by Mandy Baggot
‘His eyes ain’t straight.’ He took the owl from her and pointed between its beak.
‘See, here? This one’s higher than the other and … ’
She raised her eyes to meet his and the look there stopped him talking.
‘So what, I shouldn’t buy it ‘cause it’s not perfect? Is that what you think?’
Her voice was cold and he realized straightaway what an error he’d made.
‘What should happen to it, Jared? Should we tell the cashier? Get it removed?’
He shook his head. He was in a no-win situation here. She was mad and sad and he needed to shut his mouth.
She snatched the ornament out of his hands and thumped it back down on the shelf. She moved on down the aisle and he followed a few paces behind wondering how to fix it.
Smoothing her fingers down the frame of an ornate whitewood mirror, she looked at her reflection. That was the weird thing about her ‘condition’. While other people with facial scarring avoided looking at themselves, she didn’t. Each time she took in the vision staring back it was affirmation. It wasn’t a hopeful glance - she didn’t expect to look and miraculously be cured - she just needed a reminder of how things were. Because, even now, in her mind’s eye she was still the flawless eighteen-year-old she used to be.
What was she doing? She’d run away. She’d pulled out a handful of hair and fled the recording studios even before Garth from Micro Records had got there. And now she was back here, in Target. Her church, her sanctuary, the discount store safe haven. She never really needed anything in it but the browsing calmed her, the time and the careful selection helped her process.
But this time she wasn’t alone. Jed Marshall was here. Was she crazy? Why was she leaning on him for support? They barely knew one another and he had an agenda. He’d told her in no uncertain terms he wasn’t going to stop asking her to be the opening act on his tour. She only hoped he’d see from each unhinged episode that she was an inappropriate choice.
‘Let’s buy it,’ Jared stated. His voice broke her thoughts and she looked at him, not knowing what he was talking about.
He took the large mirror down off the shelf and tucked it under his arm.
‘What are you doing?’ she exclaimed.
‘Buyin’ a mirror. Can we go now? I’m kinda hungry.’
He’d removed his over shirt in the truck and the feminine chintz of the mirror looked ridiculous underneath his tattooed arm. She followed him to the cash desk and watched him hand over eighty four dollars ninety nine for something he didn’t even want.
Without asking her what she wanted he’d got takeout from Farley’s Diner and now they were headed south. The windows of the truck were down, the music turned up and she was juggling two polystyrene cups on her lap. She assumed he was taking her to his home, to use his studio, but she hadn’t checked. Since when had she lost her tongue?
He hung a right down West Washington and pulled into the drive of a modest-looking one storey. Turning off the ignition he looked across at her. Those gray pools observed her and she swallowed. He looked so serious.
‘Now, before we go on in, I just should let you know that nothin’ in my place works by hand-clappin’.’
His expression was so deadpan, his tone so tight, she couldn’t help herself from letting out a trickle of laughter.
He broke a smile. ‘What? Are you makin’ fun of the poor guy?’
‘You’re not poor!’
‘Far-from-rich-as-you-guy then?’
‘Take-out-getting-cold-guy.’
‘Shoot! Man, I forgot about that. Let’s go.’ He flung open the door, grabbing up the takeout bags from the floor of the truck.
He wished he’d cleaned up. His momma would be kicking his ass if she could see the place. He hurried through the lounge, snatching up misplaced items as he went. Two empty bottles of Coors, a vest-top, a pair of jeans, a two-liter bottle of Pure Nectar, an empty bag of chips and a pile of back copies of Kerrang!. It was too much to collate at once and the Pure Nectar fell from his arms and hit the floor, splitting on impact.
‘Fuck, no!’
‘I’ll get a cloth. Is this the way?’ Honor asked, pointing to a door off the end of the room.
‘Yeah.’ He paused, remembering he hadn’t washed up the dishes for at least a couple days. ‘No. Hell, I’ll get it. You have a seat and … read a magazine or somethin’.’
He thrust a copy of Kerrang! her way, barely hanging on to everything in his hands. The Pure Nectar carried on spurting out over the hardwood floor.
‘Shit.’ He dropped what he was holding to the chair and rescued the bottle. ‘The place is gonna stink of watermelon and fruits I ain’t never heard of for a month.’
Honor looked confused. He wiped a sticky hand down his jeans.
‘It’s a sponsorship thing,’ he said by way of explanation.
She nodded before her eyes moved to the takeout bags lying discarded on the floor where he’d thrown them down.
‘If you get some plates I could … ’ she began.
‘Yeah, sure.’ He hesitated for a moment. Did he have clean plates? ‘I’ll be right back.’
Having given her the first impression of a typical bachelor pad, underneath the untidiness, the room had a certain charm. There was a comfortable, easy feel to it. The wood floor that was partially covered by a Navaho-Indian style rug, was complemented by cream walls everywhere, except from a heavy stone fireplace on one wall. There were framed posters on the wall. George Jones, a Harley Davidson, a Southern flag. The wooden mantle held a selection of photographs. This was a real home.
As that thought filtered over her mind she felt a pang of envy inside of her. Her house was big and showy and filled with every gadget money could buy but it lacked the important stuff. It lacked what turned a dwelling into a place you could call your own.
Without knowing it she had folded up the jeans and the vest-top and placed them neatly on the arm of a well-worn leather chair. What was she doing?
She moved across the room, drawn to the mantle holding the photo frames. Pictures, images of friends and loved ones. That’s what made a home. In her place her platinum discs were in the basement and the only photo on display was one of Tim McGraw in a cheap heart-shaped frame she’d won in a raffle at Instrumadness.
She looked at the first photo. Jared was in it, with an older woman, presumably his mother. She had an arm around Jared, her tawny-colored hair sat in waves on her shoulders and she was smiling. She was the image of how Honor imagined an everyday mom to be. She looked proud of her son, happy and content.
The next photo was of Jared with two younger people, a boy of about ten and a teenage girl. His siblings? She knew he had a sister but, in truth, she barely knew anything about him.
In a silver frame was another picture of a man in his fifties. Honor picked it up. Swarthy skin, shoulder-length brown hair that was graying at the temples and a bandana tied around the top of his arm. On first glance he was every inch a redneck. But on his face he wore the most genuine smile. It was an expression that was instantly recognizable. It was pure Jared. This man had to be his father.
‘Plates.’ He put them down onto the coffee table with a deliberate bang. The moment she’d picked up the photo of her father he’d stilled, not sure what to do. She’d been looking at the image so intently and his gut had turned.
She dropped the frame back down to the mantle, color rising in her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … ’ she started.
His heart was beating hard as he approached her.
‘It’s OK.’ He picked up the photo, looking into the eyes of his father. ‘That’s my pa.’
He struggled to keep the emotion out of his voice. It had been so many years and it still felt raw. His dad had been everything to him, still was.
‘You look so alike,’ she remarked.
He steeled himself, took in a breath that filled his body. ‘He passed away.’
Teeth gritted, h
e stood still as the gnawing bite of hurt started in his stomach.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea … ’
Her voice, coated with concern, hit him hard. He didn’t know what to say to her.
The room was silent, except for the ticking of his grandma’s clock on the back wall.
‘At least you had time with him,’ Honor blurted out.
‘What?’ He didn’t know what she meant. He’d been sixteen when his father died. It wasn’t long enough by anyone’s reckoning.
‘I don’t even know who my parents are.’
Chapter Twelve
Over enchiladas she’d told him almost everything. She was Baby Blue Bonnet. Left on the porch of the Mayor of Glenville’s home in the dead of night. No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. But they all knew what to do. She would be looked after by the state. She would have a score of foster homes, share a life with hundreds of other kids and get beaten up in high school because she talked a lot like Miley Cyrus. She had no clue where she came from or who she’d belonged to. She was just Case Number 872405.
‘I apologize,’ she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin and looking over to him.
‘What for?’
‘I’ve completely wasted your entire day. I’ve ruined a recording session, I made you walk around Target … what was I thinking? And now I’ve told you all this and … ’
‘That mirror is gonna look great over the fireplace,’ he interrupted.
She shook her head, smiling.
‘How do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Deal with everything like it’s nothing?’
He laughed, took a sip of his Coke. ‘You mean I don’t analyze the crap out of everything? Well, that’d be because I’m not a girl.’
‘Whoa, mister, that’s low.’
‘But true.’
She smiled. He did have a point. She spent quite a lot of time talking herself out of things, then talking herself back into them.
‘I just take life as it comes at me. It ain’t gonna change, so you need to face it head on and deal with it.’
She didn’t know whether he’d intended the statement to sound as loaded as it had, but it touched a nerve.
‘Like a session at a recording studio,’ she said.
She was weak. She knew that. But she didn’t want to be. It was the very last thing she wanted to be. She knew Simeon Stewart had ruined her career but she was also to blame because she had just sat back and let it happen.
He could see her mind working. Just from their few encounters he knew when she was thinking hard. Her brow furrowed and the corners of her mouth drooped slightly. He wondered what was riding through her thoughts. He knew how he dealt with stuff was completely alien to some people. His straight-talking, black and white attitude scared the shit out of most people. But his momma had always told him it was all down to jealousy. He said and did all the things they longed to say and do but they were too damn scared to try.
‘Can’t go back or stick that hair back on,’ he stated.
Her eyes flashed at him then and her chin jutted out a little in challenge.
‘So what freaked you out back there? Makin’ music again? Or makin’ music being gawped at by Stetson guy and the band?’ Jared asked.
She let out a breath. ‘I haven’t quite worked that out yet.’
The studio in Jared’s home was state-of-the-art. It had everything you needed to perform, produce and edit. It was only slightly smaller than the set-up at Black Monkey but equally impressive. There were a collection of guitars lined up on display, including a limited edition Vince Gill original.
‘What d’you think?’
She knew her expression of wonder had all but given her away the moment she’d stepped in. His pride in the area was evident.
‘I guess it’s OK,’ she remarked.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth, shaking his head at her. ‘You hurt me.’
‘It’s amazing.’ She turned towards him. ‘But you know that.’
He nodded, letting out a laugh. ‘I’ve made over fifty songs here in the last year and Gear don’t know about any of them.’
She widened her eyes, waiting for an explanation.
‘D’you ever get that feelin’ about something … a feelin’ that it’s not the right time to share something?’ he asked.
‘You’re asking someone who hides songs in a drawer. Sure.’
He nodded, pressed a couple of buttons on the mixing desk and got up out of the chair.
‘Want to help me finish one?’
He didn’t wait for her response but headed out of the door towards the other section of the studio.
Her talent was incredible. Within thirty minutes she had learnt the track, suggested some alterations to the verse section and improved the song ten-fold. Now all he had to do was get her to sing.
She had hummed the track, run through short sections of it to demonstrate something to him but she hadn’t let go.
As he played the last few chords and brought the number to an end he saw she’d closed her eyes. Her fingers drummed out a rhythm on her jean-covered thighs and her pure beauty jabbed at him. He faltered with the guitar and her eyes snapped open, breaking the moment.
‘Sorry, I kinda messed up there. I’ll take it from the top,’ he stated, moving his hands up the neck of the instrument.
‘Actually … I ought to go. When I dare to look at my cell I’m going to have missed calls from everybody,’ she stated.
‘Sure, I understand.’
He didn’t. Just when he thought he was getting somewhere. He wanted to make her realize what music meant to her, let her see how much talent she had and how wrong it was to keep that in.
He knew she was running away again and he didn’t like it.
He didn’t sound like he understood. He sounded pissed. And she didn’t blame him. He’d rescued her from Black Monkey, he’d bought a mirror he didn’t need and he’d spent his afternoon making her face up to the fact that she missed country music more than she’d ever really let herself recognize. It was as much a part of her as her internal organs. She needed it as much as he kept saying it needed her.
‘I wish I had half the talent you do,’ he told her.
The truth was she’d spent the afternoon learning so much from him and it had affected her deeply. The way he composed was so similar to the way she worked. He was thoughtful and thorough in his composition. There weren’t any missing elements. Although the music he wrote had a harder edge from what she was used to, it was nothing short of brilliant.
‘You do, and you have the confidence and your own take on things and … ’
Being in a tight room with him for hours, listening to the rock-edged vocals with that Southern accent - her body had been reacting to it the whole time. She knew the curve of his shoulders as he played the guitar, the way his strong fingers gripped the strings, how taut his jeans became when he sat on the stool.
‘I should really go,’ she repeated, taking a step towards the door.
‘Yeah, why not. Run away.’ It was a curt response.
‘What did you say?’ There was deliberate fury in her tone. She hadn’t asked for this, any of it. She’d wanted to be left alone but no one could do that. They kept prodding and poking and goading.
‘I’m not gonna let you do this. You have more talent in one digit than any of those other singers out there.’ He threw his hands up. ‘You can’t live your life without music so why are you tryin’ to persecute yourself?’
‘I’m not ready … I’m just not ready. I thought I was but I’m not. There, I’ve said it.’ Her voice wobbled and gave away everything she felt and feared.
‘That’s bullshit.’
The tears were threatening but she wasn’t going to give into them. ‘You know this reverse psychology has already been tried by several different medical professionals in the state.’
‘I don’t do psychology, reverse, up-front or any oth
er which way.’
‘I won’t be bullied.’ She folded her arms across her chest and attempted to look defiant.
He shook his head at her. ‘Fine. I’ll take you home.’
Inside she was shaking as she watched him take his guitar off his body, his vest riding up his back a little as he bent to put it down. She swallowed and closed her eyes. What was she doing? She’d been rude and stupid and he’d done so much for her. And he’d listened. He’d listened to her talk about her life as an unwanted child in care.
‘Jared.’
The tone of her voice made him turn around. What he saw across the room had his stomach coiling up. Her lips were trembling and she was rubbing her palms up and down each denim-covered hip. Her curls were hanging down over her face and she just looked so lost. Had he been too harsh? He hadn’t meant to be. He just wanted to help her, guide her through this … protect her.
‘I want to do it but … ’ she began.
He kept his lips together, afraid to interrupt.
She didn’t elaborate further, she just stood there, looking to him.
He didn’t know what to do. He was torn. He knew the obvious thing to do would be to bridge the gap, put his arms around her and tell her everything was going to be OK. But that wasn’t him. Cuddling up and hand-holding wasn’t his style. He had tried it once and had his heart trampled on so hard he’d learnt his lesson. Since then it had only ever been about sex. Good, wild sex with women he didn’t have to make small talk with afterwards. He had no shortage on that front. But there was something so unique about Honor, something that moved him, something that left him weak. Something that made him want to behave differently.
He swallowed and made a move, spanning the distance between them in a couple of strides.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered as he reached her.
The words seemed to catch on her lips, falling into the divide and catching him unawares.
‘Hey, what are you sorry for?’ He cleared his throat as he gazed at her. Those clear, bright eyes were dewy with unspent tears.
She looked up at him and he saw it all written on her face. All her suffering, all the hard times she was still working through, everything she’d had to face since that maniac had attacked her. His heart was thumping so hard he could almost hear it outside of his body. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to put his hands on her and just hold her against him. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it.