Casey closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Opened them and said, “His prognosis?”
“He’ll recover. But he won’t be dancing the night away anytime soon.”
“May I see him?”
“Absolutely. He’s been asking for you. Just remember that he’s on some pretty strong painkillers, so he’s groggy. And don’t be alarmed by his appearance. It looks a lot worse than it is.”
At sight of her husband, Casey’s breath caught in her throat. Even with the doctor’s warning, she hadn’t been prepared for this. Cocooned in blankets, he lay resting quietly. His left eye was puffy, bruised, swollen closed; stitches climbed his temple and inched like a centipede along the line of his jaw. Blood crusted his hair; his cheek was splotchy with multi-colored bruises, dried blood, and some kind of yellowish antiseptic. His nose, that beautiful, perfect nose, was twisted and swollen. There was an I.V. attached to his arm, a machine monitoring his heartbeat, his blood pressure, his body temperature.
A nurse bustling about the treatment room gave her a brief smile and said, “You can talk to him. He’s not asleep.”
Casey crossed the room, pulled up a chair, and sat. She gingerly laid a hand on his chest and said softly, “Hi.”
He opened his good eye, focused it on her, and his smile arrowed straight through her heart. “Hi,” he said. “Are you real, or another hallucination?”
Not sure what that meant, Casey gently brushed her knuckles against his cheek, startled by the coolness of his skin. Leaning her head close to his, she said, “I’m real, and so very glad to see you.”
“Me, too.” He closed his eyes again and swallowed. “You here to take me home?”
“Not until the doctor says it’s okay, sweetheart. It might be a few days.”
“It’s jus’ as well. They cut my damn clothes off. My favorite Zeppelin shirt, gone forever. You’ll have to bring me some clothes, ‘cause I really don’t want to leave here bare-assed. Specially since I think that nurse over in the corner was trying to cop a feel.”
Glancing at the plump, middle-aged nurse, who smirked at his salacious suggestion, Casey raised an eyebrow. “He’s a little loopy from the meds,” the woman said.
“Don’t kid yourself,” Casey said. “He’s always like this.”
The woman laughed and exited the room, leaving them alone.
“Brat,” she said tenderly.
“Thass me. I messed myself up a bit, didn’ I?”
“You did. You have a concussion and a broken pelvis. Not to mention hypothermia.” She didn’t dare to tell him what his face looked like. Rob wasn’t a vain man, but even he had his limits.
“I’m Humpty Dumpty,” he said, “and they put me all back together again.”
She drew in a deep breath. “And I’m so glad they did. You don’t know what my life has been these last few hours. I’ve been looking for you and looking for you. Everywhere I could think of. Up and down miles and miles of road. Because I knew you were in trouble. I knew you wouldn’t just leave me and the girls like that. I knew you’d come home to us if you could.”
“All I wanted was to get home to you. Jus’ like Dorothy, I kept clicking my heels together, but nothing happened. So glad you rescued me.”
“I didn’t rescue you, babe. You were halfway to Rangeley, down a ravine, twenty miles from home. A young couple coming home from a late night out in Portland discovered you. When I find out who they are, I’m going to send them a thank-you card. I may tuck a ten-thousand-dollar check inside. Have I mentioned that you never do anything halfway, MacKenzie?”
“Goddamn Irish drama queen. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, babe. Accidents happen.”
“Not the crash. The fight. I don’t have a right to squash your dreams. If what you really want is another baby, we’ll keep trying. The fighting’s not worth it. I just want us to be together.”
“No,” she said, “you were right. I’ve only been thinking about myself. I already have everything I could ever want. A husband I adore. Two beautiful daughters. A lovely home, a charmed life. I don’t need any more than that, and once you’re well, we’re going to take care of the issue permanently. I’m also calling Dr. Deb first thing in the morning.” Through her exhaustion, she realized it was already morning. “I’m going to ask her to recommend a therapist.”
All around them, machines beeped, voices murmured, carts clanked. “If I tell you something,” he said, “will you promise not to freak?”
She touched her hand to his cheek. “I promise.”
“I wanna go back on stage. Back on the road. I know I said I never would, but there’s a part of me that’s missing. I’ve done a lot of thinking about it, and I really need to do this.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I realized it the night you and Phoenix sang together onstage. I wasn’t sure you knew it, though. I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
She stroked his cheek tenderly. “Just like Dorothy, you had to figure it out yourself.”
“I’m ready to write again. Will you help me? Can we write a new album together?”
“I’ll consider it. Depending on what I get in payment.”
“My heart. Always and forever. And fifty percent of the royalties.”
She smiled, for the first time since she’d discovered Deb’s message on her voice mail. And, threading fingers through his, she said, “That’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
epilogue
Charlotte, North Carolina
Two years later
Backstage, the anticipation was palpable. His band members were so revved up he could taste it. They’d worked their asses off, and they’d earned the right to be excited. This was their big night, the result of two years of hard work and careful planning. He and Casey had spent a year crafting the songs for that first album, and their work had paid off. The record was shooting up the charts. He’d put together a band he was proud of, a band comprised of serious musicians, people he’d known for decades. There were thirty thousand people out there tonight, all of them waiting for him. It was thrilling, humbling, terrifying. Life as he’d known it was about to end. Fronting a band with a massive hit record would mean no more anonymity. People would remember his face. Especially now, with the distinctive crooked nose he’d broken in the crash. Casey said it was sexy, but that was just her way of telling him she loved him no matter what he looked like.
He’d never told her what had gone on during those hours he lay out there in that cold September rain. She didn’t know about Danny’s visit. Didn’t know how close he’d come to giving up, didn’t know he’d made a conscious decision to live because of her. Some things just couldn’t be explained. He still didn’t know whether Danny had been a hallucination or if he’d really been there. It didn’t matter any more. What mattered was that after the night he’d almost died, he’d finally been able to let go of his guilt. Finally stopped blaming himself for Danny’s death. Finally stopped believing he wasn’t deserving of Casey’s love. That night, Rob MacKenzie had turned his life around. He’d found his way, his reason, his path.
And he hadn’t deviated from that path since then.
He had so many reasons to be glad he hadn’t died on that grassy embankment on that chilly September night. So many things in his life to be grateful for. His beautiful, amazing wife, the wife who’d been willing to turn her life upside down to accommodate his inexplicable need to travel to the ends of the earth, playing one-night stands for strangers. After his accident, she’d spent months in therapy with a doctor in Lewiston who’d helped her unlock the grief she hadn’t allowed herself to feel after Katie died. The multiple miscarriages, Dr. Emerson explained, had brought all that repressed grief bubbling to the surface and multiplied it exponentially. It had taken time, and work, but these days, she was the old Casey, cheerful and sassy and stronger at the broken places.
There was Emma, who was three now, bea
utiful and bright, solemn and curious, every bit her mother’s daughter. And Paige, who was pulling a 4.0 average at Berklee, majoring in performance. She’d formed her own band, and was playing gigs in and around the Boston area. His daughter had her head on straight, and he predicted great things for her.
Then, there was Phoenix. His nemesis, the kid who wouldn’t listen to a damn thing he said. Three days after he wrecked the car, he’d looked up from his hospital bed when he heard a stir in the corridor outside his room. There, standing in the doorway, wearing a trench coat, dark glasses, and the most ridiculous fedora he’d ever seen, was Phoenix Hightower.
“Hey, Phee,” he’d said. “Come on in. Mi casa es su casa.”
Phoenix said something to Luther, who hovered outside, then he stepped into the room and closed the door. He pulled up a chair and sat. Took off his glasses, folded them up, and tucked them into the pocket of his trench coat. Studied Rob’s appearance for a moment, then said, “It appears that you got yourself banged up quite nicely, old man. You look ghastly.”
“How bad is it? You can be straight with me. They won’t let me have a mirror.”
“A wise decision, I’d say.”
“I’m touched, Phee. That you’re here. I wasn’t sure you were still speaking to me after I ditched you in Brooklyn.”
“Yes, well, I briefly considered a lawsuit, until I realized that you were the first person since I started this mad carousel ride who’d ever walked away from me. It was quite startling. And quite illuminating. As an added bonus, the cab ride back from the end of the earth gave me time to think about what you’d said.”
“And?”
The kid leaned forward, clasped his hands between his bony knees. “My name is Russell Happer. I was born in London and raised in a dodgy part of town. My mother was a heroin addict, my father a common thief. When I was twelve years old, they got into a drunken fight, and she stabbed him twenty-three times with a kitchen knife. After she went to prison, I was sent to live with my Aunt Annette, in a little town in the Cotswolds. It was…unpleasant. After the third time I ran away, Aunt Annette stopped trying to find me. So at fourteen, I found myself on my own on the streets of London. I did what I had to do to survive. Theft, prostitution, singing on street corners for money, where I was discovered by a record executive. That’s the only part of the official biography that’s true, although it didn’t happen at a school talent show. It happened on a street corner where I was singing to make enough money to buy my next meal.”
Phoenix straightened, stretched out his legs, and said, “There. Now you know the real Phoenix Hightower. And if you ever tell any of this to anybody, I have friends who would easily make short work of you.”
That confession was still one of the high points of his life. The minute Phoenix had finished his obligation to Ariel Records, he’d signed on with Two Dreamers. They’d already started writing the music for the kid’s Two Dreamers debut album. No more teenage pop. Phee was ramping up to sing some serious stuff. Mostly R&B, old style, but with a modern touch. And next summer, if all went well, they’d be touring together.
But Rob’s biggest reason to be grateful was propped on his hip right now. Davey, their little surprise package, their miracle baby, conceived on the morning he forgot the condom. Life, it seemed, really was what happened while you were making other plans. He’d been terrified when Casey told him she was pregnant. Deb had monitored her with religious fervor for those nine months, and Casey had sailed through the pregnancy, with no complications, and delivered a healthy, eight-pound baby boy.
Who, right now, was smelling a little aromatic. “I think he needs changing,” he said, handing his son over to his wife.
“Lousy timing. Where’s Kelly?” Casey scanned the hectic backstage area, spotted the nanny engaged in conversation with one of the roadies, and waved her over. The fresh-faced nineteen-year-old rushed to her side, and Casey held out the baby. “Can you change him for me, sweetie? I’d do it myself, but Rob’s due on stage in four minutes.”
“Of course, Come on, Davey Boy, let’s get rid of that stinky old diaper.” Baby in her arms, Kelly walked away, blond ponytail bouncing as she headed in the direction of their tour bus. Then she turned, waved, and shouted, “Good luck, Mr. MacKenzie!”
“That kid,” Rob said, waving back, “is a godsend.”
They’d found her working at the Jackson Falls Dairy Delight. A schoolmate of Paige’s, she’d been thrilled to give up her summer job to travel on tour with the MacKenzie family in the luxury coach they’d had custom built. The tour bus was a fully functioning home on wheels, with plenty of room for all of them and every amenity they could have asked for. As soon as this tour thing had become real, he and Casey had made a pact. Three months out of each year, they would travel as a family, living on the tour bus. The other nine months, they’d spend at home, as private citizens, out of the limelight. They’d hired a foreman to take care of the sheep ranch in her absence, so she could travel with him. If he was going to be on the road, he wasn’t leaving Casey or the kids behind. They were his life; the music was just what he did with that life.
Out front, the buzz from the crowd was getting louder. His tour manager raced by, said, “Two minutes,” and kept on moving.
“Time to go,” he said, and swung Emma up into his arms. “Give Daddy a kiss, Miss Emmy Lou Who. I’ll see you after the show.”
He kissed her noisily and handed her to Casey, who propped Emmy expertly on her hip, reached up her free hand, and straightened his collar. “I love you,” she said, and kissed him with all the passion she could muster while holding a squirming three-year-old. “Emmy and I will be out front, watching the show. Knock ‘em dead, hot stuff.”
He fell in line with the rest of the guys, turned at the last minute and blew them both a kiss. Emma blew one back. Out front, the crowd began to roar, and then the announcer said, “Hello, Charlotte! How you doing tonight?” The response from thirty thousand people shook the rafters. “Tonight, it’s my great pleasure to introduce to you, in their world concert debut, the band whose first album, Ricochet, just went platinum. Ladies and gentlemen, Rob MacKenzie and Rocket!”
The roar became an avalanche of sound.
And Rob MacKenzie turned and walked boldly, confidently, in the direction of his second life.
THE END
Author Bio
Laurie Breton started making up stories in her head when she was a small child. At the age of eight, she picked up a pen and began writing them down. Although she now uses a computer to write, she’s still addicted to a new pen and a fresh sheet of lined paper. At some point during her angsty teenage years, her incoherent scribblings morphed into love stories, and that’s what she’s been writing, in one form or another, ever since.
When she’s not writing, she can usually be found driving the back roads of Maine, looking for inspiration. Or perhaps standing on a beach at dawn, shooting a sunrise with her Canon camera. If all else fails, a day trip to Boston, where her heart resides, will usually get the juices flowing.
The mother of two grown children, Breton has two beautiful grandkids and two precious grand-dogs. She and her husband live in a small Maine town with a lovebird who won’t stop laying eggs and two Chihuahua-mix dogs named River and Bella who pretty much run the household.
The Miles Between Us Page 27
