue, singing along with them as they played.
Until this moment, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.
Casey
The sheet draped over Casey’s bare knees professed to offer some kind of modesty, but it was false modesty at best. Hunched over on the rolling stool between her thighs, Doctor Deb said, “I’m going to palpate your abdomen. You let me know if anything hurts.”
“Fine.” She pretended that the photo taped to the ceiling above the examining table, a shot of two divers exploring a coral reef, was so fascinating it trumped the indignity of a pelvic exam.
“Any tenderness here?” Deb said, prodding with two hands.
“No.”
“Good. Here?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Everything looks good. Pink and healthy and healed. No spotting?”
“No.”
“Everything okay at home?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Emma doing well?”
“Emma’s fine.”
Deb poked a little more. “Everything okay between you and Rob?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Idle chitchat. Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. How are you holding up?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
Deb rolled away, peeled off her gloves, and rummaged on a nearby table, returning with a packet of tissues. “You lost a baby two weeks ago,” she said, handing the tissues to Casey. “It’s okay if you’re not okay.” She patted Casey’s knee. “Go ahead and get dressed and meet me in my office.”
She hadn’t come here prepared for the Spanish Inquisition. Casey sat quietly in Deb’s office, her purse on the floor by her feet. Deb breezed in, her lab coat unbuttoned and a wavy strand of red hair escaping from the bun she’d wound it into. “I’m surprised Rob didn’t come with you today,” she said.
“He and the girls are in New York.”
Deb’s eyebrows arched. “And they left you here all by yourself?”
“I’m just here for the day. I’m flying back tonight. He’s producing an album for Phoenix Hightower. He didn’t want to leave me here alone. He worries.”
“Understandably.” Deb steepled her fingers and swiveled in her chair. “You’re cleared to resume normal sexual activity. If anything hurts, stop doing it. If it continues to hurt, make an appointment to see me.”
“Fine.”
“So.” Deb stared at her, unblinking, for so long that Casey began to squirm. “What’s the game plan for birth control?”
She sat up a little straighter. “There is no game plan.”
“Then we have to come up with one. Because I don’t want you even thinking about getting pregnant again. Not for a long, long time, if ever. Two miscarriages in such a short time have undoubtedly wrought havoc on your body. Especially at your age.”
Casey opened her mouth to protest, but Deb held up a hand to stop her. “I’m not implying that you’re old, so you can get off your high horse. But you’re also not twenty any longer. You have to give your body time to rest and recuperate. Six months, minimum. Never again would be optimum.”
“Now you sound like Rob.”
“Listen to him. He’s a smart man.”
Casey raised her chin. “I’m not going to stop trying.”
“I do understand.” Deb’s eyes softened. “I spent my twenties in medical school, residency, internship. Now, here I am in my mid-thirties, working night and day to establish a steady medical practice. My biological clock is ticking like crazy. And I have no husband, no significant other, nobody waiting for me at home except my cat. I deliver babies for a living. I understand your baby hunger better than most women.”
For a moment, she felt a kinship she’d never before felt with Dr. Deb Levasseur. For the first time, they were connecting woman-to-woman, instead of doctor-to-patient, and she could clearly see the pain in Deb’s eyes. “Then you surely understand why I won’t quit.”
“There are other options. Adoption. Surrogacy. Foster parenting. You have a beautiful little girl, a lovely teenage stepdaughter. Why put yourself through this when you already have children?”
“In other words, why am I being so greedy?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Casey. I’m saying that you’re a warm, loving woman with a huge heart. You and Rob have a beautiful family. I’m only suggesting that if you feel a need to expand that family, you might consider other options that won’t destroy your body.”
“I wish I could explain why I need another baby so much. But I can’t. And as much as I’d love any child, I need that baby to be mine. Mine and Rob’s. There’s this hole inside me that won’t be satisfied, won’t be filled, until I hold another baby in my arms.”
“And where does it stop, Casey? How do you know that one more baby will satisfy it?”
She met Deb’s eyes with a level gaze. “I don’t.”
Deb picked up a pen from her desk and clicked it once. Twice.
“Listen,” Casey said. “I gave up everything that mattered to me when I married Danny. It was an idiotic thing to do, but I was young and madly in love and I didn’t know any better. When I finally thought I’d caught that brass ring, it was taken away from me.
“And now, I have Rob. My husband’s a good man. They don’t make them any better. But sometimes I think that if I let him, he’d sit down beside me at the table, cut my steak for me, and feed it to me, bite by bite. He loves me, I understand that. And I love him. But he’s not responsible for my happiness, any more than I’m responsible for his. This is what I want. I can’t explain why. I shouldn’t have to explain why. All I know is that I refuse to be treated like a c
hild who doesn’t know what she wants. This is my life, and people need to let me follow my own path.”
“I won’t argue with that. However, I will urge you to be careful. Because I’d like to keep seeing your smiling face for a good, long time.”
“Fine. I’ll be careful. But I won’t let you or Rob or anybody else dictate how I should live my life.”
“All right, then. I think we understand each other. Now let’s move along and talk about birth control.”
“I won’t use anything that I can’t stop at a moment’s notice. Nothing invasive, nothing that could make it more difficult to conceive when I’m ready to try again. That means no shots, no implants, no pills, no IUD.”
Dryly, Deb said, “Doesn’t leave us much to work with.”
“I was thinking of a diaphragm.”
“A diaphragm has side effects.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Such as?”
“Such as pregnancy. In other words, you won’t bother to use it.”
“Why wouldn’t I bother to use it?”
“If you’d ever had to peel one off the bathroom wall, you wouldn’t ask that question. Why not an IUD? Once it’s in there, you just forget about it. When you’re ready, you make an appointment, come into my office, and we pull it out.”
“I’ve heard it can take longer to conceive after using one of those things.”
“No more so than the pill. And it’s just as effective, if not more. Plus, you don’t have to remember to take it every day. It’s pretty much foolproof.”
“I’ll have to think it over. I’m not ready yet to make a decision.”
“Fine,” Deb said. “You don’t have to decide today. But don’t take too long. And for the love of God, use something in the meantime. Because your body is nowhere near ready for another pregnancy.” Deb studied her for a moment. “Can I ask a question?”
“You seem to have done quite well at it so far.”
“It just seems to me that up until you went all I Am Woman on me, you were a little…subdued. Not your usual pleasant, chatty self.”
The Miles Between Us Page 7
