Abby Road

by Ophelia London

  “Sammy,” Todd corrected. “As in Davis Junior.”

  I sat back and laughed. “You’re kidding.”

  After a shrug, Todd dashed out of the room through a swinging door. I heard him opening and closing drawers in another part of the house.

  Thanks to the lab barking gleefully in the backyard, my first impression was that Todd’s home was a happy one. My second was that it smelled exactly like him, which gave me a sudden swoony feeling.

  I pulled my foot onto my lap, stretching my shirt out to wrap my mangled toe in the bottom of it, so as not to get blood all over his nice furniture. After a few deep breaths, deciding that I was not going to bleed to death, I investigated my surroundings from where I sat.

  The living room was tall and wide, and because of all the open windows, full of moving air. A row of dark, six-inch rafters sliced across the high white ceiling. The floors were creamy taupe Corinthian tile with a large blue, brown, and black rug spread across the middle.

  His place screamed bachelor pad, but also European simplicity. Looking down, I noticed the couch I was sitting on: tall back, long, and with soft padded cushions in black leather and silver legs. It smelled expensive.

  In front of me sat a rectangular coffee table, rich and marbly. Three long, shallow drawers ran its full width, reminiscent of something that might have been full of treasure maps on a pirate ship.

  Still gripping my foot, I leaned back against comfy cushions, wedging myself between two. To my left, the room was lined with pale oak shelves, some with books, others with pictures in frames, trophies, and further evidence of an exciting life. For a brief moment, I envisioned how nicely some of my Mustang Sally awards might look on one of the empty shelves.

  Silly Abby. I smiled to myself. Always jumping ahead.

  To my right, a complicated-looking sound system with both a turntable and an iPod dock filled a corner of the room. The shelf beside it held a stack of vinyl record albums.

  A red punching bag dangled from the low ceiling on the other side of the room, right in front of a large picture window. On the adjacent wall hung an Annapolis pennant and a framed Robin and the 7 Hoods vintage movie poster autographed by the entire Rat Pack, including Sinatra. Positioned just above the mantel, displayed like a piece of fine art, was a massive plasma TV.

  Boys, I thought with a sigh. They do love their toys.

  Straight in front of me was the highlight of the room: the view of the Gulf through floor-to-ceiling windows and a set of tall French doors.

  Over my shoulder was the doorway through which my host had disappeared. The door was still swinging. His house was a lovely space. I wondered why he didn’t tell me he lived there yesterday.

  Finally he reappeared, carrying a large bowl of water and a first-aid kit, with a white towel draped over his shoulder. He knelt down. “This will hurt you more than it hurts me,” he cautioned. “But don’t worry, I’m a professional beach-towel salesman.” Before I could squirm away, he dunked my wounded foot in the murky, steaming-hot water.

  The pain was instantaneous. Yelping, I jerked my foot out, splashing both of us, as well as the carpet and couch.

  “Don’t make me get rough,” Todd warned, holding me down by the shoulders. “Just relax, Abby, okay?” The slow sound of his voice was soothing and a bit hypnotic. “Relax.” His hands slid from my shoulders, down my arms. He leaned forward, one hand carefully picking up my hurt foot. His other went gliding down the back of my calf. When I inhaled jaggedly, he cocked an eyebrow.

  I was pretty much putty in his hands as he gazed up at me like he was positioning us for something more than just a kiss. If I hadn’t been in so much pain, it would’ve been quite the turn-on . . . him kneeling at my feet, being both gentle and bossy.

  “Ready?” he asked. His expression turned concerned, maybe wondering if my stillness was a sign that I was going into shock.

  I took in a breath and nodded.

  As he re-submerged my foot, I let my body absorb the pain, concentrating on some complicated yoga breaths that weren’t doing crap. I stared up at the ceiling, while below me, Todd worked his Dr. Feelgood magic.

  “So, why all the sneaking around?” I asked in an effort to stop grinding my teeth. “This house is gorgeous and right on the beach.”

  He didn’t say anything at first, still tending to my wound. Finally, after a shrug, he said, “I’ve lived here six months and never brought a woman home—a date, I mean. You’re the first.”

  “Oh.” Maybe Todd was more private than I thought. And I’d practically forced my way in here. After all, he couldn’t have just left me down on the beach with a crab hanging off my big toe. “Sorry.” I started inching my foot out of his hands, but Todd took a hold of my leg.

  “Don’t,” he said, lifting his chin to look up at me. “I’m very happy that you’re here, Abby.” When he smiled, I felt myself relaxing into my seat again.

  “Thanks. So am I.” I smiled back. “So, tell me about this place.”

  “What do you want to know?” He enfolded my slightly less throbbing foot in the towel.

  “Is it yours?”

  “That’s kind of a long story.”

  I got the feeling he didn’t want to talk about it, but since it was evident I wasn’t going anywhere, he sat back, readjusting the towel.

  “My father’s always been into real estate. He owns properties all over. One was this house.”

  “Was?” I asked, because he seemed to have emphasized that word.

  “Six months ago I bought it, along with the store in town, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  Wow, I thought, staring at the top of his bent head. Todd’s a . . . grown up.

  “I thought you said your family grows olives.”

  “Olive oil,” he corrected. “That’s my mother’s side.” He unfolded the towel, exposing my toe to the fresh air. It stung. I winced.

  “Olive oil from Sicily,” I repeated through my teeth, trying hard not to whimper. “How very Godfather. You don’t plan to whack me for a cannoli, do you?”

  Todd chuckled while applying some kind of creamy, soothing ointment to my toe.

  “That’s how you ended up here?”

  “More or less. Turned out Manhattan high finance wasn’t for me. Among other things,” he tagged on, expertly wrapping my toe in white gauze. “Now, every morning I see the sunrise through my window, walk to work in shorts, and know I hit the jackpot.” He tucked the frayed end of the gauze. “It’s not as lavish as my family’s other houses, but after traveling for the majority of my life, I’m grateful I have a place to hang my hat.” He looked down, bandaging his own injured hand now. “You know, a real home.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Slowly he lifted his chin. “Yes,” he said, “I guess we have that in common, too.”

  The way he was looking at me, filling the small space between us, did something to the oxygen flow to my brain. My chest felt hot, and I couldn’t seem to breathe normally. Sure, I’d lost some blood, but I think the new light-headedness was due more to the atmosphere around that couch—hot, hazy, and swirly, just like yesterday, right before I dived into the water to extinguish my raging hormones. There was no body of water around now, but I didn’t feel like extinguishing anything, anyway.

  Todd shifted an inch closer, making my pulse go ticking up the backs of my legs.

  Right then, right that second, the things I’d been ruminating about, pushing around in my stupid brain, and essentially obsessing over for two days faded into nothing. Finally I knew exactly what I wanted.

  Then I heard the song, reminding me that I would never get exactly what I wanted.

  {chapter 14}

  “DON’T PASS ME BY”

  “Helter Skelter.”

  I yanked the phone from my pocket and glared at its face, wishing for once that I was having a nightmare.

  “Max.” The word came out like a strangled, whispered scream. “No-no-nooo!” I howled over the song, hating
the sound of John Lennon’s voice for the first time in my life.

  Suddenly my palm was empty, and Todd was staring at my singing cell in his hand. He seemed to be pondering something, maybe whether to answer it himself or smash it to smithereens. A second later, with a side-winding pitch, my phone disappeared. I heard plastic crack when it made contact with the hallway floor.

  I stared at him, a bit indignant at first, but then it was forgotten. “I swear!” I yelled at the ceiling. “Can’t I have one day of peace? The whole thing was supposed to be a fun-filled gig for a few months, and I’d have cool stories to tell around the sorority house. I did not sign up for this!”

  “Are you okay?” Todd asked.

  I shut my eyes and clenched my fists, fighting to get a grip on my emotions as the deluge of anger built. But the dam broke.

  “Ha ha ha.” I laughed manically. “Am I okay? You’re asking if I’m okay? What the hell!”

  Todd stared.

  “No, I am not okay. I am the furthest thing possible from okay.” I stood up, winced in pain, and hobbled away from the sofa on my aching foot. “The four of us, we started out as regular kids, just musicians having fun. But do you think anybody understands that?” I felt Todd’s eyes following me as I paced around the room.

  “I just fell into this,” I went on, pent-up rage bursting out. “My summer job that year was at a recording studio. Seriously? It was practically an accident it even happened. I sang for the studio owner one day to help with his new equipment—just messing around, the first song I thought of. My brother’s favorite.” I looked at Todd pointedly, but his confused expression was unchanged. “Two months later it was a done deal. Lights, camera, action!” I propped myself against a bookshelf, knocking over a few picture frames in the process.

  “I thought Max Salinger discovered you.” The calm curiosity in Todd’s voice sounded so out of place. “He saw your picture and—”

  “Not even close.”

  I was losing it again, so I tried to breathe steadily and calmly, to relax the way Dr. Robert had coached me. But it wasn’t working. “That man is a control freak. I don’t know what happened. He used to listen to me, used to care about what I thought. Now I can’t wear a dress to an event or change my hair without his endorsement.” I was hearing Lindsey’s words. “Can’t I make a single decision on my own? Can’t I? Huh?”

  Todd stepped toward me but froze as “Helter Skelter” warbled anew from down the hall. His eyes held on mine, perhaps gauging what my next insane reaction was going to be. I was sure I didn’t disappoint.

  “It’s suffocating!” I shrieked over the song, pressing my hand against my mouth, bending in half.

  “He’s a Svengali,” Todd said from across the room. “Salinger. Isn’t he?”

  I looked at him.

  “Wanting everyone under his thumb.”

  My hand remained at my mouth, and I nodded.

  “I’ve experienced his type in business before.” Todd thought for a moment. “So then, why don’t you just . . . just—”

  “What?” I interrupted. “Fire him? Quit?”

  Todd shut his mouth.

  “That’s what everyone says. ‘Just quit, Abby. It’s so easy.’ But I can’t. This is my livelihood. It’s what I do.” I turned away so he wouldn’t see my quivering bottom lip. “Singing . . . performing . . .” My voice dropped to a tearful whisper. “It’s what I know I was put on this earth to do—I feel it in my blood. I love it so much that it kills me inside.” My voice dropped even lower. “And sometimes . . . I hate it. Do you know how that feels?”

  Todd said nothing.

  “Why doesn’t anyone understand?” I stomped once, making my brain shift gears. “You think Max saw my picture, and that’s what he liked?” I unleashed another sarcastic cackle. “Don’t get me started on pictures. We’re four of the biggest nerds you’ll ever meet.”

  “Why don’t you come sit down?” Todd reseated himself as an example and motioned to my previous spot on the couch.

  I shook my head, resting my sore foot on its heel.

  “How about some water?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment and then nodded, feeling calmer at the suggestion.

  Todd passed through the swinging door, then returned with two chilled water bottles. “Well,” he began again, “you certainly don’t look like a nerd on your Losin’ Myself cover.”

  “I wouldn’t put too much stock in pictures,” I mumbled, staring at my bandaged foot. “I warned you about that yesterday. You’ve no idea how much fussing with makeup, camera angles, and lighting is involved in pictures.” I took a drink, little drops dribbling off my chin like I was a nursing calf. I wiped them away with the heel of my hand. “Those journalists are always going on and on about ‘Abigail Kelly’s fresh face, her naturally sun-kissed skin.’ Ha! Do you have any idea how many moisturizers and bronzers and blushes I have to wear to get that natural glow? Seriously, any girl can look good through a soft-focus lens under twenty colored lights with grease smeared all over her body.”

  I hobbled to the corner of the room with the red punching bag. “Probably sounds naïve, but I didn’t think anything from the Losin’ Myself photo shoot would end up somewhere.” I dropped my water bottle and took one hard punch at the bag. “That outfit I had to wear.” I wound up for another swing. “I was completely mortified by it.” My voice was getting higher and more labored. “My grandparents saw those pictures, and I looked like a prostitute!”

  I attacked the bag for a while, swimming in adrenaline. “That album cover?” I panted. “Just so you know, major doctoring went into making me look like that. I was practically a cartoon.” I stopped to breathe, shaking my hands in pain. “Whose thighs are that taut? Whose complexion is that flawless? Reality, please!”

  “I hate to remind you, Abby,” Todd’s voice seemed distant, “but I think you’re rather adorable right now; even yesterday, soaking wet with seaweed in your hair. You weren’t wearing makeup then, were you?”

  The point seemed irrelevant, so I took another hard swing at the red bag. Pain on the heels of pain, I was suddenly thinking of something else, something worse than a few retouched pictures. No matter how hard I pushed it down, the vilest of memories always broke surface last, like a screaming, breeching torpedo. Even though I tried to stop them, I felt the words coming up.

  “And then my b-brother.” My strained voice cracked on the last word. Pulling in my chin, I beat on that bag—one-two, one-two, one-two—until my arms ached. Gasping for air, I stopped and hugged it, hung off it, burying my face in its leather. I knew a fresh tidal wave of mental pain was heading my way. Instead of paddling for shore, I let it crash over me, flailing in the chaos of the memory.

  “It was so awful,” I said weakly, limping toward the French doors. “Shugger wasn’t at my house that night. I can’t remember why. So Christian went out to the deli alone.” I reached up, touching the window with one finger. “There was one other customer there during the holdup, a pregnant woman. Christian tried to help her, but those four—” I cut off, swallowed, then stared through the glass, focusing on a single gray cloud. “There were four of them and just one of him. Four against one.” My voice broke as I turned around. “One of them pulled a gun. How fair is that?”

  Todd slowly rose to his feet. He looked confused at first, but then something seemed to occur to him. “This was a year ago?” he asked, taking a few cautious steps forward.

  I felt myself nodding, my stomach in a bundle of knots.

  He shook his head and exhaled, an anguished expression in his eyes. “I . . . forgot about that. I read it; the story was all over the Internet back then, but I didn’t make the connection.” He was standing right in front of me now. “Your brother was—”

  The loud, screechy, unintelligible sound that ripped from my throat silenced him before he could say the name aloud.

  “Oh, Abby.” His expression broke as he reached out to me. But I recoiled.

  “I can�
�t.” I backed away. “I can’t talk about it anymore, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  My eyes suddenly flooded with tears that I couldn’t blink away; I hadn’t cried about Christian since the day I found out he died. I whipped around, my blurry gaze searching for a way out of the room. I didn’t feel my torn-up toe anymore. I didn’t feel anything as I headed for the sliding glass door. If I could block out the memory, push the monster back down, I’d be okay. I’d survive. I just needed to hold on until I was safely out the door, and then I’d be alone to—

  “Hey.” Todd’s voice came from over my shoulder.

  I turned around.

  Looking almost indifferent, he was leaning against the arm of the couch. “If you want . . .” With one finger, he gestured to his chest. “You can tell me about it.” His voice was practically a whisper. “Abby, you can talk to me.”

  I felt tears flowing down my quivering chin, but I could not do what he suggested.

  “I’m no expert, but it might help.”

  I took a breath, held it, and then blew it out. I did it again and again. Minutes ticked by.

  Todd’s expression was impassive as he circled the couch and sat down. “I’ll be hanging out over here if you need anything,” he said.

  Lindsey and Molly and the shrink I’d been guilted into seeing back in L.A. had all requested the same thing of me. To talk. But never once had I felt it was okay to speak of Christian and what happened that night.

  So why, then, was my jaw voluntarily unclenching now? For the first time in a year.

  “I . . . I shouldn’t have sent him out that night!” I practically screamed, knowing that this confession had been building up for months. “It was late, and he was so tired, but I didn’t care, ’cause I was hungry, and . . . I knew he’d go if I whined enough. He was just so great that way.” The nerves behind my eyes throbbed and my dry throat ached. But I pushed on.

  “While he was at the deli, I fell asleep on the couch. I didn’t mean to—I swear. And . . . I didn’t know . . . it . . . happened. He was only a few miles from home, right down the road. There were sirens, ambulances.” I shuddered, feeling like I was about to be sick. “I didn’t hear them.”