Times Like These

by Laura Carter

  ‘Ah, no,’ Seth said. ‘Sofia couldn’t make it. This is Rosalie.’

  ‘She’s a groupie,’ Frankie said, draping an arm around Rosalie’s shoulder, laughing as he did so.

  ‘I am not a groupie. I’m actually helping out whilst I’m training to take over my own recording label. It’s nice to meet you, Mr—’

  ‘Tim. Just Tim.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Tim.’

  Tim looked from Rosalie to his son, whose hand was in his hair, his arm shielding his face and his reaction to the unspoken conversation the two men seemed to be having.

  They watched the minivan drive away and eventually, Tim said, ‘How’s about we get this lot inside and I’ll give y’all the southern welcome?’

  ‘Grilled croc?’ Frankie asked.

  Tim laughed. ‘Let’s start with wings, Tim’s famous hot sauce and a fine Tennessee whisky. It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

  He patted Seth’s shoulder affectionately and the group lugged their gear indoors. Rosalie took off her soggy sandals at the door and put on the pair of spa slippers she had brought with her, in case hotels in the south didn’t provide them.

  The house was big and bright, which surprised Rosalie. Where she would have expected old, dark furniture, maybe even a musty smell of a home lived in by only a man, she found high ceilings, beams in place of walls, slate tiled floors, a large modern log fire, cosy yet bright and clean cream sofas, a brand-spanking-new farmhouse-style kitchen. It was like a home from a magazine and one Rosalie would have been proud to have decorated.

  One corner of the living space had floor-to-ceiling shelving, packed full of vinyl records, and in front of them was an upright piano and two six string guitars set in stands.

  As she looked around the space, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, tears came to her eyes. Perhaps it was the beauty of the home. That it felt warm and welcoming. She had never lived in a place that felt this way and, oddly, she felt soothed by it. As if the home were wrapping its arms around her and saying, within these four walls, you’ll never walk alone. Or perhaps that was the words of Elvis singing in the background.

  Rosalie cleared her throat and fiddled with the rose-gold chain around her neck until she had composed herself. ‘You have a lovely home, Tim,’ she said.

  ‘Not much to do with me, darlin’, but thank you. Now, there’re two bedrooms down here going spare and two upstairs.’

  Frankie and Billy volunteered for the downstairs rooms and made their way through the kitchen with their gear. Tim took Rosalie’s luggage from her, ignoring her protests, and led Seth and her upstairs.

  She held onto the stair rail to steady herself as she walked through Seth’s jet wash –that scent that had thrown her in the van. For some reason, Seth seemed to abhor Rosalie and, frankly, she wasn’t fond of his crabby attitude. Nevertheless, walking behind him, his triceps were taut, his muscles contracted as he lugged his guitar in its case in one hand and his holdall in the other. He had discarded his lumberjack shirt now and wore only his white T-shirt and stonewash denim pants. He had kicked off his boots and socks on coming into the house and now he walked barefoot up the stairs. She loved how he slipped into the home as if he had never been away, how his southern drawl had ramped up a notch in his dad’s presence and, most of all, how that fine ass of his flexed as they mounted the stairs. She gripped the stair rail just a little bit harder. Window shopping never hurt anyone’s credit card.

  Tim nudged open the door to the first bedroom they came to at the top of the staircase and Rosalie followed him inside. The smell of outdoors blew in from the open window that looked out across the paddock. A large oak bedframe commandeered most of the space in the room and was covered by white cotton sheets.

  ‘There’s a wardrobe there and a chest of drawers,’ Tim said. ‘The sheets are fresh on; I pressed them myself.’

  Rosalie turned from the view across the thriving green fields and smiled. ‘By all accounts you make a mean grill. If that vinyl collection downstairs is anything to go by, you have great taste in music. And you’re domesticated? Tim, where do I find one of you and how on earth are you single?’

  Tim chuckled. ‘Well, now, I do have certain lady friends from time to time.’

  Rosalie laughed, more at Seth shaking his head and saying, ‘All right, Casanova, let’s leave her to it.’

  Tim nodded. ‘Bathroom’s down the hall and the vinyl collection is much bigger in the music library.’

  ‘You have a music library?’ Rosalie asked.

  Tim shrugged. ‘For want of a better name for it. Help yourself to a look around, it’s the next room from yours.’

  ‘Thank you, Tim. For the room, the food, for having us.’ And thank the lord this home was so much better than she had expected.

  ‘Nonsense. Thank you for bringing my boy home. I thought he was going to re-enlist for a time there.’

  Re-enlist? In the military? Rosalie looked at Seth leaning against the door frame, his guitar case still in hand, his hair rugged from where he had pulled his fingers through it out on the porch. The thought of him ever risking his life seemed as brave as it was terrifying.

  ‘I’m pleased he didn’t do that,’ she found herself saying, all the while looking at Seth.

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’ he asked.

  Everything. She had air in her lungs, warmth in her heart, a beautiful home full of love and music.

  She nodded and watched Seth walk away with Tim, listening to their father and son banter as they walked down the hall.

  As Rosalie took in the enticing view from her bedroom window again, the breeze cooling her skin, she realised she had never been in a home quite like this before. Not her childhood home. Not her own home.

  Here, she could imagine homecooked meals, children riding the two brown horses outside, helping her little girls with their homework, family nights eating smores by a fire in the yard. What a different life that would be to her own.

  After unpacking a few bits and pieces to cover her for the three nights she would be staying at the ranch, Rosalie put on an untarnished pair of Louboutin sandals and took her toiletries in search of the bathroom to freshen up.

  Walking to the end of the hall, as Tim had directed her to do, she reached out for what she suspected was the knob of the bathroom door, then jumped back in shock as it was pulled open from the inside.

  As the bellow of steam cleared, she was faced with a sight that dried her lips and made her mouth open as she ogled shamelessly. Seth was naked but-for the white towel tied around his waist and the dog tags that always hung around his neck.

  Her gaze went first to the spot where the towel was tied, then to the cut of his muscles just above his hips. She followed the light trail of hair up his navel and his chiselled abdomen, to where the hair spread across his toned chest. His hair was wet and his jaw flexed as he swallowed, then her hungry eyes met his and the yearning she felt was unmistakable.

  ‘Oh my goodness. I was… Me, I… You’re wet.’

  ‘I showered,’ he said, stating the obvious, his eyes still fixed to hers.

  ‘Right. Me, too. I mean, not yet. I’m going to. Freshen up, I mean.’

  He nodded. ‘Bathroom’s all yours. Don’t take hours, grub’s up.’

  And just like that, his attractiveness was gone. As if she would take hours, she thought, rolling her eyes as his very nice back walked away from her.

  * * *

  Rosalie could smell Tim’s smoking grill as it wafted in through the bedroom window. She could hear the guys outside – Frankie, Billy, Tim and Seth. Whilst she would have preferred a colourful salad ordinarily, she had to admit to herself that she was positively salivating.

  Tottering in her heels to prevent any indentations in the hardwood floor of the hallway, Rosalie was making her way outside when she remembered the music room Tim had invited her to look around.

  It was the size of the bedroom she was staying in. Tim hadn’t bee
n exaggerating. Two walls were full of vinyl records. The kind of collection it would take years to amass, even for a true lover of music.

  The flooring, like in her guest room, was wood but a large square rug lay in the middle and on it sat two high-back leather chairs. Between the chairs was an old record player in the style of the fifties, with its lid open, ready to accept music. Five guitars – acoustic, electric and bass – hung on a third wall and around them were black and white prints of Randy and his band Armstrung playing live. She moved closer, inspecting them, so intricately she could see the beads of sweat on Randy’s brow. Tim was clearly a very proud father, as he should be.

  Then she noticed on the wall behind her more family photographs of Tim, Randy, presumably their mother, and a young Seth. He was cute as heck – all full cheeks, not like the streamline structured face he had now, a mop of dark hair and striking brown eyes, even then. He had most resemblance to Tim, where Randy had more of a look of their mom; softer eyes and a more pronounced nose.

  Next to the family pictures was a large portrait of Seth in his full military uniform – formal breasted jacket and standard issue hat. He was clean-shaven and looked strapping and proud. In truth, she was in awe of Seth and men like him, who would knowingly go into danger to serve their country.

  Beside his portrait was a picture of Seth with a group of other soldiers, sitting around on crates and folded out chairs, at what looked like an operating base. He had one knee bent up as he perched on a tower of crates with a guitar in his hands.

  Moving to the shelves, she realised the music had been arranged in alphabetical order by artist. Someone had lovingly worked through the collection and sorted it this way. It must have taken hours and hours of time.

  She slipped out a few records – Bob Dylan, Dean Martin, Dolly Parton, Frank Sinatra, Guns N’ Roses. It was quite a collection. Whilst she was hovering in the ‘G’s area of the shelves, she came across a record that stole her breath. Grace, a self-named title.

  Taking the record from the shelf, she admired the close-up of the woman on the cover. Her roman nose and high cheekbones, her painfully exquisite smile that lit up her eyes which were a reflection of Andrea’s and her long dark hair, the same colour as Sofia’s.

  Settling into a high-back chair, she admired the image of Andrea’s mother until she was looking at it through wet eyes. How sad it must have been to lose her mother at such a young age. A space in her life that could never be filled. Rosalie had never lost any close relatives in her life, yet, she could understand feeling like something, or someone was missing.

  ‘Rosalie?’ Frankie called from somewhere in the distance. ‘You ready for beer and wings? I feel like my throat’s been cut here and the others are telling me I’ve got to be all chivalrous and shit.’

  Rosalie chuckled. ‘On my way.’

  She breezed onto the lawn towards the guys and the long table that was laid with food from the grill. ‘Looks yu—’

  Catching herself right as the last, Rosalie yelped when the heel of her shoe dug into the mud, making her stagger-stumble forwards.

  ‘Nice choice of footwear for the lawn there, pretty lady,’ Billy called out.

  Tim appeared at her side. ‘Darlin’, I think I’ve got some spare boots from summer harvest that might fit you, if you like?’

  ‘Oh,’ Rosalie laughed off her tumble. ‘Not to worry. Us city girls can handle our shoes, Tim.’

  Nevertheless, she was grateful for the arm her offered, linking him as he helped her to the picnic bench style table.

  Staring at the spare spot next to Seth, she contemplated how she was going to get her legs over the seat gracefully in her dress.

  ‘Need a hand?’ Seth said with irritation in his voice.

  Rosalie wanted to stick out her tongue in response but refrained. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said, bending to sit on the seat and pressing her knees together as she swivelled over the bench seat. ‘There. I’m in.’

  ‘Now that the lady’s here, let’s dive in,’ Tim said, lifting a plate of sweet-smoky wings from the centre of the table, holding them up for Rosalie in his red apron that read My son is a rock star.

  Rosalie stared at the plate, wondering how she was supposed to get the sticky meat to her plate, feeling all eyes on her.

  Well, she could always wash her hands afterwards, she supposed, as she took two wings between her fingers and popped them onto her own plate. As she did, she told Tim, ‘You might need an apron that says my sons are rock stars soon, Tim.’

  He beamed like the proud father he was. ‘That I will, darlin’.’

  Rosalie glanced to Seth, offering a smile, but got nothing in return, except the usual stonefaced Seth, as he seemed to be only with her.

  Rolling her eyes, she picked up a wing and gently nibbled the food between her teeth, being careful not to mess her lipstick. Then, the taste hit her tongue and, moaning, she wrapped her mouth around the chicken. Forgetting herself completely, she spoke through a mouthful of food. ‘Oh my goodness, Tim, these are soooooo good.’

  As she bit hungrily into the wing again, all the men laughed. ‘Seriously, Billy you’re going to love these. Dig in.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Billy said, as eager as Rosalie with his food. ‘Oh yeah, that’s good grill, sir.’

  ‘Tim, where did you learn to – Oh, pants!’ The wing she was holding slipped between Rosalie’s fingers, as she fumbled to catch it, her elbow caught the edge of her plate and in a split second, two chicken wings covered in sauce had rolled down the front of her pink dress and landed in her lap.

  Not knowing what to do, she stared down at her dress, open-mouthed. The stain would never, ever come out of the fabric.

  ‘Oh good Lord,’ Tim said, rushing to her and rubbing her dress with a cloth that spread the sauce further.

  ‘Oh hell,’ Tim said, pulling back in a fluster.

  Right then, Billy laughed. Frankie laughed. Seth stifled and laugh and Rosalie… well, what else was there to do than laugh with them.

  Once their giggles had subsided, Seth stood and offered her a hand up. ‘Come on, I’ll get you some clothes of mine that might be more appropriate. You can throw as much food down them as you like, promise.’

  Accepting his moment of no doubt fleeting kindness towards her, Rosalie took Seth’s hand and let him lead her into the house, upstairs to his bedroom.

  ‘Here, try these,’ he said, handing her a pair of jogging bottoms and a hooded sweater. ‘Not quite your usual glamour but better for stains, I think.’

  Rosalie took the clothes. ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded, staring at her but not speaking.

  Inhaling deeply, she took the opportunity to ask him, ‘Seth, why do you hate me?’

  He folded his arms across his chest, biceps and pecs bulging. ‘I don’t hate you, Ros. I’ve just known girls like you and that hasn’t worked out well for me.’

  She stepped back and sat down onto the edge of his bed. ‘Tell me?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was engaged once. To a girl called Connie. And she was a heck of a lot like you. Shoes, clothes, spending all the time. Trying to buy her way out of problems.’ He stepped back, leaning against the bedroom wall, a sign Rosalie took to mean he was going to open up to her.

  ‘When I was younger. Before I enlisted, and then when I was on leave, I used to go to a lot of Armstrung’s gigs, with my brother and the guys. They always had groupies around, you know? Anyway, then there was Connie and she took an interest in me. I fell for it.

  ‘It’s kind of hard to believe now but I thought she was… the one. Right before I went away on my first tour of Afghanistan, I proposed and she said yes. That was it for me, you know, the house, the family, the rest of our lives.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Whilst I was away, I got a letter telling me she’d found someone else. Turned out to be another musician. She sent it to me with an extortionately priced jacket, as some kind of conciliation prize.’ He shook his head again. �
��I think she only ever wanted to get closer to my brother and the band, looking back.’

  ‘And that’s why you don’t want to be associated with Randy?’

  Seth shook his head, moving off the wall and letting her know he was about done talking. ‘Randy and I chose different paths and I want to make my own way, it’s not to do with Connie.’

  ‘But not liking me is?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m not like that, you know, Seth. I do have substance. I’m sorry that someone did that to you but you shouldn’t let it colour your view of people before you take the chance to get to know them.’

  He stared at her, then nodded but didn’t seem convinced. ‘See you outside.’

  ‘Thanks again for the clothes.’

  * * *

  Rosalie stood to the side of the stage and watched Seth jog into position, picking up his acoustic guitar and pulling the strap over his head as he went. There was an incredible crowd, given the time of day – late afternoon – and that Seth was still relatively unknown, despite his first single having been an airplay chart hit.

  Her heart swelled with inexplainable pride as she watched the crowd cheer, eagerly anticipating this hot new artist’s set at the CMAs. Like he had done at the Presley John concert, Seth took a moment to absorb the venue and the crowd. It was a wonder he could see with the combination of the late afternoon sun shining directly onto the stage and the overhead lights on full beam.

  He took a seat on the stool positioned before his microphone, exactly where he had sat the day before for his sound check, and Rosalie watched as he took a deep breath. But he didn’t look nervous, he looked every bit a star. Black shades shielded his eyes. He wore the pair of jeans that he had worn the night of the Presley John concert – much fancier than his usual stonewashed pair and slightly fitted, just enough to hug his butt and thighs – and a plain khaki-coloured fitted T-shirt, with his signature dog tags hanging down his chest. What she had once thought were a teenage boy accessory, she now respected as his nod to his brothers in arms.

  ‘How’re y’all doin’ tonight?’ he asked the audience, his southern twang as thick as ever.