Deepest Blues

by Heidi Hutchinson

  Chapter 11

  Full of Grace

  “I thought you guys were closer. You never hang out with your band mates,” Paul observed, taking a slow drag from his cigarette.

  Mike laced his fingers behind his head and crossed his ankles, relaxing deeper into the green grass.

  They had been having a smoke just outside the venue. Mike normally didn't smoke, but he was having a difficult time finding anything stronger without raising too many suspicions. Besides, Paul didn't like to be around him when he was using. And Mike liked Paul's company. It reminded him of a more innocent time in his life.

  “We used to.” Mike shrugged slightly. “I guess people drift apart.”

  “Huh,” Paul answered, sounding thoughtful.

  “Tell me about your sister,” Mike said, closing his eyes. He needed a distraction before the itch below his skin became unbearable.

  Paul took a long drag before saying anything. When he finally spoke, Mike concentrated on his words. Trying to picture it. Wanting to believe that it was true. Even if every word sounded like a fairytale.

  “You keep asking me about her, I'm gonna start thinkin' you have a thing for her.” Paul chuckled. “One time she sang for a talent show. But she can't sing. Her voice is terrible. We were fifteen. She got up on that stage and sang her heart out. I was in detention for the rest of the year because of all the kids I had to beat up for making fun of her.”

  Mike's mouth stretched into a smile. “Did she know she was bad at singing?”

  “Yeah. I told her. But she didn't care. She's not scared of anything. She loved the song and wanted to sing it, that's all she cared about.”

  “What song was it?” Mike asked.

  “Sarah McLachlan's 'Full of Grace.'”

  Mike laughed out loud. “What possessed her to sing that one? Not even Luke can hit those notes.”

  Paul cleared his throat from laughter. “Okay, if I tell you, when you meet her, you can't tell her.”

  “What? Why?” Mike was loving this.

  “Because this was only six years ago! That song was not popular anymore. But she got up and sang her heart out. But first she dedicated it to you.”

  Mike opened his eyes and stared at Paul, who was nodding, like he understood how ridiculous that sounded.

  “You're lying,” Mike said, not wanting it to be a lie.

  Paul rolled his eyes and looked skyward. “She was up north—uh, Portland I think—with some friends and they took her to this rock show. Guess who was opening?”

  “You're joking.”

  Paul shook his head and laughed lightly. “She came back and declared she was in love. She went full rock and roll on all of us. Then she dedicated that song to you at the talent show. I think she was really hoping that you'd find out somehow. But if she knew that I was telling you this now, she would kill me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Mike asked, his grin wide. He liked knowing that Paul's sister had been crushing on him for years. Especially since she'd become such a significant part of their daily conversations. She was like their secret companion.

  “So that when you meet her, you just go ahead and fall in love so we can be brothers for real,” Paul answered seriously.

  Mike barked out a laugh. Paul licked his lips and shook his head.

  “I'm serious. She's devoted, she's sweet, she'd make a fool of herself before ever hurting you, and she'd never throw a vase at you.”

  Mike's hand automatically went to the stitches in his eyebrow. Ilsa had thrown another tantrum last night when he answered the door and the room service attendant was female. Mike tipped her, like he was going to anyway. And Ilsa flipped out.

  He didn't respond to Paul. In truth, he didn't want to talk about Ilsa with Paul. His disapproval was more than obvious.

  “I gotta get going,” Paul said, standing up. “I have some things to do before sound check. Thinking about taking a vacation when this whole thing is done. There's only two weeks left. California is lovely right now.”

  Mike nodded silently and waited for a few minutes after Paul was gone before he too, left the sunlight and went back to his empty room. First he bought a bottle of wine. A Cabernet.

  For reasons he didn't want to examine, he went straight to the sound system in the room and plugged his phone into it. Then he scrolled through his music app until he found the song. Reclining on the bed, he closed his eyes, drank the wine, and listened to the sweet strains of Sarah McLachlan fill the huge suite.

  For a moment he pretended that somewhere out there, a girl he'd never met was singing those words. And she meant them.

  Ilsa came back on the fourth repetition. She unplugged the phone, shutting of his fantasy.

  Mike decided to go to California with Paul when this was all over.

  ***

  When Mike left Squaw Valley, he should have gone somewhere else—like home to Boston, or maybe to Santa Fe to see Sway, or someplace really safe, like Budapest—instead, Mike went back to Huntington Beach. He told himself that it was to end the lease on the condo and pack his meager belongings before going home for the holidays.

  He, of course, was lying to himself. He just didn't know it yet.

  It was like his body and heart conspired without informing his brain and made separate plans altogether. One minute he was unlocking the door of the condo, and the next he was walking into Soaring Bird to take Clarke out for lunch.

  In between that, he'd renewed his lease for another year. Yep, a whole year. Signed a contract and everything. Then he took back the rental car, went to a dealership and bought a Tesla. A red one.

  He waited at the front counter as one of the guys who worked there went upstairs to tell Clarke he was there. He hadn't removed his sunglasses and took advantage of the privacy of the shades to really study his surroundings. She'd rearranged everything again just from when he was in there a few weeks ago. He cracked a smirk. That girl worked like a dog. And she was good at it, too.

  “Hey, stranger,” she greeted him, her sultry voice drawing his eyes to the end of the stairs as she strode his way. He stilled himself so he didn't give into his desired reaction of seeing her again. Which would have involved hands, arms, lips and promises he couldn't keep. He took a slow breath, calming his racing heart and buying himself a few extra seconds to keep his face impassive. Nearly.

  “I was in the area and thought maybe you might want to join me for lunch.” He was proud of himself. He didn't even beg.

  “Yeah,” she agreed and turned to the girl behind her. “You got this for an hour?”

  “Do you really doubt me?”

  “Never, not once,” Clarke grinned at her, then walked behind the counter where she grabbed her purse. Mike wanted to tell her not to worry about it, but it was for the best that he not let this seem like a date.

  They walked down the street to a small restaurant, chatting about his trip up north. He held the door open, they were seated and ordered food with minimal breaks in conversation. It was like he hadn't been away for almost a week. She asked questions about the new album which he talked about eagerly. It was refreshing to have someone so interested in what he did without the star-struck baggage that often came with it. She had not the slightest idea what it was like to make music for a living, but she took a genuine interest in listening to him explain the details that he liked to talk about. The writing, the process, the inspiration or lack thereof. She soaked it all in.

  In turn, he asked her about work and surfing and living alone now that the guys had moved out.

  “It's nice.” She didn't even try to hide her relieved smile. “At times, it can feel a bit lonely, but with Greta back for a few days, that'll change. Plus Bo and Brady stop by to check on me all the time.”

  “Do you have an alarm system installed?” Mike asked, thinking that if she didn't, she really should.

  “Yes,” she nodded, “state of the art.” She pushed her food around on her plate, lost in a thought. “I was thinking about get
ting a cat again. I used to have one years ago.”

  Mike felt that in his gut, but he didn't know why. “What was its name?”

  “My dad got him for me when I was eleven. He was a rascally black kitten and I named him Bogie.” She blushed and didn't meet his eyes.

  “Wow, you've always had it bad for him, huh?” Mike teased as he took a sip of his soda.

  “Shut up,” she demanded with a laugh, her eyes darting up to look at him shyly. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, he got cancer a month after Paul died, and I had to put him down.”

  Shit. She could not catch a break, could she?

  “I've never had any pets, but I always wanted one.”

  “Are you a cat or a dog person?” she asked, pushing her plate off to the side and folding her arms on the table.

  “I have no idea,” Mike answered honestly. “Both?” He shrugged.

  “Me too,” Clarke concurred. “Though cats are easier to take care of when you have a job like mine. I'd feel bad leaving a dog home all day. Cats don't care too much, as long as you make sure they get fed on time.”

  Mike pushed back in his seat and felt his body relax. Days of indecision and conflict faded into oblivion. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. He liked being near her, it was that simple. She calmed him down.

  Clarke pushed her long hair behind one ear and checked the clock on the wall. “I should get back, Lia needs a break too.”

  They both left money on the table and Mike followed her out the door. Their conversation traveled with them until they'd made it back to her workplace.

  “What are you doing for the holidays?” Mike suddenly asked, not sure what he would say if she didn't have plans. Maybe invite her to Boston? That seemed presumptuous. Especially since he was supposed to be putting distance between them, not sharing holidays.

  “Lia is having a bonfire,” Clarke answered, her eyes getting animated and pulling more blue to the surface than green. “It should be fun. Surfing, food, music.”

  “All your favorite things,” Mike pointed out, she responded with one of her brilliant smiles.

  “I don't leave for a few more days, we should hang out some more.”

  “Of course,” Clarke agreed obviously.

  Mike left and the conflict returned. What was he doing? He should be getting the hell out of there. He couldn't offer her anything and this was skating the edge of leading her on.

  The ugly snake of self-hate began to coil itself tightly in his belly.

  ***

  A few days later Clarke was just getting home from work when her doorbell rang.

  It had been a long couple of days. Manufacturing was a mess. Trippy was dragging their feet and no one could figure out why. Plus, business was up higher than the average, so they were all running around like crazy people, trying to put out fires while looking at the skyrocketing numbers and having mini-aneurysms.

  Clarke was looking forward to eating her deep dish pizza that she had picked up on her way home and falling asleep on the couch watching His Girl Friday.

  She opened the door, expecting it to be one of the boys. She wasn't wrong... exactly.

  Mike gave her that crooked smile that she simply adored, one shoulder resting against the door frame.

  “I was wondering if you had pizza that you might need help eating?” he asked.

  “How in the world did you know I had pizza?” she asked, despite the wide smile that had commandeered her face.

  “Well, see, that's the thing.” He straightened and stepped around her, sauntering into her living room. He held up a paper bag without facing her. “I have this entire six-pack of Dr. Pepper. I thought it would go nicely with your pizza.”

  He took the six-pack out of the bag and set it on the floor by the table. Then he looked up at her, pale blue eyes twinkling. “Should I get plates to keep up the pretense of being proper, or should we eat it straight from the box like you were planning on doing anyway?”

  Clarke shook her head, snickered softly to herself and closed the front door.

  Mike watched her walk towards him, his gaze taking in her dressed down appearance of USC sweat pants that she had stolen from Brady, white beater, and sloppy hair. Any other guy and she'd have been self-conscious. With Mike? Not even a hint of timidity. She never had a problem being exactly herself when they were together.

  “I wish I looked that pretty in sweat pants,” he remarked with a grin as he crashed into the corner of the sofa. He patted the seat beside him. When she joined him, he handed her a bottle of soda and opened the box of pizza on his lap.

  “What are we watching tonight?” he asked, hitting play on the paused screen, then taking a huge bite out of his slice of pizza.

  “His Girl Friday.” Clarke started on her own slice, feeling the high stress of her week evaporate.

  Mike grunted his approval, swallowing his mouthful. “You're spoiling me,” he said. Noticing her confusion, he went on to explain, “I prefer watching films with others. The guys,” he shrugged one shoulder, “they're not big fans of the same things I am.”

  “My couch is always available for you to join me,” Clarke reassured him.

  “I know. Why do you think I came over here so cocksure of myself?” He gave her a devilish grin and a wink.

  Clarke took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting the moment wash over her. Maybe this moment should be making her nervous, but she was exactly the opposite of that.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. Mike faced her, his eyebrows drawing in.

  “For what?” he asked quizzically.

  “For being my friend,” she answered bravely. It really meant more than she could convey. She could count on one hand how many people in her life were able to make her feel like it was completely and perfectly fine to be herself. Not just fine, but exactly who she was supposed to be.

  Mike's lips curved into a beautiful smile that drove that feeling right into the heart of her. He leaned over, kissed her forehead, and faced the television again. He didn't answer because he didn't need to.

  Clarke made a silent wish with her heart that they would stay friends forever and ever.

  ***

  Mike settled into his seat in the middle of the room. His last meeting before flying home for the holidays.

  Clarke was on his mind, his usual.

  He had had her over for tacos and Gregory Peck last night.

  She'd actually made the dinner herself, singing Sinatra as loud as humanly possible. He'd mostly laughed as he tried to help her find the correct notes, but it was really a lost cause. An adorable, gorgeous, hilarious lost cause.

  So he'd settled with teaching her what he could remember from his ballroom dancing days. The condo, being only partially furnished, gave them plenty of space. Harrison had helped by giving out irregular scores and acting like he knew what he was talking about.

  He'd also presented her with her Christmas present last night.

  A smoky gray adult male cat that he'd rescued at a shelter. He had yellow, perpetually indifferent eyes and he seemed particularly bored with Mike as a person. But he knew it was the exact right cat when he curled into Clarke's arms and purred like a Triumph motorcycle.

  “He doesn't have a name,” Mike had informed her, reaching over to give the tom a scratch on his head. “He was a stray, so you can call him whatever you want. Though I can't promise he'll ever answer.”

  Clarke had nuzzled the cat's short fur. “I'll call him Walter.”

  “Good choice,” Mike said with approval approved.

  She raised her eyes to his, and this time they popped green with the brown pulling towards her pupil like a whirlpool he wouldn't mind getting sucked into. “Thank you.”

  Never had a simple phrase ever caused so much pressure in his chest.

  They curled up on the couch together for the movie. Clarke resting her head in Mike's lap with her feet kicked out onto the arm rest. Walter got cozy on the flat of her stomach, while Clarke's hair fanned out ov
er the tops of Mike's thighs. He couldn't resist sliding his fingers into it.

  “I didn't know you knew how to ballroom dance. How did that come about?” she asked quietly, rubbing Walter's ears as the cat purred contentedly. Lucky cat.

  “I wanted to be Fred Astaire when I was younger, so Mom signed me up for some classes,” he said.

  Clarke's face grew pensive. “You don't talk about your family much.” It was an observation, not a question. Mike shifted just slightly, feeling his back muscles get tight.

  “I don't really think about them that much, I guess.” He chewed on his bottom lip. “I never knew my dad. He took off before I was born. And Mom... she loved him a lot. She never really got over him leaving.”

  “Sounds sad.”

  “Yeah.” He watched his fingers dip again and again into her silken hair. She always made him feel... calm. At peace. No matter the subject at hand. Which is why he kept going. “The ballroom classes were a good episode. She was sober, she was trying. It's a good memory.”

  Her hands paused until Walter meowed in protest, wanting her to continue petting him.

  “I haven't talked to her in a while. She sort of disowned me after the whole overdose thing.”

  Clarke's eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

  “She couldn't take the media attention, I think, was the big thing. She'd never been really strong under pressure. I know she's okay, I keep up with her and make sure she's safe, pays her bills, things like that. But she doesn't want anything to do with me.”

  Clarke reached up and grabbed his hand from the back of the couch, pulling it down to her chest and pressing it against her heart.

  That was Clarke. Trying to physically take on the burden of those she cared about. He felt her heart beating heavily against his palm and noticed her eyes were closed.

  “It's okay, I'm okay with it,” he tried to reassure her.

  She swallowed and opened her eyes to look up at him. “I'm not okay with it. You're an amazing person. She has no idea what she's missing.”

  Mike felt that slide though him and settle deep in his gut. Paul had been right, all those years ago. Clarke was an angel, capable of healing wounds that he'd accepted as being unhealable. He wanted to say a bunch of things that he just shouldn't say. So instead he settled for, “I'm glad to know you. My life would suck otherwise.”