by Hunt, Angela
“I’m Peyton MacGruder,” she yelled, straining to make herself heard over the noise of the departing boat. “I have an appointment with Taylor Crowe.”
The attendant nodded wordlessly, then checked the clipboard in his hand. After running his finger down a computerized printout, he moved toward a telephone on the wall.
“We’ll be right with you,” he told Peyton, pointing to a narrow flight of stairs. “Wait right there, and someone will escort you to Miss Crowe’s apartment.”
After a uniformed security guard led her through an elaborate maze of tunnels, decks, and elevators, Peyton found herself standing outside a pair of elaborately carved double doors. Only after the door opened did the security officer retreat.
The woman who opened the door wore a cotton T-shirt, torn at the neckline and sleeves and ending a good three inches above the waistband of her black leather pants. Long black hair splashed over her shoulders and accented a milky complexion. The face was thin and bony; the dark eyes seemed shadowed.
Peyton felt the wings of foreboding brush her spirit.
“Taylor Crowe?” She extended her hand. “I’m Peyton MacGruder, from the Tampa Times. I hope you were expecting me.”
“Yes.” The woman’s tone was as expressionless as a robot’s, but she accepted Peyton’s handshake, then opened the door wider. “Come in. I suppose we should get this over with.”
Peyton took two steps, then gaped at the apartment. Black marble lined the foyer, but the living room beyond seemed to shimmer in white—snowy carpet, bleached furniture, milky walls. The wide, uncurtained windows were ornamented only with a series of crystal objets d’art that filled the window sill and glimmered with the colors of the steel-blue sea and sky.
Peyton felt as though she were moving into a painting. “I’m not sure what you were told about my visit,” she began, following her unenthusiastic hostess into the pristine room.
Taylor Crowe whirled on one bare foot, her face pursing in a moue of distaste. “I was told I had to see you, so here you are. If this wasn’t something I had to do, you wouldn’t be here.”
Score one for honesty, subtract one for tact.
Peyton forced a smile. “Well, then, I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.”
Taylor only shrugged, then fell languidly onto the sofa. “So sit and tell me what this is all about.”
Peyton sank into a chair so white it hurt her eyes to look at it. “First, let me say how sorry I am that you lost your father in the crash of Flight 848. I was in Tampa at the time, and we all felt the loss of so many people.”
Taylor positioned her elbow on the back of the sofa, then propped her head on her hand. Worming her bare foot through the plush carpet, she lowered her gaze. “My father and I weren’t close. I haven’t spoken to him in years, so—” She shrugged again; the gesture seemed habitual. “I said good-bye to him a long time ago.”
A black-and-white cat wandered into the room, then leaped into Taylor’s lap. The woman welcomed it, stroking the animal with her free hand. After a moment, Taylor lifted her head and looked at Peyton with challenge in her eyes.
Shifting her position, Peyton pulled the briefcase onto her lap. “I hate to begin with formalities, but I’m going to have to ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement. Basically, it says you promise not to share details of this visit with anyone outside Howard Media & Entertainment until after July fourth.” She paused, the document in her hand. “I’m going to show you something that might have belonged to your father. If I were in your shoes, I think I’d appreciate a little privacy.”
Taylor’s dark eyes gleamed. “Something sort of like not releasing names until the family members have been notified?”
“The same principle, yes.” Peyton slid the paper and a pen across a gleaming ivory coffee table. “If you’ll sign, I have a few questions for you.”
With a careless shrug, Taylor scrawled her signature across the bottom of the page, then dropped the pen. “I probably should have read it,” she said, curling up on the sofa. “But if the company people sent you, I know I’d end up signing it anyway. Might as well cut to the chase.”
Peyton picked up the page. The woman had a point.
After returning paper and pen to the briefcase, Peyton assumed a relaxed posture, propping her elbows on the chair and folding her hands. How would Mary Grace begin? With an open question—and then she’d sit back, look, and listen.
“Can you tell me something about your father? Do you know what he was planning to do in Tampa?”
Another shrug from the songwriter. “I don’t have a clue. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to go to Florida in June. Maybe he wanted a vacation. Maybe he had a yen to visit purgatory. I don’t know.”
Peyton waited. The resulting silence was deep enough for her to hear the cry of gulls outside the boat, but apparently Taylor Crowe had grown accustomed to quiet. She didn’t offer anything else.
Mary Grace would have struck out with this one. Reaching down to the briefcase, Peyton pulled out a copy of the note.
“Taylor, what I’m about to show you might be upsetting, but I think you should see it. A few days after the crash, a woman on the beach found a note protected by a plastic bag. We have reason to believe your father might have written it. If he did, this was written for you.”
Something flickered in those dark eyes—but Peyton couldn’t tell whether it was interest or a reflection from the window. Taylor leaned forward, dislodging the cat, and took the note, slowly moving her lips as she read the words. For a moment she simply sat there, the note in her hand, then she looked up and caught Peyton’s gaze.
“Why did you bring this?”
Peyton clasped her hands. “If it’s yours, I thought you should have it.”
Taylor studied the note again, tracing her fingertip over the scrawled writing.
Hope stirred in Peyton’s breast. “Do you think your father could have written that note?”
“Yeah,” Taylor whispered, still tracing the words. “Why not? He could have. Maybe. The writing is pretty clear, isn’t it?”
“For someone aboard a crashing plane, yes.” Peyton leaned forward, eager to observe the younger woman’s thought processes. “If this was written while the plane was going down, I would imagine the other passengers were panicked. Perhaps the plane itself was shuddering, we don’t really know.”
“My dad had lovely handwriting.” Taylor lifted her head and closed her eyes, her dark hair framing her face. “Everything about him was charming, really. He was quite elegant, a quality you don’t expect in a construction worker. I used to love that about him. He seemed like the perfect man, and he loved me . . . until I told him I didn’t want to be his daughter anymore.”
Peyton pressed her lips together, letting the silence stretch.
Taylor didn’t speak. Instead she rose from the sofa and carried the note into the next room, out of Peyton’s field of vision. Perplexed, Peyton sat still for a moment, then the tinkling sounds of a piano invited her forward.
The living room led to a music room, which was dominated by a gleaming black grand piano. Notebook paper and sheets of music littered the top of the closed instrument. A pair of pencils lay at Taylor’s right hand, a coffee cup squatted on a coaster at her left.
“My office,” Taylor said, her voice dreamy as she moved her fingers over the keys. “You’re a writer, right?”
Peyton nodded.
“Then you’ll understand.” Taylor closed her eyes and leaned into the keyboard. “This is my typewriter, and this”—abruptly, she reached down and clicked on a tape recorder resting on a small table at the end of the piano bench—“is my computer.”
Folding her arms, Peyton leaned against the wall, at once entertained and bemused by the young woman before her. While she watched, Taylor Crowe fiercely played a series of chords, squinting in concentration, then seemed to settle into a pattern. Her left hand picked up a rhythm and moved over the bass keys, providing a run
ning accompaniment while her right plucked out a haunting melody, each note seeming to have been pulled from pain and the most unbearable loneliness . . .
Peyton understood the poverty of loneliness. She could close her eyes and summon memories of playing alone in the dirt behind her grandmother’s house, suffering torments when she had no mother to attend her elementary school’s mother-daughter tea, and later enduring terminal embarrassment because she had no one to help her fix her hair or teach her how to deal with hormonal males. Even now, as a functional adult, she often found herself sitting against the wall in a movie theater, munching quietly on popcorn and praying for the lights to dim so no one would see the Woman Alone in the Dark . . .
As ghost spiders crawled along the back of Peyton’s neck, Taylor began to sing:
“I said good-bye beneath a sky of blue and mingled rainbows,
I said farewell to a love as strong as the sea,
I moved away from an all-protective embrace,
And I hoped you’d forever live in me.”
She sang with a surprisingly pleasant voice, and Peyton wondered why Crowe hadn’t aimed for a career in performance. A lot of recording artists wrote their own songs, so with her track record and strong voice, she could be right up there with Whitney Houston.
Taylor tinkled the keys a moment more, then moved into a second verse:
“I moved away, into my self-sustaining world,
I walked alone, in search of love and life,
I yearned for you in every face and flower,
But all I had of you was emptiness inside.”
A change of mood, an increase in tempo, and she sang again:
“Why’d I go? How could I know . . . your love formed and made me?
Not to say . . . I want to stay . . . for your love will enslave me.”
Back to the beginning, a calmer mood now:
“I said good-bye, now I can’t cry, for I must live with my choice,
But as I go, you should know, I’ll always hear your sweet voice.”
Taylor played a final chord, let it fade, then dropped her head. Peyton pulled herself away from the wall, not certain if she should applaud, smile, or weep. She felt like doing all three.
“That was lovely,” she finally said, moving closer to the piano. “One of your published songs?”
Taylor reached down and snapped off the recorder. “A new creation. It’s a little rough, but I can work with it. And when I sell it, everyone will think it’s about the love between a man and a woman.” She looked up and caught Peyton’s gaze for the first time since sitting at the piano. “Only you and I will know it’s about me and my father.”
Sensing a rock of truth in the surrounding sea of confusion, Peyton struggled to grasp it. “Taylor”—she moved closer, daring to touch the shiny ebony—“if you’re thinking your father died not caring about you, that’s clearly not the case. If your father did write this note, he wrote it from a heart of love. He forgave you for whatever you said to him all those years ago. The note makes it very clear.”
Taylor shook her head. “That note wasn’t meant for me.”
“But—” Peyton lifted her hand, suddenly choked with frustration. An almost-tangible cloak of melancholy and regret lay upon this woman, so why couldn’t she see that forgiveness lay within reach? Whether James Crowe had written this note or not, Taylor did not have to mourn their lost relationship. The key to closure lay within the note . . . if she would only accept it.
“Taylor,” she began, injecting a firm note into her voice, “there’s no reason for us to doubt this note was written for you. So for you to turn your back on it, to deny it—well, it makes no sense.”
Crowe reached up, flicked a hank of dark hair off her shoulder, and placed her hands on the piano keys. “Life doesn’t make sense, does it?” She played a progression of chords, each more dissonant than the last. “It doesn’t have to.”
Peyton gripped the edge of the piano. “Listen—I’ve been around the block more than a few times and I’ve seen things I hope you never see. And let me tell you— carrying sad memories will wear you out. You’ve got to put them down and walk away. Do whatever you must to put emotional space between yourself and your past. That’s the only way you’re going to make it through.”
Taylor didn’t answer, but continued to play, the notes combining into phrases that grated against Peyton’s nerves until her heart thumped against her rib cage. A shiver passed down her spine and an odd coldness settled upon her, a darkly textured sensation that sent gloomy thoughts speeding through her brain like bullets. She trembled, seeing her spare school dormitory, her empty house the night Garrett died, and the hospital—
Without warning, the light of understanding blazed in Peyton’s brain. The young woman before her had made a fortune singing about love and longing, yet she lived like a recluse in this spotless apartment, with only a cat for company. Taylor chose to live this way . . . and she’d hate life as a performer. She wanted to remain aloof, feeling only what she allowed herself to feel, sorting through emotions, tasting only those that suited her fancy and ambition. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Taylor Crowe cultivated misery and melancholy, weeding out color and human contact so she could harvest best-selling songs.
Peyton almost laughed as another thought struck her. This girl would despise Julie St. Claire and her camera crew.
“Taylor.” Peyton bent to catch the musician’s eye. “I’ve got to write a column about this interview. If you’d like to remain anonymous, I’d be happy to use a pseudonym instead of your name. I could describe you as a successful young woman who lives alone.”
“I’d prefer that.” Abruptly stopping the music, Taylor shifted her weight on the piano bench and sat on her hands.
“That’s fine with me, but—” Peyton leaned forward, overcome by an inexplicable urge to rattle this indifferent young woman. “The news people from WNN won’t want to hide your name. And since they could pressure you enough to invite me here, I’m pretty sure they’re going to want you to cooperate with their film crew.”
A pained look crossed Taylor’s face. “They won’t be able to make me say my father wrote that note.”
“But you said he might have.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She tossed her head, sending the mane of dark hair flying. “That note’s not mine, and nobody is going to make me say it is.”
“Fine.” Peyton turned to leave, then pointed toward the note on the piano. “You may keep that, if you like. It’s a copy.”
Without hesitation, Taylor reached out and handed the page to Peyton. “It’s not mine.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t want it.”
Peyton accepted the note with a curt nod, then left Taylor Crowe to her black-and-white existence.
As the door clicked shut, Taylor slumped and felt some of the tension drain out of her shoulders.
Man, she hated reporters. They stirred things up, made her remember things she hadn’t thought about in a long time and didn’t want to think about at all . . . but at least she got a song out of the interview.
She pressed the rewind button on the tape recorder, then stopped and pressed play, humming a harmony line.
Yeah, this song would fly. She’d send it in tomorrow, as soon as she wrote out the chart. The company would probably send it to Mariah or Celine . . . or maybe LeAnne Rimes. Rimes would be best—the country singer was young enough to make it work in all sorts of ways. The tune could become her signature song.
Standing, Taylor stretched for a moment, then reached to scoop up Tuxedo Cat. Tucking him under her arm, she walked into the gleaming kitchen and set the animal on the marble counter.
“I moved away, into my self-sustaining world,” she sang under her breath as she pulled a glass from the cabinet. No—maybe independent world would be better. Fewer syllables, anyway, and easier to sing. Or maybe crystal-clear world. That’s how it felt when she first left home. Things were bright and shiny and oh so brittle.
She walked to the bar and poured a shot of vodka into the glass, then lifted it in a toast. “Here’s to you, Dad,” she said, her voice whispery soft. “I thought I was done with you.”
She tipped the drink back with one practiced gesture, then dropped the glass onto the counter and sank onto a barstool. Why couldn’t the dead stay buried?
She’d sent flowers to the funeral because she knew her mother would expect her to do something, but she didn’t go to the service, and her mother understood. Celebrity status could be convenient that way. Her mother probably thought Taylor would be mobbed at the cemetery, but little did she know that hardly anybody outside the business even knew who Taylor Crowe was—or cared. But it was okay. She was making a good living, and people liked what she did. Nothing else mattered.
The cat walked over to her and rubbed his head against hers, trying to evoke a scratch between the ears or a stroke down the spine. Taylor did neither.
The fates, or whoever ordered these things, hadn’t dealt her father an easy death. And he was a wonderful man, really, gentle with his family, good to his friends. The only time he ever lost his temper was with Taylor, and, in retrospect, she could understand why.
Her childhood had been typical and happy, she supposed, the usual stuff, but from the time she hit thirteen she and her parents couldn’t agree on anything. They didn’t like her friends, her music, or her clothes. They complained that she never talked to them—well, who’d want to? They were so hopelessly out of it. Then one day she and her dad had it out in the middle of the living room, and her phlegmatic father actually lost his temper and went red with fury. He told her to obey the house rules; she said she wouldn’t. He said she would or she’d get out, and she said, fine, I’m leaving. By then she was seventeen, so there was little her parents could do to stop her.