High Strung

by Jacki Moss

  Suzanne, Loaves’ owner, greeted them at the door with a broad smile. “Good evening, Cafton. Two this evening?”

  “Yes, please, Suzanne. How’d your visit to Charleston go last week?” Cafton asked as Suzanne led him and Leigh to an intimate table by the crackling fireplace, a prime piece of real estate in the quickly filling restaurant.

  “I adored it. It was everything you promised and more. Your recommendations were spot on. Thanks for asking.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Glad to have you back, though.”

  Cafton pulled the ladderback chair out for Leigh. She sat and then adjusted something under the right side of her navy, cable-knit sweater. Hmm, that’s what I do when I adjust my pistol, thought Cafton. Noticing Leigh was right-handed, he sat in the chair just to her left. Her fresh, clean, soft fragrance drifted into his personal space.

  She leaned toward Cafton, placed her hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “I think you noticed my secret.”

  He leaned in toward her, closing the gap between them and whispered back, “I think I did.” As he got closer, he drank in the sandalwood soap scent. Indian soap, he thought.

  “It’s a tool of the trade. I’m not a gun nut or bonkers, I promise. I have to carry, because there are some real nut cases out there, and it’s my job to confront some of them,” she explained, leaning back to observe Cafton’s reaction. He paused momentarily to let it sink in, still locked into her gaze and still leaning toward her.

  “No explanation necessary. I have no doubt you are not a nut of any variety, nor bonkers. And I know for a fact there are dangerous people out there walking among us,” he said, slowly nodding in agreement, thinking about his recent unsettling events. “Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the sane people from the crazy ones who fake sanity very well.” He tenderly placed his hand on her shoulder and softly pulled her toward him.

  She easily complied, drawing near, taking in a deep toke of his earthy scent. It reminded her of the smell of fresh soil, leaves, trees, and the woods on her farm after a heavy rain. The deep forest floor. Petrichor, it’s called, but he’s wearing vetiver cologne, she decided. It’s like petrichor in a bottle. Cafton in a bottle. Cafton’s essence.

  “I’m carrying, too,” he disclosed.

  He wanted them to stay fastened, to stay close, to continue to mingle their perfectly blended fragrances. The world could have gone up in flames around them, an earthquake could have rattled the very firmament, and they would not have noticed. Nothing existed at this moment but them. Together. In perfect harmony. In motionless time.

  I could get used to this, Cafton acknowledged to himself.

  Leigh lifted her face, tilting her head back slightly so she could look Cafton in the eyes. A subdued, Mona Lisa smile crossed her face. Then she gently head-butted him like Dagwood did, but kept her forehead tenderly touching his for a brief second more. A luscious, brief second more. Cafton’s heart leapt. Maybe skipped a beat. Maybe had a double beat. Maybe fluttered. Who knows. But something in his heart sprang to life.

  Is there such a thing as love at first sight? Really? Cafton mulled the question to himself. He wanted to believe, but he had always rejected such nonsense as a made-for-television or made-for-poetry contrivance. Until now.

  He had always yearned for love, that one love that eclipsed all other loves, the love with no doubts, the love of his life. He had known true and unselfish love from his mom. He had given true and unselfish love to his mom. He hoped he had a soul mate somewhere, but he often wondered if their paths would ever cross. His mom had advised him to never force a relationship, and reassured him to trust his instincts. She reminded him God works in mysterious ways, and when Cafton was ready, and when his soul mate was ready, and when the time was right, she would appear. No need to hunt for her. God would make it happen in His time. And it would be absolute.

  With his mom’s wisdom in mind, he had never succumbed to the idea of just settling for a life mate. Cafton intended to marry once in his life and make that marriage last forever. His choice of partner must, therefore, be the perfect one. Not a perfect person, but the person most perfect for him, and him for her.

  His mom had told him that when his soul mate came along, he would immediately know her, all doubt would be erased, the relationship would be easy, and kind, and as natural as breathing. Like this.

  Cafton and Leigh lingered, rapt, perfectly still, frozen in the moment, head to head, searching each other’s eyes for several seconds while their souls melded into one.

  Leigh’s heart seemed to be in sync with Cafton’s. She had never felt this before. It was visceral. Chemical, maybe. And immediate. This man will change my life, thought Leigh. It wasn’t really a conscious thought but more like a truth, an irrefutable fact dropped from the heavens into her core. It was a certainty. Not he might change her life. He was going to change her life. Maybe he already has, she thought.

  Cafton emerged back into the real world with a deep breath, like he had just awakened from a refreshing afternoon nap. “I have a pistol under my sports jacket. And I’m not a gun nut or bonkers, either,” Cafton finally whispered. He leaned back to watch Leigh’s reaction. He was pretty sure he saw her eyes twinkle. He took a sip of water from a glass the server had placed on the table, unobserved by Cafton or Leigh.

  “Some psychopath is threatening to kill me, so I need it for protection,” he said quietly.

  Processing that sobering revelation, Leigh dialed her delight down several notches. Her enchantment transformed to concern. “Now that the weapons update portion of our date is over, let’s just get to know each other. But we have to talk about that later, in private,” she insisted. She wanted to know everything about why this gentle man, this kind spirit, this unanticipated soul mate, would need to protect himself from anyone. She knew in her gut she was meant to meet Cafton, she just wasn’t exactly sure why. She certainly wasn’t going to allow some nut job to take him away from her before she found out.

  Their paths to this meeting had been quite different, but the differences just added to the intrigue. They both believed there was no such thing as coincidence. They did believe in synchronicity. A divine plan was in play. Their job was to recognize the gift before them and to do the work to make the best of it.

  The rest of their dinner was interspersed with eager, conversational inquiry. They were fervently curious about each other and could barely eat, they were so deep in conversation.

  Leigh, a middle child, was born in the Chicago suburbs to rich parents. She went to a prestigious university up north, majoring in communications. While she appreciated her parents’ generous offer to pay her way through college, she earned a full-ride tennis scholarship for all four years, earning her the independence she craved. Despite her privileged upbringing, independence and hard work were two of Leigh’s strongest personality traits. Once she left home for college, she never again used her parents’ wealth or influence.

  Communications degree in hand, she learned of an opportunity as a general reporter for a trio of newspapers in northern Maine, near the Canadian border, across from New Brunswick. The Journal Press needed a reporter, and she wanted to explore that beautiful part of the country. A natural athlete, Leigh loved skiing and snowshoeing. “What the hell,” she told herself. “I’ll get some good clips, photography, and cross-country skiing in, and then find a better job once I have some experience under my belt.” The publisher of the Moosefoot newspaper and its sister publications was thrilled to have someone with her pedigree and talent on board.

  What started as a general reporter position, writing about the city council meetings and spaghetti fundraising suppers, quickly turned into an investigative reporter position. Deep, investigative journalism was neither what the publisher intended nor wanted. Most small-town, community newspapers are little more than weekly, good-natured gossip rags underwritten by a few steady ads from the churches and funeral homes. They were predominantly interested in reporting on who got their new dentures
and what the kids had for lunch at school rather than focusing heat and light on the inner workings of the circulation area. They were not the Washington Post nor did they intend to be. The people they wrote about and their subscribers were not high-profile national movers and shakers. Instead, they were friends, family, and community members. Everyone knew everyone else either by family tree, employment, or church affiliation. Sure, Moosefoot knew there were, uh, imperfections in some things going on there, but because of decades of habit and the interconnectivity of everyone, those transgressions were charitably overlooked.

  But Leigh wasn’t kin to anyone there, and she wasn’t a churchgoer.

  Shortly after taking the position, she inadvertently uncovered a serious problem that had existed long enough to have been corrected but was completely ignored or forgiven. It didn’t even rate or necessitate a cover up; it was just considered business as usual. It was not economically expedient, nor the neighborly thing to do, to talk about it. It was, however, news. Real news. And important in the grand scheme of things.

  That’s when she landed on investigations. Investigation played into all of her wheelhouses. She was curious, perceptive, possessed a strong sense of right and wrong, was guided by a durable moral compass, was an excellent writer, and was fearless.

  Before she even pitched her story to her editor, he had been contacted by several farmers who laid him out in lavender for letting “your girl” ask improper (read as “damn nosy”) questions about the pesticides they drenched on the potato crops three times a year. She had noticed empty pesticide barrels, both new and rusted out, stacked in twenty-foot pyramids near creeks and streams on farm landscapes all over the county. She suspected that wasn’t an EPA-approved method of disposal. Of course it wasn’t, but according to townsfolk, it also wasn’t any of her damn business.

  Her unbiased journalist/editor was not a native Moosefootian. He was an import from Vermont and had held the helm for three years. Disregarding his acquired Maine manners and economic self-preservation, he gave Leigh permission to write the story, telling her it had better be good, because once he published it, they could both be out of a job.

  It never was published, though. As the publisher had warned her when she interviewed for the job, “Editorial is just a way to fill the space between the ads.” Predictably, small-town politics intervened to quash the article. Citizens called the publisher and raised hell, threatening everything from pulling their non-existent advertising to pointedly alluding to him being found buried frozen stiff in a snowbank when the spring thaw uncovered him if he printed such heresy. He pulled the story, not even caring that there would be a fourteen-column-inch hole among the ads. And even before the story got officially pulled, Leigh and her editor were canned.

  Welcome to the real world, she thought. She remembered she had been taught in J-school the public had a right to free press, not fair press. Free press does not measure, nor does it often care about, the quality of the journalism.

  Instead of deterring her, the setback solidified and intensified her quest to use her investigative and communication skills to help right wrongs. Fortuitously, she had scrimped and saved enough money to survive comfortably until she landed the job in Nashville.

  Now, a decade later, she was an intrepid automobile insurance fraud investigator. She had saved her employer millions of dollars by uncovering fraudsters, refusing to pay their claims, and sometimes bringing them to justice. In the meantime, she had developed mutually respected relationships with local law enforcement, who treated her as one of their own.

  Tonight, sitting next to the man she knew would change her life, she set her sights on uncovering who was threatening him, on keeping him safe, and on bringing the bad guy to justice.

  A few hours later, Cafton and Leigh realized the wait staff was closing down the restaurant and had their coats draped over their arms, headed to the door. Cafton made sure to leave a sizable tip, not unusual for him, and he and Leigh reluctantly concluded their first of a lifetime of intimate dinners.

  Chapter 10—The Dangcat and the Dang Brat

  “Hey, Caf. Checking in with you.” Bynum, just out of the limo and now back in the hotel room, yawned and stretched like a cat, unwinding from the show. Only a handful of shows into the tour and he was already bushed. He had nodded off on Mattie’s shoulder on the six-mile ride from the concert hall to the hotel. They had ordered room service and were ready to settle in for the rest of the night before going to bed. The boys had headed to the hotel to change clothes and then go kick up some dust with the locals at a line-dancing club.

  “You sound dog-tired. How’s it going?” The phone call update was the ritual between Cafton and Bynum every few days without fail. Keeping in touch kept them both grounded and the business running efficiently.

  “We’re loving the audiences. Arenas are fine, but these smaller towns really make us feel welcome.” Bynum cradled the phone under his chin as he wrestled to take off his well-worn cowboy boots. Cafton recognized the grunts and groans and was glad Bynum was already unwinding. When the boots come off, you’re in for the night.

  “The synergy between you and the audience has to help keep your energy and spirits up. It’s like an elixir.”

  “That’s the truth. It keeps us putting one foot in front of the other while we’re on the road. Between shows is the worst. The bus is time-consuming, draining, and boring, but you know, once we hit the stage, feel the energy, and start feeding off of it, and then start playing, well, all’s right with the world again. I’m eighteen and full of spit and vinegar.” Singing was Bynum’s meditation. His peace. His fountain of youth. His emotional energy.

  Bynum’s debut onto the celebrity music scene was fairly recent, but he had started singing in his little rural AME church choir, exalting the Lord’s Word through gospel songs since he was four years old. He grew up with his grandmother, Nellie, who was the choir director and a fine and vigorous alto in her own right.

  Bynum’s baritone voice was as rich and resonant as a cathedral pipe organ. He grew up teething on the Baptist hymnal, and could sing the Doxology, word for word, note for note, by the time his full set of primary teeth emerged. Back in Marshall, he had led his church choir to the promised land every Sunday morning and Wednesday night, and paid final tribute in song at most of his fellow parishioners’ funerals. His voice could make a saint dance and a sinner weep.

  Now, in his concerts, Bynum took his audience back to his home church every show. He created his set lists masterfully, calling on his church experience to grab his audience, keep them involved throughout the performance, and then leave them with joy in their hearts to carry with them and spread to others. Each concert started low-key, built to a crescendo, and then ended with his audience wishing for more. He started slowly, building energy, kicked into high gear a couple of songs later, and then let it all rip until the end. He made sure to give his fans what they wanted: the songs they heard on the radio that would prompt them to buy the album and create loyalty. He interspersed the hits with lesser-known material and new material. He engaged his female audience from the get-go with the ballads, followed up with a kick-ass, dance-in-your-seat song, a sing-along number to create loyalty, and ended with his most high-energy hit. The encores—the audience always called for at least two—were tasty old favorite treats.

  He had his audience on their feet singing and swaying throughout the show and then whooping and hollering for an encore or two by the end of the set. It was no wonder why when Bynum finished a show he was spent. He left it all on the stage. One hundred percent was the only way he knew how to do things: Do your best, ’cause the Lord’s watching, he remembered his granny warning him.

  “Guess if I had to complain about something, it would be about Chad,” Bynum continued. He was giving Chad his best for the Lord, but he was still about at the end of his rope with him.

  “What’s going on with our problem child now?” Cafton’s strawberry-blonde eyebrows bunched together in a sc
owl, etching double vertical creases in his forehead between them.

  “More of the same, with an extra dollop or two of arrogance and spoiled brat thrown in. He apparently thinks we should all drop everything we are doing and tend to him. He’s becoming insufferable. To know him is to loathe him. Every time he shows his ass to get what he wants, he pushes his luck with me.”

  “Me, too, and I’m not even having to deal with him on a daily basis.”

  “Daily? Try hourly. He’d wake me up and hound me if he didn’t think Mattie would smack him into next week. I just avoid him as much as possible, but sometimes he gets me treed somewhere, like on the bus, and I just can’t get away without being rude.” Bynum’s manners and consideration were normally impeccable.

  “Yeah, one time he demanded that I just go ahead and approve the Jump Steady record even though I haven’t heard it. I told him I would let him know when it was settled. He even threatened to go ‘over my head’ and call you to tattletale on me. He boasted he knew your private number and he wouldn’t hesitate to drop a dime on me!” Cafton could tell Bynum chortled while he said it.

  “Oh, goodie! Let him! It would be a serious mistake,” Cafton said gleefully, anticipating a confrontation with the pipsqueak ego monster. “I would solve our problem in a New York minute.”

  Cafton and Bynum had enough going on without having to hand-hold and babysit a brat, especially a marginally talented brat who greatly overestimated his musical talent and importance. His brothers were the band; he rode their coattails. He should have accepted the basketball scholarship to play for the Kentucky Wildcats. He actually had some ability for that.

  His brothers’ sound, talent, and creativity were the heart and soul of Jump Steady and why their fans lined up around the block to see them. Chad was a mediocre talent at best, even though he insisted on covering himself in stolen glory. His highest potential without his brothers would have been a flash in the pan, like a cursory splash of brandy and the temporary inferno over Bananas Foster—gaudy and impressive, but exceedingly short-lived.