The main floor was silent, too; though without all the carnage of the night before, it was more peaceful. All the doors were still closed, so Suzanne tiptoed to the kitchen to look for Pop Tarts and discovered that someone had already made coffee. Yvette maybe? I seriously need to do something with my life so I can hire someone like her, she thought as she poured a cup and went outside.
Dylan was sitting at a small patio table on the observation deck at the end of one of the piers, his back to the house. A coffee mug was standing sentinel next to him, and what looked like a legal pad was nearby, but he seemed to be simply staring into the distance. She tried to slip back into the kitchen so as not to disturb him, but there was a beer bottle she hadn’t noticed at her feet. She kicked it by accident, causing a clatter on the boards. Dylan turned, put his finger to his lips dramatically, and waved her over.
“Have a seat,” he said, when she got to the end of the platform. “Best one in the house.” It really was breathtaking. Although you could see the mountains in the distance from nearly any window in the house, the little decks were far enough out that they gave you the feeling of floating above the forest, far from the solid ground just a hundred yards or so behind you. The view from here was nearly a full circle, and in the morning light it was a lovely combination of soft pastel sky and blue mountains covered in a deep gray mist.
“That’s why they’re called the Smokies,” he said, following her gaze, without a hint of his usual condescension. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Suzanne nodded. Her family had spent some time in the mountains as a child, but she didn’t remember them being quite this awe-inspiring. She took the seat across the table from Dylan and sipped her coffee in silence.
“I owe you an apology,” he said suddenly, just as her mind was drifting far away.
“What?” she stammered.
“For last night, the comment I made about…you know.”
“Oh, that,” she said, going pink at the ears. “It’s fine. Late-night poker game, everyone had been drinking…”
“No,” he said firmly, turning to look at her. “That’s no excuse. Whether you meant to or not, you trusted me with something personal about yourself and I betrayed that. I should have apologized last night, in front of the guys, but I was ashamed. I just ran away. I am really sorry. I’m going to talk to them today.”
“That’s not necessary.” She meant this. His apology seemed genuine and frankly, the last thing she wanted was to have that brought up again.
“Yes, it is.” His tone brooked no argument. Then, he apparently decided the topic was closed and moved on. “How’s the coffee?”
She made an approving noise. “Good,” he said. “Everyone complains that I make it too strong.”
They were silent again for a while, watching the mist slowly evaporate from the mountains into an increasingly crisp blue sky. Suzanne had never been the type to get star-struck—she’d known enough powerful people in her life to recognize that people were people, famous or not. But it did strike her as surreal, sitting in midair over a mountain, casually drinking coffee with someone she barely knew, who sold out stadiums when he performed in concert.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said, breaking the silence.
“Sure. If I can ask you one back.” The crooked little grin again. Her insides fluttered. She ignored them.
“All right. What’s with the camo hat?”
“What do you mean? You don’t like it?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…such an interesting choice. I wondered how you picked that as your thing. You know, your trademark or whatever.”
“‘Interesting choice’ sounds like a nice way of saying you think I look like an idiot,” he said, grinning.
“It’s not that—” She fumbled for the right words. “It’s just I think you look so nice without it, like now. I wondered why you always wear it. I mean, you have great hair.”
He laughed now. “You thought I was bald under there, didn’t you?”
“No!” she protested. But she had wondered that, before the gala.
“You’re not doing some kind of secret interview for Vanity Fair or something, are you?” Then he considered her for a minute, and answered his own question. “No, you’re not. You’d be a terrible spy.”
“Never mind,” she said flatly. “Let’s just drink our coffee and look at the mountains.”
“Relax, Scarlett, I’ll tell you.” He leaned back and clasped his fingers behind his head. “But you’re going to be disappointed.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“It was, I don’t know, five years ago, maybe? We were still playing dive bars and high school dances, all of us kids trying to break into the business. Couple of those guys are inside now. Eddie is the only one still playing with me from back then, but we’ve all stayed tight. Anyway, we got this chance to play at a big festival up in Virginia Beach, a huge break. Another band had to cancel last minute and my dad knew someone who knew someone…you know how it goes.
“So we went up the day before and like a bunch of idiots, got hammered and went out to the beach looking for girls. We didn’t find any girls, as I recall, at least not any that were willing to talk to us, but I did fall asleep in the sun. I had sunscreen on, but my head wasn’t covered, so by the time those idiots had the courtesy to wake me up, my scalp was totally fried. Hurt like hell. I had to have a hat for the festival, because it was outside, but we stayed up so late the night before I had no time to go to a real store. So we went to a convenience store and my choices were ‘Female Body Inspector,’ ‘Virginia is for Lovers,’ or the plain camouflage one.”
Suzanne smiled. “Gotta go with plain camouflage on that one.”
“It’s funny,” he said. “These days I probably would’ve chosen ‘Virginia is for Lovers’ and sort of worn it ironically, but my sense of humor wasn’t as sophisticated then as it is now.”
She snorted in response. He grinned sideways and went on. “Anyway, that festival turned out to be our big break. Somebody from Nashville reviewed the festival and raved about us, and he mentioned the hat, so I kept wearing it for the next few shows. When things start going well, you’re scared to change anything. Like you might break the spell. Next thing you know, it was like people thought it was part of me. Girls started coming to our shows wearing camo hats and tank tops and—”
“And those itty bitty camo shorts,” she finished for him.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed those.”
She had nothing to throw at him, but made a face. “So that’s how it became your trademark.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And at first I wasn’t too thrilled about it. I don’t like being pigeon-holed to a certain identity, and when you’re from the foothills of Tennessee trying to make it on the national scene, you don’t want people assuming you’re just a dumb redneck.”
“Not that anyone would do that,” Suzanne said sheepishly.
“Of course not,” he said. “But you know what? I find it works to my advantage. When people don’t think you’re all that smart, it’s easier to stay a step ahead of them. I went through three business managers before Yvette, all of them trying to take advantage of me, one of them blatantly stealing. They thought I wouldn’t figure it out, but I keep an eye on things.”
“I can actually relate to that,” Suzanne realized aloud. “You know—dumb, helpless blonde. People treat you a certain way based on their assumptions…”
“And then you take them to school with your baseball knowledge and poker skills.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s just the beginning of my résumé.”
His eyes widened. “Jesus. I don’t know if I’m looking forward to finding out what that means or not.”
The flirtatiousness of their conversation seemed to occur to them both simultaneously. An awkward silence threatened, but Dylan side-stepped it. “Is it my turn?”
She gave him a blank look.
“To ask a quest
ion? I get one, right? I mean, assuming my answer was satisfactory.”
“It was. What’s your question for me?” She couldn’t imagine.
“What took you away from wanting to be an artist?”
Suzanne was flabbergasted. Marci and a couple of others knew this had once been her dream, but she hadn’t talked to anyone about it in years. “What do you mean?”
“At the High. You told me you always wanted to paint.”
“I did?”
“Yep. While I was helping you down those circular ramps. Man, that museum would not be good for someone with vertigo.”
Suzanne laughed. “Well, yeah, I guess I did used to want to be an artist, especially a painter. But my parents wouldn’t pay for four years at school for that. Art history was the closest thing I could convince them was actually an investment. They’d heard of art dealers who weren’t living in their parents’ basements, I guess. So that put me on the path to the High, and I found event work, and…well, I just don’t have time to paint these days.”
“Wow,” Dylan said. “My parents are pretty crazy sometimes, but I can’t imagine what it would be like if they didn’t support my music. Speaking of which, why don’t you like my music?”
She burst out laughing. “When did I say that? I think I said I didn’t know your music. But I actually did go out and buy a couple of albums the other day.”
“And?”
“I like it,” she said, unsure what to add.
“Well now, that was convincing. That’s what my dad used to say when Mom came home wearing a hideous dress.”
“What do you care what I think?” she said. “I’m just the stuck-up Scarlett anyway, right?”
He grinned. “Hey, you’re avoiding the question. I thought we were having this nice, honest conversation out here.”
“Well, okay. Country isn’t really my genre. Honestly, I’ve never cared for it much, and I only listen to it when my best friend Marci forces it on me.” She cringed at the mention of Marci’s name. She’d almost forgotten they weren’t speaking.
“So, I don’t have any frame of reference, and it’s not exactly my style, but I did really like what I heard. Truly. You’re very talented. Obviously.” She felt ridiculous.
He didn’t seem fully satisfied with this. “Well, if country isn’t your genre, what kind of music do you like? Classical?”
“Right. It’s either honky-tonk or Mozart. You do see things in black and white, don’t you? Actually, I like a lot of things—folksy stuff like Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon, James Taylor. I still listen to a lot of the same stuff I loved in college, like Midnight Oil and obviously R.E.M. You couldn’t go to the University of Georgia in the 90s and not love R.E.M. It probably sounds lame, but my favorite songs haven’t changed in a long time.”
“Why would that sound lame?” he asked. “I’m the same way. So what’s your all-time favorite?”
“Ugh! I hate that question. It’s too hard to choose.” She heard voices from behind. The day had grown bright around them and the house was waking up.
“Just choose for right now. Vanity Fair won’t hold you to it.”
“Okay, but you can’t laugh.”
“Fine.”
“I’ve always loved ‘Fire and Rain,’ by James Taylor. Ever since I was a little girl. I think it’s because it has my name in it. You said you wouldn’t laugh!”
Footsteps sounded on the planks behind them. Dylan turned slightly and muttered something under his breath she couldn’t hear. She glanced back and saw Misty, wearing a tight white t-shirt and tiny pink pajama shorts. “Dyyyyylan,” she whined. “I’m hungry. Where have you been?”
“Right here,” he said.
“With her?” Misty said accusingly at Suzanne.
“No,” Suzanne said immediately. “I just got here a minute ago.” She picked up her coffee, and the cold cup belied this statement.
Misty seemed to appraise her briefly, and then turned back to Dylan. “Baby, I want breakfast. Let’s go get pancakes.”
“I don’t want to go to town today. There’s cereal in the kitchen,” he said. Suzanne wanted to get out of there, but Dylan was looking in the other direction, and after their long conversation it felt odd to just vacate the deck without saying anything else to him.
“Please?” Misty put her arms around his neck and hoisted a bare, tan leg over him to straddle his lap. Suzanne saw that her shorts had “JUICY” written across the back. She began kissing Dylan’s neck, imploring him between each kiss. “Please, baby, please? I really want pancakes. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Awkward did not begin to describe it. Dylan kept his hands resolutely on the arms of the chair as Suzanne stood frozen, knowing that the only reasonable thing to do was to walk away, but unable to go. She felt as if she was gaping at a traffic accident: she wanted to look away, but couldn’t.
“Misty, stop,” Dylan said as she nibbled his ear. “You’re being rude.” He did not look at Suzanne.
Now Suzanne wished more than anything that she had already walked away because Misty turned to her and spoke. “I’m sorry, Susan,” she said lightly, thrusting her hips downward as though giving someone a lap dance in front of a stranger were a perfectly ordinary thing to do on a weekday morning in the mountains. “But unless there’s anything else you need? I think Mr. Burke and I would like some privacy right now.”
“Of course,” Suzanne heard herself say, and then made her way numbly back to the house. She met Kate in the kitchen.
“Hi,” Kate said, unmistakably glowing. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. Then, without having planned it, she continued. “Listen, Kate, something’s come up and I need to get back to Atlanta a little earlier than I’d planned. I think I’ve…seen what I need to see here. Can we wrap up by phone later?”
“Sure,” Kate said, taken aback. “But you’re not leaving now, are you? Everyone is going down to the river to go inner tubing.”
Suzanne had an image of Misty straddling Dylan, except soaking wet in a bathing suit. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I just can’t. We’ll figure everything out, though, please don’t worry.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears, stopping Suzanne’s progress toward the door. This family was going to be the end of her. “Kate, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m—please don’t judge me, but I need to tell you—”
“Oh, honey,” Suzanne said gently. “I know about the baby. And, believe me, I am the last person to judge you. It will be fine.”
Kate’s relief was palpable. “You know?”
“Well, yes. My best friend”—the name stuck in her throat—“Marci is pregnant and I recognized the symptoms.”
“Congratulations,” Kate said. Suzanne nodded numbly. Nearly two weeks had gone by since she’d talked to Marci, which was unprecedented in their relationship, even during the years when Marci lived thousands of miles away. She wanted desperately to talk to her best friend, but her shame and anger had been holding her back.
Suzanne had no idea where to start with Marci, but at least calming the bride-to-be in front of her was a doable task. She took Kate’s hand and used her best motherly tone. “Listen, Kate, don’t be so hard on yourself. You certainly won’t be the first blushing bride to walk down the aisle with a little passenger on board. There are way, way worse things in life than putting the cart a tiny bit before the horse.”
Kate gave her a shy smile. Suzanne went on, “And as for the wedding, we can totally work with it. We’ll get sparkling grape juice for the champagne toast and make sure you’ve had plenty to eat so you’ll feel good walking down the aisle.”
As small and demure as Kate was, Suzanne was still caught off guard when the girl threw herself at her in a sudden, forceful hug. “Oh, thank you, Suzanne!”
Chapter 17
When she got in the car and found her way to the highway, Suzanne called Marci’s phone and it went straight to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a
message—it was too weird to apologize via recording. She was about to dial Jake’s number just to make sure Marci was okay, when she suddenly remembered where they were: Marci had mentioned weeks ago that they were going to Arizona State for Jake to do some filming for their spring athletic programs, and that his parents were coming along to make it a family mini-vacation. They wouldn’t be back until Friday. She had completely forgotten. Marci’s right, she thought bleakly. I am totally self-absorbed.
After that, Suzanne drove with her phone off and the windows down. She stopped only once for gas and water and barely noticed the four-hour car ride, she was so absorbed in her thoughts. For the first fifty miles, she flipped restlessly through the scattered radio stations, eventually turning the damn thing off when two of the three stations she could get were playing Dylan’s songs. What the hell was going on?
This is crazy, she told herself. You’re Suzanne Fucking Hamilton. Pull it together. This world, this celebrity garbage—it isn’t real. You’ve dealt with famous people and attractive men before. Just calm down; do your job and live your life, like always.
On a whim, she took an early exit once she arrived in Atlanta, stopping by an art supply store. For the first time in years, she needed to paint.
#
For the next two days, Suzanne stayed locked in her condo in sweats and a t-shirt, paying no attention whatsoever to time. She painted, she slept, she ordered takeout, she painted some more. While she painted, she put Dylan out of her mind and thought about William Fitzgerald instead.
Her father had introduced them the summer after she graduated from college. She was trying to break into the art world and he was clerking at her father’s firm. They didn’t start dating for another year, because Suzanne kept deflecting his advances. He was attractive, but she saw him as a symbol of her father’s continued need to control her life. He couldn’t force her to be a lawyer, so maybe getting her to marry one was the next best thing.
Regrets Only (Sequel to The Marriage Pact) Page 14