The pool deck was filling with hotel guests now, at four o’clock. She watched groups of overdressed old ladies in wide hats and pants and long sleeves; perky moms with toddlers in swim diapers; loud, mouthy school-age kids screaming “Marco!” “Polo!” “Marco!” “Polo!” in the pool’s shallow end.
Her mom had called an hour earlier to say she’d be back by six. Her voice was as weary as Savannah had ever heard it, so as soon as they ended the call, she booked her a massage appointment for six-thirty. Hopefully that would revive her, destress her from whatever was making the day so rough. And if the massage didn’t do it, the concert definitely would.
Closing her eyes, she let the tilting afternoon sunshine color her vision bright orange, the color of zinnias, marigolds, oranges—obviously oranges; she thought about how Carson McKay’s parents grew oranges and grapefruit and lemons, and how her mom and aunts had been able to run over to the orchards any time they wanted, just pick fruit from the trees and eat it on the spot. The last time she visited her grandparents’ house, just after her grandma died, she’d walked across the pasture to the fence edge, where the bushy fruit trees were visible, lining the land like stalwart soldiers ready to fight colds and scurvy—did anyone even get scurvy anymore? She’d wanted to hide herself in the rows, the thick green canopy like a blanket protecting her from the world, from her loss. She half believed she might find her grandma there, waiting with an understanding smile and supportive hug. It was funny how her grandma had always seemed to have time for her—not just found time, but made time. Went out of her way to call or come over just to go to the park or wander the mall together. Awful as it sounded, she wished it was her grandpa who’d died, if someone had to. Death was so unfair.
The song she’d been trying to compose was dedicated to her Grandma Anna, and she was trying to tread a line between edgy melancholy and gratitude. It wasn’t coming out right because she was still angrier to have lost her than she was grateful to have had her, that was what her music theory teacher said at her lesson Tuesday. Lying here, the bright orange of her vision shifting to wild geometrics of dark orange and red, she played the tune over in her mind again, thinking of how she might push the sound away from angry. Fewer chord changes, or maybe space them farther apart? What if she layered in an upbeat melody line, something Sheryl Crow–like? Tuning out the noise of the yelling, splashing kids, she mentally ran through some possibilities, wishing she’d thought to bring her guitar. Not only could she have tried out some of her ideas during her downtime, she could’ve taken the guitar with them tonight, gotten it autographed.
Another tune distracted her, and it took a third ring for her to realize it was her phone, stored inside her green canvas purse. Forgetting that she’d untied her top, she propped herself on her elbows and leaned over to reach the phone. She realized she was half naked at the same moment a preschool boy yelled, “Boobies!”
She dropped onto her towel, mortified, and dug out the phone.
“Hello?”
“Babe!”
“Kyle, hi!” she said, the horror of her mistake lessened by the sound of his voice. “Can you hold on two seconds?” She set the phone down and tied her top securely, then sat up and wrapped her towel around her. No more free shows today, she thought, not brave enough to even glance the way of her earlier admirers.
Phone to her ear, she said, “Sorry—I, um, I’m laying out at the pool, and I had to put my bikini back on.” Why not use the truth to keep his interest at full steam? Sure, she wanted him to like her for more substantial reasons than her looks, than sex, but wasn’t her body and her sexuality also an important part of who she was? He should love all of her.
Kyle whistled. “I’m real sorry to be stuck here in the swamp, man, I’ll tell you that!”
“Yeah…well, tomorrow’s not so long to wait, right?”
“Five minutes is too long to wait, if you ask me.”
His sultry voice sent a thrill from the pit of her stomach straight south. She shifted on the deck chair and decided she should turn the conversation in a safer direction, at least while she was in public. She said cheerfully, “So, what’s up?”
“Well, I had the afternoon off, so I took a nap, right? And I had this dream about you.”
“You did? What was it?”
“You want me to tell you?” he said. “’Cause it’s kind of…personal, if you know what I mean. Kinda sexy, you know?”
This wasn’t turning out to be safer at all. She liked it, though. “That’s, um, that’s cool.”
“Oh, no, no, no, not cool. Hot. It was definitely hot.”
Embarrassed, Savannah stared at her toenails, painted a deep plum to match the shirt she was going to wear to the concert. Kyle’s suggestive responses made her feel the way the stares of the overweight men had—uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. She wished she had more experience with this stuff. What if, when they were face-to-face, he’d be able to tell she wasn’t even close to sexually experienced—let alone twenty years old? What if he got mad, or demanded to see her driver’s license? She would just have to force herself to be bolder, not give him any reason to doubt her story—now or tomorrow.
“Yeah, okay,” she said, glancing around to make sure no one was listening in. “Tell me.”
“So we were at some beach—it looked like Gulf side, right, like Tampa. And you were wearing that little flowered bikini, the one from your webpage.”
She could picture them together, Kyle shirtless, the calm water lapping at the sand. “Okay. Go on.”
“Is that the suit you’re wearing right now?”
“No, this one’s red with tiny white stars on it.”
“Huh, bet that’s real pretty too. Anyway, so you were telling me about some manatee that you’d named…I don’t know, Melanie or something, and okay, I was trying to listen, but what can I say? I’m a guy.” He laughed. “I was getting distracted by your body, so I was, well, hard, you know? So I pulled you against me and said, ‘I can’t wait one more minute. I need you now.’”
Savannah gulped, eyes wide. Two little girls of about six ran past her, their bare feet slapping the wet concrete, a younger little boy chasing them, carrying a squirt gun almost as big as himself.
“You there?” Kyle said.
“Yeah. Wow. That’s…that’s a good dream.”
“There’s more. You want to hear it?”
She wasn’t sure; she felt so far out into uncharted waters that she had no idea where the line was—or if there was a line. Would a twenty-year-old encourage him to spell out all the details? She thought of the ads she’d seen for that video about wild girls on spring break. Those girls would ask for all the details—and probably add a bunch of their own.
Kyle didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead he said, “I’ll just tell you this: it was, like, beautiful. Really romantic.”
Savannah sighed, charmed and relieved at the same time.
“Oh, there you are.” Her mom appeared from behind her. “No wonder I couldn’t get through.” She sat down on the end of the deck chair.
“Mom, hi!” Savannah said, trying to look innocent. “You’re early.” Into the phone she said, “I have to go, okay? I’m sorry—I’ll call you later.” She flipped the phone closed fast.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your fun.”
Savannah felt as if her face would catch flame any second. Her fun? Could her mom somehow sense what she’d been talking about? “Oh, no, it’s fine. I was just, um, talking to Rachel. She was…saying how we should buy her a souvenir T-shirt tonight.”
“Okay,” her mom said, with no trace of suspicion. “But I wouldn’t expect there to be any McKay band tees, since this was a last-minute thing.”
Savannah nodded, studiedly gathering up her sunscreen and book and phone and stuffing it all into her purse. “Yeah, well, maybe the club will have cool ones.”
“Maybe. So, how about some dinner?” her mom asked, and Savannah noticed a too-bright edge to her voi
ce, something forced and tight that was different from her usual long-day sound.
“I’m not hungry yet. Are you okay?”
“Oh, sure, I’m fine. Tired. Those meetings today just wouldn’t seem to end. The sessions are like that sometimes.” She stood up, and Savannah stood too. “And you know, I’m not hungry either.”
“Okay, well, I made you an appointment with the masseuse for six-thirty. Is that cool?”
Her mom’s eyebrows rose above the top of her sunglasses. “No kidding? That was thoughtful of you. But, I’m not sure—”
“You don’t have to. I mean, I just thought maybe, you know, after a busy day—”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” She kissed Savannah, a quick peck near her ear. “No, I do want to go—what about you? Did you want one too, or…”
“I got a pedicure already,” Savannah said, sticking out her foot, now clad in her dyed-red hemp flip-flops. “I’ll just take a shower and watch TV or something till you get back.”
She followed her mom into the hotel, noticing, first, the sloppiness of her mom’s hair—coiled hurriedly into a loose bun and secured by a crooked gold clip. And was she limping a little? Just the slightest bit? Letting the space between them widen as they walked through the pool lobby and to the elevators, Savannah looked more closely. It was something in the uneven rise of her mom’s left shoulder, accentuated by the rise and fall of the cream linen jacket at the shoulder and lower, at the hip.
“Did you hurt your leg or something?” she asked at the elevator.
“What? Oh, no. Well, yes—that is, I have a blister. New shoes.”
That sounded plausible, but Savannah sensed that something else was going on. The messy hair was so abnormal—it made her wonder, suddenly, if her mom had spent the day in bed with some man. But no, that was crazy, just her Kyle-influenced mind talking. She couldn’t imagine her mom having sex with anyone, not even her dad. What she could imagine—not about her mom—was what Kyle had been describing just before her mom showed up. He wanted her, dreamed about her—was there a bigger thrill than knowing that?
WHEN HER MOM WAS GONE TO HAVE THE MASSAGE, SAVANNAH CALLED Kyle and apologized.
“My mom showed up—I am so sorry I hung up on you.”
He laughed. “Keeping me a secret, huh?”
“No! I mean, why would I? I just haven’t gotten a chance to talk about you, that’s all. My mom’s been tired and stressed out so—”
“Don’t sweat it, babe. There’s time for all that, plenty of time. Now listen, make sure you don’t, you know, hook up with anybody at the show tonight. I want you to save yourself for me.”
She had saved herself for him, all right. The thing about sex, as far as she’d heard, was that teenage guys weren’t so great at it. A guy Kyle’s age, on the other hand, should know what he was doing. She didn’t want to be anybody’s guinea pig. Didn’t her dad always say, “If you’re going to bother to do something, do it right”?
“The only guy I want to talk to tonight is Carson McKay,” Savannah said.
“Who would jump on you in a hot second, from what I hear—dude’s marrying a chick barely older than you!”
“Please! He’s my mom’s age—and anyway, they used to know each other, remember? I told you that last night.”
“Yeah, but still.”
“Anyway, she hasn’t seen him in a long time, but we might get backstage when she tells whoever that they’re old friends.”
“Pretty awesome. You should, like, ask if you can join his band. You’re really good.”
Savannah grinned. She’d played for him over the phone and he had seemed truly impressed. “He’s got a full-time guitarist, but thanks. Listen, I need to get ready to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Be thinkin’ of you,” he said suggestively.
“Me too.” This time it was easier to flirt—it was just a matter of practice, like anything else.
After hanging up, she pressed the phone to her chest. Finally, life was happening—to her! She couldn’t explain it, but she had the strongest feeling that she had come to the crest of a hill and in no time at all, everything in her life was going to change.
Twenty-six
JOHNNY SIMMONS’S NIGHTCLUB TOOK UP NEARLY AN ENTIRE BLOCK OF prime Orlando real estate, not far from some of the area’s biggest attractions. The club boasted three dance floors, each in its own soundproof room, each room featuring a different kind of music. At the center of everything was the main stage, where live acts performed five nights a week. Johnny made every effort to book performers on the rise, and was building a good reputation for choosing quality acts who went on to break into entertainment’s major leagues. Carson listened to Johnny, a swaggering, jovial New Jersey transplant with pure silver hair and a build like a professional wrestler, talk up the place as he toured him around early Friday morning. He was sure the guy could sell ice to Inuits, sand to desert nomads, water to whales—probably all in a single meeting over cocktails. It was easy to see why Johnny and Gene were friends.
“We got bouncers at every entrance and exit, see, and nobody gets in tonight without a ticket. You ain’t gonna be surprised when I tell you they sold out in three hours last night. But me, I’m impressed! Holy Mary in a bathtub, that’s the fastest of any act we’ve had!” Johnny put his arm around Carson’s shoulders. “I’m gonna make a pile of money off of you, you know that, right? And I feel kinda bad about it, ’cause I got pretty much nothin’ to offer you. I mean, what’s money to a guy who’s swimming in it, right? So I was thinkin’, you haven’t tied the proverbial knot yet, and I got a daughter, twenty-nine, who’s your biggest fan—whaddya think, huh?”
“You’re offering me your daughter in trade, is that it?” Carson laughed. “Good thing my fiancée’s out shopping!”
Johnny wrapped his arm around Carson’s throat in a mock headlock. “No, wise guy, I’m just saying she’s a pretty girl and nice company and you would be privileged to enjoy that company with my blessing, if you thought you might still wanna look around. And when I say ‘enjoy,’ I don’t mean ‘enjoy,’ got it?”
“That’s kind of you, man. I appreciate it.” He eased out of the headlock and went up the three steps to the stage. “But I’m going to have to just settle for the regular fee.” He wasn’t in it for the money anyway. Never had been—and not for the easy access to women (as well as access to easy women) either. He wrote songs and played music because it kept the demons at bay, and because he loved creating things that came to mean something to others. If anything, he wished his career had not rocketed into the stratosphere of corporate labels and corporate expectations. He wished he’d been able to keep a tighter hold on his integrity, but God, how hard it was to concentrate on something so ephemeral back then, when they were coming to him with wheelbarrows full of cash, and feel-good substances, and inhibition-free women….
He walked the stage, its surface painted matte black to help prevent glare, and looked out into the club. The room was bright right now, as a small crew of employees buzzed about, getting tables and chairs positioned, checking oil levels in the tabletop lights; some of them paused to look his way as he went to the piano and pulled back the bench. He’d asked for a standard grand, plus a bass player, a rhythm guitarist, and a drummer. He hadn’t tried to bring in his band members, all of them either home in Seattle or spending their time off in sunnier locales, as he was. For tonight’s show he would make do with some quality local musicians, who were meeting him in a few minutes for a first run-through.
After seeing Meg yesterday, he’d been haunted by the way she’d looked so frustrated and upset, and his first draft of tonight’s song list was filled with early songs he’d written with her in mind. Then Val had come back from her workout, limp from the exertion and humidity—pitiful, really, compared with her usual peppy self, and he turned his attention back where it should be. The revised song list was more crowd-pleasing, and less bogged down with the distant past. He included his Grammy winne
rs and his 2003 hit “Redheads,” a category that did, of course, include Meg, but only coincidentally. He couldn’t say he’d thought very much about her at all while writing it—thought if forced, he might admit to her being the original inspiration.
“How’s about a preview?” Johnny called from the bar.
Carson pushed the cover off the keys and ran his fingers over them in a quick rising scale, limbering up. “Okay, see if you know this one.” He started with the low opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth, then segued into his breakout hit, “Facedown,” a song teens liked to think was about a woman’s sexual position, but which in fact examined his unsavory habit, in those earliest years, of indulging too heavily and waking up sprawled facedown on floors, lawns—the hood of somebody’s blue ’69 Camaro, once.
Without the microphone turned on, his voice carried only to the first row or two of tables; the staff began to migrate there, leaving tasks half done as they were drawn in.
He had always loved this part of performing, the times when it was just him and the piano and a small, appreciative audience. Making music was therapy for him, but giving it to others was like giving a gift that pleased or invigorated or inspired or soothed; he felt humbled doing it, and useful.
To prolong the pleasure a little longer, he ended that song and moved right into another, “Buried Alive,” a favorite ballad he’d left off the program because it focused so much on Meg, and to sing it well meant bloodying his wounds again. Now, though, with this safe, anonymous audience listening, he felt like it was the right time to bring the song out and hopefully exorcise one more demon.
The piano resounded with the sweet, mournful chords of the intro, and he let the notes hang suspended in the now fully quiet room. He felt his stomach clench as he began singing the first verse, felt the resistance of his heart trying not to let go. Like the snowbound hiker in the song, it wanted to hold out hope even when hope was unreachable, denied. He closed his eyes and let the song rise up and out of him, wanting it to wrench free his futile wish for a past that had never been and a future that would never be.
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