Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  Silence.

  I cough to clear my throat. “I’m sorry, man. I was out of line.”

  “I’m not the person you should be apologizing to.”

  “I know.” I roll to a stop in front of the store and put my car in park. “I don’t remember a lot of it.”

  Drew lets out a slow whistle through his teeth. “Well, you were a fucking dick, Dare. Do you remember that much at least? What the hell’s going on with you?”

  I push my seat all the way back and drag a hand down my face. “A lot. Look, I need a favor. Can you talk to that counselor friend of yours? See if he can fit me in?”

  “She,” Drew says skeptically, “and I need to know you’re serious this time. You can’t flake on me again.”

  “I didn’t flake on you last time. I just changed my mind.”

  He sighs. “That’s not reassuring.”

  “There’s so much going on right now. Work’s been fucking crazy and then this thing with my old band…”

  “What thing?”

  “It’s like my past has decided now’s the time to rear its ugly head and, dude, I’m not handling it well. I’m not handling it at all, actually.” I turn my gaze to the window. “I’m driving her away, and if I don’t do something soon…”

  “It might be a few weeks before she can get you in.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The garage door closes behind me, and I sit in my car for a bit, staring at the roses on the passenger seat, wondering if I’ll dig a deeper hole by taking them inside. I’m pretty sure I fucked up past the point of flowers and walking in with them just might be my death sentence. I decide to hold off—see what I’m up against first.

  I stash the flowers in a storage cabinet and take in the pastries I bought instead.

  An uneasy feeling comes over me as I make my way from the garage to the kitchen. The house is silent—empty silent. I find dishes in the sink, a cold pot of soup on the stove, and a small loaf of bread—as hard as a brick—on the counter. I set the pastries down beside the bread and flip on the light.

  “Francesca? You here?”

  “Mijo?”

  Shit…

  I hear the clickety-clack of shoes approaching from the foyer, and then Gloria appears, wearing a red floral dress and short heels, a dry-cleaning bag slung over her arm.

  “You look nice,” I say, taking the clothes from her and draping them over the back of a barstool. “You’re not working today, are you?”

  “Not today, mijo. I’m just dropping off the dry-cleaning before my trip.” Her gaze wanders around the kitchen before coming to rest on me, and her brow furrows. “You don’t look so hot. Are you working today? Where’s Miss Frankie?”

  Good question…

  “I…uh…we’ve been sick. Just came down to heat up some soup,” I say, nodding to the pot on the stove and praying like hell she doesn’t lift the lid.

  “You poor dears. Maybe I should stay.”

  “No, no. You go. We’ll be fine.” I smile. “So, where are you off to?”

  “Singles cruise,” she says and grins.

  I give her an incredulous look. “Singles cruise? How’d that come about?”

  “My friend Malene invited me. It’s only four days and—oh, before I forget…” she says, pulling something out of her skirt pocket. “I brought you a brochure.” She chuckles. “Malene says they do couples cruises too.” As she sets it on the island, her eyes narrow. “What’s Miss Frankie’s ring doing down here?”

  “Her what?” My gaze lands on the ring and my heart lodges in my throat. I cross the kitchen in two long strides, grab both the ring and the slip of paper beneath it, and stuff them in the front pocket of my jeans. “That um…stone’s loose again,” I mumble, my breath ragged and my face hot. “Told her I’d drop it by the jeweler.”

  “I can do that, mijo,” she says. “I’m going right by there.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it. Need to run a few errands anyway.” A long, jagged swallow grazes my throat. “And speaking of Francesca,” I say, glancing up at the ceiling in the general direction of our room, “I really should get back to her.”

  Wherever she is…

  Gloria smiles as she turns to leave. “You two feel better. I’ll check in when I can.”

  “Have a good time and stay out of trouble.”

  She laughs. “You too.”

  As soon as the front door closes, I dig Francesca’s ring and the slip of paper from my pocket and take a seat at the island. My dully thudding heart comes to a hard stop as I read her words.

  Darian,

  I can’t do this. Please don’t come after me.

  Francesca

  I read them until they blur, until I’m unsure if what I’m seeing is real. It can’t be, I tell myself. Francesca wouldn’t just leave, would she?

  Well, you have been a fucking dick, Dare…

  Her car’s parked in the garage. Her keys are hanging on the hook by the door. She’s here—she’s just sleeping in. She’s pissed at me and she’s sleeping in.

  Sliding her ring on the tip of my pinky, I push off the barstool and bolt up the stairs to our room. The bed’s unmade, but it doesn’t look slept in. My stalled heart begins to race as I move to the closet, and there on the top shelf where her duffel used to reside is an empty space. A gaping hole between a stack of Rolling Stones and an old carry-on with a broken zipper.

  I comb through our hanging clothes, look under the bed, then check the bathroom and the dresser drawers. Most of her stuff’s still here—that’s good, right? She’s taking a break. God knows she probably needs one.

  She’ll be back.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and shoot her a text.

  Darian: I get that you’re upset and I don’t blame you, but can you please let me know where you are?

  My gaze sweeps over the pieces of Francesca’s jewelry box on the dresser and then snags on the newspaper clipping of Annie. I suck in a breath. “I can fix this.”

  2:40 p.m. Wednesday: “The good news is, I think I fixed your jewelry box. The bad news is, the ballerina keeps falling off the spring and the sound is scarily distorted. I ordered a few parts online, so fingers crossed. Call me, okay? Love you.”

  4:35 p.m. Wednesday: “I wanted to talk to you about this in person, but I asked Drew to set me up with a counselor friend of his, and my first appointment’s on the seventh. I’d really like it if you’d go with me. That should give you plenty of time to do whatever it is you’re doing…wherever you’re doing it, which I’m assuming is in Texas. Is Jane with you? I’ve been trying her too. I wish one of you would call me back. Love you.”

  10:42 p.m. Wednesday: “I’m just calling to say goodnight. I love you.”

  “You’ve reached Francesca Valentine. Please leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

  “Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. I really wish you’d call. I miss you.”

  I set my phone beside my plate and pick up my fork. I know I must be hungry—I didn’t eat a damn thing yesterday—but the physical act of eating is exhausting, and the runny eggs and dry toast I decided on are unappealing. I force it down anyway and toss back the last dregs of my coffee.

  I’m carrying my dishes to the sink when the doorbell rings. This early and unannounced, I know it isn’t Francesca, but the tiniest flicker of hope propels my feet forward. I pull open the door with my breath held and let it out to find Evelyn waiting on the other side.

  “Don’t look so happy to see me,” she says, amusement curling her lips as she skirts past me for the kitchen. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Taking a sick day,” I say, following behind her.

  Stopping in the doorway, she shrugs out of her sweater and folds it over her arm. Her gaze does the same scan of the kitchen that Gloria’s did yesterday, and I can see her mind working to make sense of the clutter. It isn’t a mess, per se, but it’s u
ncommon for a house that’s usually so…put together.

  “Gloria sick too?” she asks, moving farther into the room.

  “Gloria’s on a cruise,” I say, “and Francesca’s in Texas.” I think…

  “In Texas? We had brunch plans. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I say, grabbing a cup for the Keurig. “It was last minute.” I replace the coffee pod and press the button to start the machine. “Things have been a little tense around here. She needed a break.”

  “A break,” Evelyn repeats. “This sounds a little worse than a break.”

  I turn around to find Francesca’s note pinched between Evelyn’s fingers. Fuck! “Well, it isn’t.”

  Evelyn lifts the lid on yesterday’s box of pastries and wrinkles her nose. “Have you eaten lately?”

  “Yes, I’ve eaten,” I say, handing her a mug of coffee. “Cream? Sugar? I don’t remember.”

  “Kahlúa?”

  I take my time retrieving the coffee-flavored liqueur from the pantry and slide it across to where she’s sitting at the island.

  “You’re always so well stocked,” she says, pouring a small shot into her cup. “So what was your fight about?”

  “What makes you think there was a fight?”

  Her brows arch over the rim of her mug as she takes a sip. “Sweetheart…”

  Nothing. Everything. The fact that I’m an asshole.

  “Different things.”

  “Your keeping her in the dark’s been pretty hard on her, you know.”

  “I know.”

  She nudges the slip of paper toward me. “Was it worth it?”

  No more hiding. That’s what I told Francesca, yet this whole time, that’s all I’ve done. I kept her in the dark simply because I didn’t want to talk about it. I wasn’t trying to spare her. I wasn’t trying to give her one less thing to worry about. I was being selfish to the most selfless person I know.

  And the ring in my pocket is tangible evidence that no, it wasn’t worth it.

  “I told her everything,” I say quietly, peering down at Francesca’s note, “but it was too late.”

  Evelyn sets down her mug. “It’s never too late.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s true.” I cough to mask my brittle voice. “I’m self-centered and thoughtless. Once again, I did what was right for me and to hell with everyone else.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I know you. I know your mind doesn’t work that way.”

  “Francesca isn’t the only person I kept in the dark,” I say, my brittle voice now breaking. “I kept something from you too.”

  She reaches across the counter for my hand. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  Evelyn listens quietly and patiently while I relay World Music’s plan to dredge up the memory of her daughter. My wife. It sickens me that they’d stoop to this level, but I’m not surprised. I expect the news to be disconcerting, but Evelyn seems nonplused. She sits poker-faced until I’m finished, and then she grabs the bottle of Kahlúa and twists off the cap.

  “Well, that’s some story,” she says, pouring a shot in her empty mug and tossing it back. “I see why you’re upset.”

  “Why I’m upset? Aren’t you?”

  After a few thoughtful hmms, she slides off her barstool and carries her cup to the sink. “Part of me wishes you’d told me sooner, because it does affect me.”

  “I know and I’m—”

  “And part of me wishes you hadn’t told me at all, because I’m an old lady who’s never heard of World Whatever and the chances of me even finding out about it are slim to none.” She rinses her cup and places it in the dishwasher. “But the part of me who loves you wishes you would have told me simply because I, of all people, understand what you’re going through.”

  “And what about you? Why aren’t you angry?”

  “Because anger doesn’t fix anything. You, of all people, should know that.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” I say, defeated. “I just want Francesca to come home.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  I give Evelyn a wry smile. “She’s not picking up.”

  “Have you considered going to Texas?”

  “You read her note.”

  Evelyn levels me with a look. “Are you really that naïve?”

  I laugh. “What do you want me to do? Throw her over my shoulder like a damn caveman and drag her back here?”

  “Yes!”

  “Not this time. I was horrible to her, Evelyn.”

  “I agree that you handled things poorly,” she says, crossing the kitchen to collect her sweater. “I mean, let’s face it; you’ve been a bit of an ass these past few weeks. But I also know how much she loves you.” Her smile is warm as she makes her way to me. “And she knows you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  “Yet, she still left.” I scrub a hand over my face. “And she was right to.”

  Evelyn lifts up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Give her time if that’s what you think she needs, but not too much time.” She waits until I meet her gaze. “Capisce?”

  “Capisce.”

  1:36 p.m. Thursday: “Evelyn was here earlier. She said you guys had brunch plans. She also said I should come to Texas, throw you over my shoulder, and drag you home. Don’t worry, I won’t do that. I know you need this time away right now and I’m going to give it to you. I love you, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

  3:04 a.m. Friday: “I can’t sleep and I really needed to hear your voice…your voice mail voice, anyway. Confession: I’ve called a few times just to listen to it. Does that make me romantic or pathetic? Yeah, I know. Oh, hey, guess what’s on right now? Pretty in Pink! They’re playing it back-to-back until eight; I’ll probably have it memorized by then. Maybe in my delirium, Duckie’ll get the girl. Love you, baby. Goodnight.”

  “You’ve reached Francesca Valentine. Please leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

  “Hey, babe, just calling to tell you good morning,” I say, holding my hand over the receiver as a yawn tears out of me. “I finally dozed off around five thirty and when I woke up, Pretty in Pink was still on. Oh, and get this. In the original script, Duckie gets the girl! They filmed it and everything, but test audiences were less than—shit…” The doorbell rings, stealing my train of thought. “Someone’s here.” I set my coffee cup on the counter and move toward the foyer. “Twenty bucks says it’s Evelyn. I hope she brought food. I’ll call you later. Love you. Bye.”

  I slip my phone in my back pocket and open the door. “Amanda? What are you—oh fuck.”

  “Oh fuck is right,” she says, brushing past me in heels that make her almost as tall as I am. “What the hell, Darian?”

  I shrug. “I forgot.”

  “I can see that.” Her long, dark locks swing behind her like a cape as she marches in the direction of my kitchen. “Please tell me you have coffee. And why is your phone off? Your phone’s never off!”

  It’s not off; you’re just on mute. Nothing personal…

  “Forgot to charge it,” I say, walking in behind her. “What time’s the call?”

  “Seriously?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a conference call; it’s a meeting. Cross’s lawyers will be there at one,” she says, glancing up at the clock as she steps in front of the Keurig, “which gives you roughly ten minutes to get ready. Scoot!” The coffee maker gurgles to life. “And don’t forget to shave. You’re beginning to look like a yeti.”

  Precisely ten minutes later, I descend the stairs freshly showered—but unshaven—and wearing my most presentable suit. I find Amanda at the counter sorting my mail.

  “That’s a little intrusive, don’t you think?”

  She sets down her coffee and smiles. “Yeah, probably, but it was either this or help you sh—Darian! You didn’t shave.”

  “No time,” I say, passing behind her to get my laptop bag from the family room. “And who c
ares? I own a record label not a bank.” I shoulder the strap as I return to the kitchen. “What’s that?”

  She hands me a small white gift bag. “Appears to be a birthday present.”

  “Ah, shucks, Amanda. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Very funny,” she says. “I think it’s from Frankie.”

  My pulse begins to race and I resist the urge to rip into it. “Where was it?”

  “Hidden behind all your junk mail.” She frowns. “Where is Frankie, anyway?”

  “She’s…uh…not here.” I peer inside the bag at the small gift-wrapped box.

  How did I miss this?

  “Here’s the tag,” Amanda says, handing it to me. “It was mixed in with your mail.”

  Darian,

  I can’t wait to spend all your birthdays with you.

  Love, Francesca.

  Swallowing the thick lump burning in my throat, I drop the tag in the gift bag and set it on the island. “We should get going.”

  “You okay?” Amanda asks as we near downtown Miami in her black Lexus Hybrid.

  “I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping.”

  “Did something happen with Frankie?” she asks, giving me a quick glance. “I mean, your birthday was almost a week ago and you hadn’t opened her present.”

  My jaw clenches and I turn my head to gaze out the window. “It’s complicated.”

  I catch her subtle nod in the reflection of the glass, and then she graciously changes the subject.

  “I’m anxious to hear what they propose,” she says, slowing to stop at a red light. “They make it sound like they’re in constant contact with Cade, but I get the feeling no one’s spoken to him. You haven’t, have you?”

  “Not once.”

  She sighs. “I hope this isn’t another means to stall.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Amanda’s quiet after that, and I keep my eyes trained on the traffic, regarding every yellow car we pass with longing.