The Trouble on Highway One

by Anne McClane

  Lacey considered. Being a balm sounded really nice. Not a bad ability to possess.

  “So it’s the same for emotional trauma, like losing a brother . . . .”

  “Yes.

  “You know, I’ve lost a brother,” he added.

  Eli stated it so matter-of-factly, with no change in his usual stoic demeanor, she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.

  “Oh my God, Eli, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago, and a story for another time. We should return inside now, and bring Holly the water we promised her.”

  Lacey was so stunned, all she could manage to say was, “Okay.”

  She followed him back inside the funeral home, wondering how much pain Eli kept below the surface. She’d been so focused on accessing his apparent knowledge of her ability. For the first time, she considered that maybe she could offer something to him, too.

  13

  Lacey and Angele sat across from each other, in the open-air concession outside the observatory at Griffith Park. An intermittent breeze blew the smog out to the ocean, in the stillness the scent of ozone lingered. They could even see the Los Angeles River glinting in the distance, snaking its way through the valley. The vestiges of a rare and welcome storm.

  “When do you have to get back to the studio?” Lacey asked. “Or rather, the Grove parking lot?”

  “Ha, ha. There’s no rush. I wouldn’t have agreed to let you drag me up here if there was.”

  “Gee, dragged,” Lacey said. “I told you why I had a sudden yen to come up here again.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And that maybe you healed Kevin’s little sister, too, but it was different and your clothes didn’t catch on fire.”

  “Fine. We don’t have to stay up here together if my presence is so onerous to you.” She wondered why she never seemed to act like a balm to Angele.

  “Oh, get over it,” Angele said. “This is certainly preferable to the funeral. And I really want to hear the latest on your love life. How much time elapsed between your two different bedfellows?”

  Lacey shook her head. While she knew the number exactly—thirty-one days—she wasn’t ready to entertain Angele’s judgment just yet.

  “Not so fast. Last time we talked, you told me you were getting ready for a date. A guy who worked in Licensing, I think you said.”

  “Yes. And there’s no story.” Angele planted her hands firmly on the picnic table, like she was about to give a statement. “It was a non-starter, a dud, and there are no more current prospects. That’s why I need your story, something vicarious.”

  The first tinges of deep blue showed on the eastern horizon, as the sun traveled in the opposite direction. Lacey sighed. “My two different bedfellows. Ha. This isn’t the nineteenth century.”

  “Exactly! That’s why I want details.”

  Lacey offered a very abbreviated version of her evening with Trevor. But then made the mistake of telling Angele that she’d been thinking of him, and hoping to see him again.

  “Please! Don’t tell me you’re in love with him, after just one night.”

  “Who said anything about love?” Lacey was struggling to keep Angele from punching her buttons. “What’s wrong with saying I want to see someone again, someone I had a really great time with?”

  “Nothing. I’m just testing you. Because everything that went down with Dinner Jacket is still very recent, and that all moved very quickly.”

  “Do you remember his name is Nathan?”

  “Yes. But Dinner Jacket is catchier. And less permanent.”

  “Right. Less permanent is right. There’s nothing going on between me and Nathan,” Lacey said. “There can’t be anything going on with us.”

  Lacey was sure she hadn’t told Angele what Nathan said to her. That he had said, “I love you.” She was sure of it, because she hadn’t told anyone. Nor had she told Angele—or anyone—about Nathan’s visit the night before she left home. All of it added to the complication of Nathan, and she was not about to discuss that with Angele.

  Lacey stood. “I’m tired of sitting.”

  “Me, too.”

  They strolled the promenade that spanned the length of the observatory. The crowd was light, and they found a spot on the low wall that hemmed the eastern end of the building.

  The topic changed while they changed locations. Discussing the funeral, Angele asked what she thought of Allison’s presence there.

  “I barely saw her,” Lacey said. “She had a horde of people around her the few times I got close.”

  “Yeah. It felt a bit orchestrated.”

  “Really? How can you orchestrate at a funeral? And from a wheelchair? Maybe people were just really concerned about her.”

  “Maybe orchestrate isn’t the right word,” Angele said. “It just seemed like everything, the crowd around her, was engineered to introduce some chaos.”

  “God, I sure hope not.” But Lacey thought of her strange, spell-like experience with Allison, and admitted to herself that it was possible. She chose not to share it with Angele.

  Lacey turned her back to the railing and stared off in the direction of the sinking sun.

  “I need to think about getting back,” Angele said. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Lacey said. She brushed her hands along the lines of her dress.

  They cut across the manicured lawn toward the parking lot. “I’m headed to New Orleans on Friday, so I have a bunch of things I need to finish up before I go,” Angele said.

  “Oh. I didn’t know.” Lacey stopped, surprised. She resumed walking when Angele didn’t stop.

  “I didn’t tell you.”

  She raised her hands in exasperation, behind Angele’s back.

  “I saw that,” Angele said.

  “Saw what?” Lacey lengthened her stride to catch up to her. “You have another job there?”

  “No,” Angele said.

  “Oh.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Angele said. “Dad has to get some kind of procedure done. Mom’s going to need some company.”

  “Oh,” Lacey repeated. “Procedure?”

  Angele had told Lacey that her dad hadn’t been feeling well, but had never elaborated. Despite Lacey’s efforts to pry a few more details out of her.

  “Yeah, something with his gall bladder, it’s supposed to be fairly routine.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Lee had trouble with gallstones, Lacey recalled.

  “You want me to check in on Dinner Jacket while I’m in NOLA?” Angele asked.

  It was Angele’s classic parry, changing the subject away from her family. She decided not to push the subject.

  “No,” Lacey said. “But if you happen to find yourself in Lakeview, could you drive by the homestead?”

  “I thought Aunt Tonti had you covered there,” Angele said.

  “She does, but I wouldn’t mind another set of eyeballs. Plus, seeing you drive by will give Mr. Max something to yap about.”

  “I’ll roll right up onto his grass,” Angele said.

  “Oh, Jesus. Please don’t.”

  They shared a conspiratorial look and laughed. The tenor was reminiscent of the earliest days of their friendship. And for the first time in a very long time, Lacey didn’t feel wistful for that long-ago era.

  14

  It was a whim.

  Lacey tried to contain her excitement, because her impulses never seemed to turn out the way she wanted. But this time might be different.

  She had parked her car after dropping off Angele. She knew her brother would be in town that evening, and hazarded the guess that Trevor would be, too. She had sent Trevor an innocuous text, Hey, what’s up, and when he responded immediately, found herself stationary in her car, volleying texts that beca
me increasingly explicit.

  The thread concluded with his address. The pretense was she would meet him at his place in Hollywood, and they could walk to one of the spots on Sunset Boulevard for a bite to eat.

  She needed something light. And not to eat. The day had been so heavy, on so many fronts, she was ready to not think about funerals, or dead loved ones, or really anything else for a little while.

  Lacey called her brother before getting on the road to Trevor’s place. She was hoping he was home, or at least close enough, that he could walk Ambrose.

  “No,” he answered. “I’m nowhere close. But I’ll get someone to take care of it.”

  “Do you have a person for everything?”

  “Pretty much. Anything else, Your Highness?”

  “Ha. Thank you.”

  She was very grateful that Jimmy didn’t need or want an explanation of her whereabouts.

  Lacey drove around Trevor’s block several times. She knew she would need to pay attention to how she parked. Car facing the correct way, wheels to the curb if her spot was downhill. That was, if she could find a spot. How had Jimmy, and Angele, made it in Los Angeles for so long? Things were much easier in New Orleans.

  Finally finding a spot, she walked uphill to Trevor’s place. A charming bungalow, with an airy yard full of rose bushes. It seemed like prime Hollywood real estate; she wondered how long Trevor had lived there.

  The door was open, and Trevor leaned sideways against the doorframe. In jeans and an olive drab t-shirt that said “Degobah,” his arms looked phenomenal. He gave her a lopsided grin. “Hello, love.”

  Entirely unexpectedly, her heart skipped a beat.

  As she moved closer to kiss him hello, he circled his arms around her waist, pulling her to him. The kiss lingered longer than any friendly greeting had a right to. Lacey relaxed into it. His breath smelled minty.

  Breaking free, Lacey took a side step, and pulled her hair behind her shoulders. “Hello, back.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “C’mon in,” he said, showing her inside with a sweep of the arm. “You look lovely, if you don’t mind me saying. Basic black dress suits you.”

  Lacey considered saying something about the funeral, but then thought better of it. She hadn’t sought out Trevor for a further rehashing of the day’s events.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Care for a drink?”

  Lacey laughed. “More than you know. Yes, please.”

  She lingered in the living room while Trevor moved into the kitchen. There was a wooden bat enclosed in a glass case, hung horizontally over a mantle. It looked like a baseball bat, but the shaft was flat, not circular.

  “This place is pretty well-stocked,” he said, opening a cabinet. “What are you in the mood for?”

  She moved to the kitchen doorway and tilted her head at him.

  “This place?” she asked.

  “Yes, it’s a friend’s house, love.”

  Ah, that explains how he can afford it.

  “Oh. Got it. Is there any bourbon, by chance?”

  He pulled out of bottle of Parker’s Heritage. “This will do, I think. How do you take it?”

  “Neat. Just a single, please.”

  Lacey entered the tidy kitchen and leaned against the granite countertop. The fading light from the kitchen window was warm against her back.

  “You’re glowing,” he said with a wink. He handed her the drink and brought his empty glass to the refrigerator.

  “You Yanks and your ice.” He opened the freezer and popped one cube into the glass. “You’ve spoiled me.”

  He poured a more generous portion of bourbon for himself and returned to Lacey.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  She clinked her glass against his. “Cheers.”

  “Care to sit?” He moved to the kitchen table.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stand a while,” Lacey said. “L.A. traffic, I feel like I’ve been in the car all day.”

  “Don’t mind at all.” He pulled a chair and positioned it so he was directly opposite Lacey. He stretched his legs out.

  Lacey looked out toward the living room. “What’s hanging above the mantle?”

  Trevor looked at her quizzically. He craned his neck out toward the living room.

  “Oh. It’s a cricket bat. I suppose you wouldn’t know that.”

  “I’ve heard of cricket,” Lacey said. “It’s like everyone else’s version of baseball, right?”

  Trevor laughed. She loved the sound of it. True, not forced.

  “It’s probably more like baseball is America’s version of cricket.”

  “Is your friend a cricket player?” Lacey asked.

  “Why’re you so interested, love?” He pulled his chair closer.

  “Just making conversation. Also, I’m a naturally curious person.” Lacey set down her drink and flexed her arms behind her.

  Damn, I’m preening, aren’t I? This feels pretty good.

  Trevor raised his eyebrows.

  I think the preening is working.

  “His father was a cricket player, if you must know. And he’s traveling, so he won’t be dropping in on us, in case you were curious about that. But since you like to make conversation, why don’t you ask me what I did today?”

  She took a step toward him. “I can do that. What did you do today, Trevor?”

  “I tried surfing,” he said. “I suck, but I’m hooked. I’m considering quitting the band and taking up surfing full-time.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. She didn’t think her brother and the other members of LeViticum would like that very much.

  He laughed again. “I’m not serious.”

  “Oh. Okay, that’s good.” After a pause, she added, “Because you can’t quit the band before I’ve had the chance to see you perform live.”

  She had a brief flashback to a night in New Orleans, the one opportunity she had to see him on stage. Major events interrupted that chance—it had been the second time she’d come to Nathan’s rescue. She tried not to think any more of it—especially not about the person at the center of those events.

  “You’ve seen me,” Trevor said. “I did a phenomenal rendition of ‘Tangled Up in Blue.’”

  “Yes, you did,” she said, blushing. “But that was a private performance. I meant on stage, with LeViticum.”

  “You will soon enough.”

  “I hope so.”

  A part of Lacey wanted to plan. She knew in some late hour, she would look up their tour schedule, see when she might be able to catch one of their shows. That is, if she was even going to stay in California for any length of time.

  I’m deviating from the whim. It’s going swimmingly, don’t stop now.

  She shut down her straying thoughts.

  “I did like the private performance, though.” She looked him in the eye, and it held to a long, knowing gaze, each from their separate posts in the kitchen.

  Trevor stood and pushed his chair behind him. He walked toward her, the swelling in his jeans growing. He stopped in front of her, their faces an inch apart.

  “You did, eh?” His voice was soft and lyrical, and he grazed his fingers along her cheek, gently tracing a line down to her shoulder.

  “Yes,” she said under her breath, and then brought her lips to his in a forceful stroke.

  A sudden urgency fueled her movements as her hands grabbed his waist. She slowed enough to unfasten his jeans with precision. He took a slight step back to get his hands under her skirt, a caress over her hip before sliding her thong down. His fingers brushed against her center. She arched her head back, a voiceless moan escaping her as a long exhale.

  She slid her hand in his briefs. “Oh, do you . . . ” her voice was muffled. He pulled his face
from hers, and she saw a twinkle in his eye as he reached into his back pocket. He produced a condom and sheathed himself while Lacey shimmied his briefs and jeans down to his knees.

  He guided himself into her, while she gripped the countertop behind her. She thrilled at the sensation of being fully-dressed, standing, and feeling Trevor rock inside her. She marveled at his agility. She remembered what he had shouted in the throes of passion.

  Their pleasures coalesced then receded in a sweet, simple rhythm. A graceful coming together.

  “You’re pretty phenomenal,” she whispered as he pulled away.

  They kept to their pretense, and took a leisurely stroll up to Sunset Boulevard after composing themselves. Lacey reconsidered her prior frustration with the city. Even in late summer, the air was cool and mild. And the wealth of options for dining, entertainment, music—whatever the heart might seek—just a few minutes away, was certainly enviable. But she sensed that the time remaining on her successful whim was dwindling.

  She endeavored to remain in the moment during their dinner. On the walk back, Trevor invited her back in, but she politely declined. He saw her to her car.

  The heaviness of the day’s events crashed in upon her as she drove back out to Jimmy’s house. But she was grateful for the respite provided by her interlude with Trevor.

  15

  Galliano, Louisiana

  One spring in the mid-twentieth century

  Birdie wasn’t sure why, but she thought of her old school counselor, Mr. Coyner. She hadn’t seen him for more than seven years now. She’d just started this job, three months ago, and all signs pointed to positive. The Becnels paid her well, better than Mrs. Bergeron did. Truth was, that was all Mrs. Berge could afford. Birdie knew that, and didn’t hold it against her. She’d learned a lot from her. A lot about traiteurs. She’d had to learn without asking too many questions, but Birdie excelled at that. She’d learned a lot through observation. Maybe that’s why she was thinking of Mr. Coyner. That’s why he always said she was “built for college.” And maybe she was, but things just didn’t turn out that way.