He didn’t once envision screaming fans. Before, it was always how he knew what to say. This time he sang for himself and wondered how he had missed something so terribly obvious all along.
They were midway through a rough rehearsal of JD’s new piece when Alex got the call. Bridget’s water had broken.
“Oh! I didn’t need to know that!” Craig made a face like someone had just shoved liver at him.
Alex went instantly insane, shouting into the phone. “I’ll be right there!”
“I can hear you, honey.” They all could hear Bridget laughing. “Get someone to drive you.”
“I got him, Bridge!” JD hollered out, and he hauled Alex outside, even as he blustered, “They said they were going to induce her tomorrow. She can’t wait until tomorrow?”
JD had the grace not to laugh at his friend. “It’s not her. Babies come when they feel like it. It’s your time, bud.”
With that, the voices faded from the hall.
Craig looked up at TJ. “You look better. I’ve missed hanging out.”
TJ was startled to realize that he missed his friend, but not his rowdy nights. He’d been so busy getting back in gear that a bar or a willing woman hadn’t really crossed his mind.
Craig laid out the guitars in their cradles, and eyed TJ. “You need help?”
“Nah.” Then he changed his mind. “Hand me JD’s Fender?”
Craig nodded. TJ was the only one who could get away with touching any of his brother’s guitars. He waited for Craig to leave him there, alone in the studio.
His fingers picked at strings, enjoying the feeling of each reacting, the sounds of individual notes. His left hand occupied his attention as it picked off chords, moving up and down the neck.
Shifting, he used one arm to push back up onto the stool and settle the guitar across his legs. He sang into the mic, at a decidedly lower volume than before, sometimes with his eyes closed, enjoying the idea that no one was listening.
The piano caught his eye. Before the accident, both he and JD had been trying to hone their piano skills. They wanted to add some pieces to the next album with it, but neither of them played well enough to do it, and they weren’t going to get anyone else. JD had probably gotten better while TJ was hauling himself through rehab hell. The thought didn’t twist his gut anymore.
TJ wanted to walk over to it and contemplated making a beeline for it. But he knew better. If he didn’t make it all the way, crashing into the piano would hurt. More than that, it would jostle the instrument. So he levered himself off the stool and down into the seat of his wheelchair, traveling the seven feet, then scooting over onto the bench.
His fingers caressed the keys and he tried a song from the old album. It was usually played with guitars and drums, but he wanted to hear it this way. He laid into the keys, only just then understanding the sway some had when they played. He’d always played straight-backed, more for the looks and the praise than the sound.
But this time he closed his eyes, his fingers picking out the tune even better than he would have guessed. If he just let himself play, and didn’t think about it, it came. TJ gave the song a longer than usual intro, then added his voice over the piano strings. He’d read some critic once who described his voice as “honeyed whiskey;” TJ mostly ignored it at the time, thinking only that honeyed-whiskey meant sexy. Now he went for exactly that sound.
This Ordinary Man, like everything else since he’d been able to get out of that chair, suddenly made more sense. It was one they teased JD he should call: Song I Wrote for Kelsey.
TJ realized that he’d never done the song justice. He’d given a show, and he’d slowed down and looked out into the audience, making eye contact with as many of the women in the front as possible. But he’d never felt any of the pieces. He wasn’t sure why he felt this one now.
Maybe he’d just needed to wash all the alcohol out of his system, clear his brain. Maybe it was the sense of accomplishment—for once in his life he’d really done something right. Not just had it happen to him or around him, but something he’d worked for.
He sang the chorus one more time through. A sigh came from behind him and he jerked around to find Norah leaning against the door, her eyes searching the ceiling for God only knew what. He deserved to have someone watching him, simply because he’d thought he was alone. It had probably looked odd, and maybe sounded worse—
“God, TJ, I love that song, but it’s a good thing you didn’t record that version. People would be having traffic accidents every time it was on the radio.”
His fingers still stroked the keys even though he coaxed no sound from them. It didn’t matter if she didn’t like it. It hadn’t been for her. “That bad?”
Chapter 22
She laughed, a deep burbling sound. “Just the opposite. I’m a puddle over here. You’re going to have to drive that chair over and peel me off the floor.” She looked at him and laughed again, “Then you’re going to have to tell me dirty limericks or something to snap me out of it before I get behind the wheel. If I drive like this—”
She cut herself off, jerking straight. He could see her thoughts veer toward the accident that had taken her family.
TJ stood, reaching for her as the clouds crossed her eyes, and knowing he’d never make it. “Norah, don’t.”
She waved him away. “I was just wondering, if maybe he was celebrating something, and it all went horribly wrong. He would have more trouble sleeping at night than I do.”
A nod was all he could muster in response, before her mood shifted again. “It’s a shame we don’t have a piano at the house.”
He hadn’t even thought of it.
She nodded at him, but he could see she was thinking about something else. Without thinking, his legs bent and he sat back down on the piano bench, the trail of a song itching in him. He knew where it had to go, it had to change keys in crazy ways and yet stay true to the core. Words found him, while his fingers silently walked black and white bars. Her moods / shift like the wind, when she’s gone / I don’t know where she’s been, when she leaves / I never know / if she’s coming back again.
TJ didn’t know how long he sat there, tracing the keys, only that Norah was watching him. He could feel her eyes on him, and he wrote that in. That he didn’t really know what she expected of him, and that she would be leaving soon. When he had the framework he blinked and turned to her. “You just stood there this whole time?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. I usually choreograph on my feet, but I’ve done it in my head.” Her smile was genuine, “I’ve never seen what it looked like before this though. Play it for me.”
Something deep took hold of him, a recognition that Norah would see herself in the song, and that would give her some power over him. He’d seen his brother hand it over to his wife, willingly, time and time again. He’d never seen it as taking guts before. So he played Norah her song.
She spoke even as the last note faded. “It beautiful. It’s haunting and I think it’s a little sad.”
He agreed. “It needs work.”
“Of course.”
That shocked him. It did need work, but he’d expected platitudes and fawning. Or at least a polite rebuff. He didn’t fish for more by adding that it was the first thing he’d written that he’d ever played for anybody.
He’d written music for Wilder before. But he’d never gotten it past his bedroom door. He was smart enough not to think he’d written a masterpiece when he hadn’t. His pieces came out trite and stupid sounding. But as he looked back it made sense: he’d been living a trite and stupid life.
It was too much for one day. Part of him was itching to get the music committed to paper. Another part of him realized that his hands would remember what he’d written and the words would stay in the back of his brain. And he was worn out. He told Norah so.
She tossed the keys and caught them, “Then let’s go, cowboy.”
He made his way back into his chair, then out the door, of
fering to peel her off the floor if necessary. She didn’t say ‘no,’ she just laughed and walked off.
The car was parked curbside, the light of mid-afternoon blinding. They grabbed burgers and ate them on the couch, where TJ promptly passed out after he finished.
He woke to kinks in his neck and embarrassment that he didn’t remember the conversation ending or anything. His body had just given up and gone to sleep. The light had faded and he sat up, only then realizing that he had company, and that she, too, had passed out cold.
Norah was curled into the far corner of the couch, facing in against the cushions. TJ just looked. Her hair had been pulled back that morning into a clip that kept the top half of it out of her face. Of course, a handful of rebellious wisps had escaped and formed heavy curls around her eyes and chin.
Her feet were encased in white socks, the kind a school-girl would wear. Under them he could read the lines of tape and gauze. She was wearing only a t-shirt and shorts in the late summer heat. Sleep showed her curves defined by length and muscle. Her thigh was slim enough around that he feared a hit could snap her, but a delineation between the muscles ran up the side, betraying the quiet strength in her. He wanted to reach out and trace it, but he knew he’d wake her. So he sat back and looked his fill.
She seemed so young, breathing peacefully, curled into his couch, and he felt so old. Still he’d learned something from Norah. When she’d slapped him she’d also said that the world had to watch out when TJ set his mind on something. What would she think if she knew she was the next thing he’d set his mind on?
He wouldn’t wake her.
He did need to do something though.
So he rolled off the couch and started doing crunches.
He was going to make Norah fall in love with him, and he was starting now. It didn’t matter that he was still in that damned chair. She’d want him either way. She’d get an able man, but he wanted to know that she’d have him if he wasn’t.
He counted fifty, and took a ten count break before starting in again.
Norah had become his gold standard. This was why he’d never been able to get into any of the bouncy blonde things he’d dated or simply screwed. He’d needed a tight, slim, exotic Norah.
He counted a ten beat break at one hundred, only to find Norah awake and watching him. He should have taken off his shirt. His abs had filled back in nicely.
“How many are you doing?” Her voice sounded sleepy, and he hoped he might get to hear that just-woke-up sound from her in a better circumstance. “A thousand?”
He grinned, thinking about it. “How’d you know?”
“Because your therapist said your limit was five hundred. And why’d you smile at me like that?”
“Like what?”
She shook her head. “A crocodile smile.”
He didn’t answer. Note to self: Norah can read you like a book. God, he loved it. But he wasn’t about to turn himself over yet, so he just asked another question. “You know I’m not adhering to my limits, but you never ask me to stop. Why?”
She put her feet on the floor and he winced when she did. But she turned on a few lights, brightening the dullness that had come with dusk while they were sleeping. “First, it wouldn’t have done any good. Second, it’s your life. Nothing to do with me. Third, I remember watching you one of the early days at therapy, every time you fell you got back up. Every time, no matter how much of a beating you’d taken. You impressed the crap out of me, and I said so to the therapist. That I was a dancer and thought I knew something about making your body work when it wasn’t made to. I said I’d never seen anything like you. Never seen anyone get up with more determination each time.”
TJ waited for the end.
“He said he had. That once in a while you got a patient like that. And you didn’t stop them, because every one of them eventually walked.”
He nodded and started on the crunches again, liking that he’d impressed her. It meant a lot.
He had just decided to peel his shirt off, when the phone rang. Norah popped up from where she’d just settled herself on the couch to get it. “Hello? Mmm Hmm, he’s right here.”
She put her hand over the mouth piece and whispered. “It’s your mother.”
Oh, shit. He took the phone. “Hi, Mom.”
Norah had never asked why his parents hadn’t shown up after the accident. But she’d known his parents. She’d probably figured out that he and JD had downplayed the severity of his injuries, hoping to avoid any of this.
Right now his mother couldn’t care less about his spine. “Who was that girl? She sounded sleepy!”
“That’s because she was asleep.”
“At your house!”
“She lives here, Mom.”
“Ahhh!” It was a deeply affronted sound. But TJ thought the woman could take her plastic principles and stuff them. “Then you’d better tell me about her.”
It was a command. If the woman was sleeping in his house, then his mother expected a wedding invitation within the month. “She’s a dancer, Mom.”
Norah watched him sideways, making no pretense about eavesdropping. Her eyebrows rose.
“A dancer!” Again his mother was affronted.
Suddenly, he realized. He spoke it out loud for Norah’s sake. “No, Mom, not a stripper, a dancer. Formerly with the Houston Ballet.”
Norah did laugh at him.
“Still.” His mother managed to be upset that he had a prima ballerina in his house.
“I’m a musician, Mom. It makes sense.” They could be low class together. Only by his mother’s rules was being famous in a band or being a dancer with a Ballet low-class. There was always that snotty air of ‘we don’t perform.’
He fought the urge to yell at her it’s Norah Davidson, and she grew up hot! Because then it was likely to be all over that he was seeing Norah Davidson, when in fact he wasn’t. Yet.
Suddenly it occurred to him that there were other people who lived by his mother’s rules: particularly Norah’s family.
After hanging up, he finished his crunches and took a shower, emerging with only his towel around his hips. Norah was nowhere around.
He changed into plaid pajama pants and decided it was time to start. Leaving the chair behind, he tottered down the hallway to her room. He leaned heavily on the wall, and locked his knees on more than one occasion.
Still, halfway there he realized he wasn’t going to make it. Turning, he leaned his back against the wall and took a breather. When had he taken it for granted to just walk twenty feet?
Norah peeked out of her room, wearing another pair of men’s boxer briefs and a t-shirt.
He grabbed hold of that. “See, those aren’t dance clothes, they’re pajamas.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Taken to lurking in hallways, have we?” She made no comment that he was on his feet.
He ignored her back. “Maybe that’s why you’re low-class.”
She stopped in front of him, laughing. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s because I eloped at eighteen, pregnant. Lilah became the good one then.”
“Lilah, huh?”
Norah nodded. “She married a doctor. In the church. Never mind that she’s a mild alcoholic who smokes a pack a day when she thinks her kids aren’t watching.”
“Jesus.” He looked her up and down. Healthy, beautiful, wonderful. “I am so glad you didn’t follow in Lilah’s footsteps on that one.”
“Me, too.” Her grin was infectious.
His arm snaked out and around her before he could stop it, hauling her closer. His stomach pulled as he realized what he intended to do.
His mouth closed over hers, and she didn’t stop him.
Keeping it soft, his hands searched for and found that mass of black silk she called hair. He buried himself in her scent, wondering if any other kiss had ever been this good.
She kissed him back, and that gentle pressure was enough to make him gasp.
So he stopped there, pulling away. O
nly because he knew if he didn’t, he’d go too far. Too far for a first kiss. Too far to keep it from maybe feeling cheap.
For just a moment he looked in her eyes, expecting heat instead of the bewilderment he saw there. In a last ditch effort not to ruin everything before he even started, he found his voice. “I’m really glad you weren’t the good one.”
He disentangled his hands from her hair. “I’m going to bed. Good night.” He planted one last kiss on her nose, not sure why he’d done it, just that her nose had looked cute there.
Turning away, he faltered back to his own room, leaning heavily on the wall. He just wasn’t sure if his legs were giving out from under him because his legs didn’t work, or because his brain was overwhelmed.
Chapter 23
Norah didn’t know what to make of it. TJ was on his feet again. Not well, mind you, but up and around. What he did couldn’t be called walking. She would watch him find his balance then stumble to the nearest solid object that could support him. Even so, he was getting better at it day by day.
Currently, he was leaning against the upright grand he’d rented and installed in the dining room the day after she picked him up at the studio. He was grinning at her like a shark.
She didn’t know what to do with him. He’d kissed her in the hallway that night. Then kissed her again the following morning, just a peck on the mouth before he went into therapy. He hugged her, he touched the corner of her mouth at dinner, and looked at her like she was dinner. He set her on fire.
Part of her brain laughed at her—she did know what to do with a man like that. But the other part of her brain argued back. This wasn’t like what she’d known before. It wasn’t a one night only deal. It wasn’t true love either.
Norah was smart enough to realize she was the only one in line. TJ still wasn’t up to his usual self, but he might figure Norah would have him. As soon as he could walk out of here, he wouldn’t look back. Okay, she adjusted her assessment, maybe that was a little mean. He wouldn’t be drinking like he had before, and he probably didn’t screw every willing female. He had enough of them that he could be quite discriminating.
Love Notes Page 11