Songbird's Call

by Herron, Rachael

  She’d never let that happen again.

  No matter how nice it was to wake up next to a man who smelled like sex and the ocean air.

  The order Colin had given her to stay, though. It was a sweet order, she knew. It was along the lines of You have to have another piece of cake, I insist. Or Sit right there, you’ll get the best view.

  But behind it were echoes she couldn’t quiet. Adele, telling her she had to sing louder and strand straighter. Her first serious boyfriend telling her she had to go to college. The press, telling her and her sisters to smile, to stand there, to move, to not move, to tell them why, to tell them how she felt. And the loudest echo of all, she knew, was her father’s voice the one time he’d said, “Honey, you just have to lose a little weight.” It had been right after the music video that didn’t have a single shot of her in it. The pain she’d felt, the pain she was sure had been obvious on her face. “Adele and Lana have it easy, they got your mother’s metabolism.” Her father had patted his own gut when he’d said it. “You’re like me, though. We can’t eat one damn biscuit without putting two around our bellies, right, sweet girl? You have to show them you can.”

  He’d loved her. That had been evident in everything her father had ever done for her. And because of that, she’d changed to please him. Always strong and sturdy, she’d almost stopped eating for a time. It had been when she’d gotten so thin that she’d been cold all the time, even when they were touring in places like Miami and Naples, that the media had started speculating on an eating disorder. Middle Songbird Not Eating, Should Her Family Intervene? Molly Darling Shows All the Signs of Bulimia.

  She didn’t. Her teeth were strong and unstained. She’d never made herself vomit, not even once. (She’d thought about it, though. That much was true. Maybe that’s why it had hurt.)

  Molly had just done what she was told. The “nutritionist” her father had hired (Molly had found out later that Becca had been a publicist who read a lot of fashion and diet magazines) told her to eat an apple for breakfast, a banana for lunch, and a healthy meal of chicken and broccoli for dinner. Nothing else.

  And Molly had done it.

  She’d lost the weight.

  She’d always been so good at following orders.

  Until she hadn’t been.

  So at Colin’s house, she hadn’t let herself slip off to sleep. She’d curled into his shoulder. She’d given it a good hour after he’d started breathing heavily and steadily. She’d murmured something under her breath about the bathroom, and had slipped out of his arms as quietly as possible. She hadn’t even known her own plan until she got outside, under those stars.

  Get out. Get back to town. Get away.

  The strawberry farmer who picked her up had been astonished. “I don’t think I’ve ever picked up a hitchhiker out here. When I drive up to Humboldt, they’re everywhere trying to work in the fields. And not the strawberry fields, if you know what I mean. More like those illegal green fields I can’t help but be jealous of. Strawberries, they’re good. Not as green, cash-wise, you feel me? But out here, I can’t figure out where you’re coming from.”

  If he spent any time in Darling Bay, he’d eventually see her at the café, so it didn’t do to lie. “I’m reopening the Golden Spike Café. But my car broke down in San Francisco, and I’m hitching back. I got dropped about a mile from here.” If he spent any time in Darling Bay, he’d also know who the sheriff was, and where he lived.

  “Once, up in Humboldt again, I picked up a hitchhiker who had two ocelots. On leashes! You know they make little squeaks?”

  Molly hadn’t, and it hadn’t taken much encouragement to get the strawberry farmer to talk about ocelots all the way to town. She’d laughed in the right places, but her mind had stayed firmly on one thing: Colin.

  She didn’t know what had happened to her last night.

  Okay, she knew exactly what had happened, physically. She’d gotten laid. And gorgeously. She’d been kissed and touched by a man who lit every one of her nerve endings on fire. She wanted it to happen again.

  And at the same time, she wanted to run.

  Colin was a cop. Nothing wrong with cops, of course, but the two she’d dated in the past had shared one very strong, very annoying characteristic. They liked to tell people what to do. Maybe they got used to it on the job. They had to tell people what to do to be safe. They had power behind their words. They expected to be listened to, and people did what they said or they risked literal imprisonment.

  She’d known that feeling, once, a long time ago. When she’d finally shed the weight, the tabloids had started to listen to her, instead of just chasing her. Even news outlets had wanted to know the girls” stand on topics of the day. Adele didn’t like talking into microphones unless she was singing, and Lana was as willing to drop an f-bomb as she was a smile, so talking had fallen to Molly.

  It had been her only place of bravery. Her voice had had power. When the CIA admitted there had never been an imminent threat from weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, Molly had gone on the talk-show circuit, raising awareness for the soldiers who were coming back from a useless war with PTSD, which had been seriously ignored until then.

  She’d been one of the first singers to talk publicly about the studies that proved autism wasn’t caused by vaccinations.

  She’d talked about global warming before it was an accepted fact.

  The year they’d broken up, Hurricane Katrina had just hit the south. When the levee broke, Molly was one of the first people to publicly call out the government for not doing enough. Her sisters had gone to help, giving out water and food in the makeshift refugee camps. Molly had flown, alone, to New York, to be on The View. Meredith Vieira had asked if she was actually blaming an entire presidency for the mass loss of life.

  I am.

  But Bush had nothing to do with the weather.

  He had everything to do with the slow response of the National Guard. He has everything to do with the level of poverty this community is currently living in.

  Some might argue with you.

  I don’t care. Her voice had been strong. Right.

  Then Barbara Walters had asked, You have opinions about a lot of things, and I happen to agree with you on this one. But what about your personal life? There’s been talk your recent weight fluctuations have been the result of a failed gastric-bypass procedure. How do you answer that?

  And on national TV viewed by millions, Molly had realized people didn’t care about what was right. What was necessary. They cared about how people looked. Fury had filled her throat like cement, and she could only choke. The anger had risen until tears came to her eyes – they had not been tears of embarrassment, they’d been tears of rage, but since she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t make that clear.

  She had lost her voice.

  And then she’d panicked.

  Molly had just got up and run. Unfortunately, she’d been still attached to a mic through the back of her shirt, so she’d only got three paces until she was jerked short. She’d given a small scream and tore out the microphone, ripping the shirt in the process. Then she’d run straight out, through the cameras (which had swiveled to follow her), through the studio warren and right out of the building.

  Barbara Walters had just been doing her job. Molly’s job was to sing with her sisters, to be the voice of the group, to talk about politics when asked to do so, and to talk about make-up and clothes when asked about those instead.

  But Barbara Walters” face, one perfect eyebrow flying upwards in reaction to Molly’s rudeness, got played around the world. Smoothly, Babs had said, Well, it seems our guest has more important questions to answer elsewhere. She’d smiled as if she’d been in on a joke. The women of The View had tittered.

  How many times had Molly seen that clip?

  Her voice had had a hell of a lot less power after that. The band broke up shortly thereafter when their father died. They’d all lost their voices, and their way. Molly took away one
thing: she wouldn’t be forced into situations. She wouldn’t be pushed.

  The way Colin had told her to stay.

  And this morning, the way he’d pushed her to eat with him.

  Overbearing. Arrogant. Authoritarian and officious.

  But she couldn’t stop thinking about his bold mouth, and the way he’d used it on her. She’d had talented lovers, of course. Men who knew what they were doing, and she herself liked to think she was no slouch in the creativity department.

  Colin hadn’t required creativity, though. He’d practically required a fire extinguisher to put out the flames he’d started in her body.

  “Hey!” Nikki popped her head in from the kitchen.

  Molly jumped. “Whoa! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “How could you possibly have missed it? It sounds like I’m opening a car with a can opener. We really need to get the handyman to look at that.” Nikki pulled back her blonde hair with a band. “What were you thinking about here?”

  Molly shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Huh. Because you’re all pink. No, kind of red, actually. You don’t want to tell me what you’re lost in thought about?”

  “Just…getting the inspector in here. She should be coming by today, and –”

  “You weren’t daydreaming about my brother?”

  Molly groaned. “He called you.”

  Nikki bounced past Molly, giving her a quick, one-armed hug as she went. “I’ll start working on the menu again. And yeah, he was worried.”

  “Did he tell you . . .?”

  “Anything? No.”

  Relief washed through her like a cool wave. “Okay.”

  “But I’ve figured it all out.”

  No, she hadn’t. “Okay.”

  “You want to hear my theory?” Nikki opened the lid of the box where they’d been keeping their menu notes.

  “Not really.”

  “You and he had one hot night of passion.”

  Molly covered her ears. “Stop.”

  Nikki waited until Molly gave up and dropped her hands. “Y’all had fun, sex, naked fun, et cetera, and then you woke up early and decided you were freaking out about sleeping with a cop because he has a big head and a bigger mouth and is used to telling people what to do, and you want to be your own person and a cop just isn’t your kind of guy.”

  Molly tried but knew she failed to hide her surprise. “Not exactly.”

  “Okay, then you never went to sleep at all.”

  She slid into one of the tables and touched the newly refinished top. It still smelled like the wood stain and polyurethane they’d used. “I think I’m officially scared of you.”

  “Do you know Norma? From the bar?”

  “I’ve met her a couple of times.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Did she teach you fortune-telling? Is that how you knew?”

  Nikki smiled and winked. “I’ll never tell.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Okay. I’m weak. Nah, I guessed.”

  “How?”

  Nikki pointed at her own neck. “You have a hickey right here.”

  “I do?”

  “And my brother called me looking for you, so obviously whatever happened between you two was important or he wouldn’t have done that. And you’re new in town, and you’ve told me about your old bossy boyfriends.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “I dunno.”

  “For sleeping with my brother?”

  “Maybe.” Molly’s voice was small, and shame crept up her arms in thin prickles. She felt the smooth, newly sanded underside of the table.

  “Why? It’s high time he settled down, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “You.” Nikki danced her pointer finger in a circular motion in the air and then pointed at Molly. “You’re just right for him. You’ll take some of the bossy upittyness out of him. And you’ll make him remember that love isn’t a guaranteed crisis that has to be fixed immediately.”

  “It wasn’t even a date. It was an accident. Like a car crash, but more painful.” Her ankle throbbed as she thought about her thumping fall the night before.

  “A good one.” Nikki nodded, hard. “And you know what? I approve. I haven’t approved of one single other girlfriend, but you, yes. You’ll do.”

  The prickles on Molly’s arms turned to heated embarrassment. “Stop. I can barely look at you. How many interviews did you manage to set up for this morning?”

  “All business, huh, boss?” Nikki winked. “I get you. No problem.” She rolled up her sleeves, took a list from her pocket and sat down opposite Molly. “We have six this morning and two this afternoon.”

  Molly took a deep breath and held it. She could do this. She could make this place work, and she could do it on her own. Alone. No matter how much he affected her, she could push the feelings back, stuff them under the virtual mattress of her mind. Which led immediately to imagining his mattress, which had been firm but giving.

  And it had given, and given, and given again . . .

  “Tell me about them.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nikki had made up a spreadsheet and a roster for each of them. “See, take your notes here and here, and here I left places for scores.”

  “Like a game?”

  “Totally. Look, I put down a column for experience, for enthusiasm, and for looks.”

  Molly winced. “Do we need that?”

  “Think of it as aesthetics.”

  “Same thing. It seems mean.”

  Nikki shook her head. “No. It’s necessary. For a while Mrs. Lamprey was working at Caprese, you know, the fancy place?”

  Molly nodded.

  “And she just had this funk about her. Like she bathed, maybe, but only once a week and maybe she was one of those who didn’t believe in soap. You know those people?”

  Molly felt compelled to stand up for Mrs. Lamprey, whom she’d never met. “You can’t say that. What if she was just environmentally sensitive?”

  “Bull hockey. Those people are nuts.”

  Molly had met a woman on board one of the cruises who broke out in full-body hives if she touched anything with lavender oil, and she’d seen the doctor treating her after an ill-advised massage. “Not always.”

  “Okay, fine. Must be hard to live that way. Boy, they can be annoying, though. Right?”

  Nikki had rough edges, but there was something so refreshing and real about her that Molly couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not even going to agree with you.”

  “Fine. The box is still there to fill in, and you should think about whether you want to use it when you meet Nancy Klondike.”

  She winced. “Tell me.”

  “She doesn’t believe in toothpaste.”

  Molly flopped back in her chair and enjoyed the way the solid furniture was made. A lesser chair wouldn’t stand up to a flop like that. “Now you’re just pulling my leg.”

  Nikki shook her head. “I’m telling you. The one tooth she has left isn’t that pretty. But it’s big, so it has that going for it.”

  “Is there anyone coming in you’d recommend?”

  “Oh!” Nikki said brightly. “Lots of them!”

  Molly drank six cups of coffee while they did the interviews. After each candidate left, she went to the bathroom and looked at her face in the mirror. Every time, the hickey was still there. Each time, her hands shook a little more. At the long wooden table, talking to the applicants, she kept her hands firmly in her lap or playing with the pen to hide the tremors.

  It wasn’t just tiredness, though she hid her yawns behind the sample menu she went over with each person.

  It was thinking about him.

  “Molly? What do you think?”

  “Sorry!” She jolted back to attention. “What was the question?”

  Clois Knesick, their last interview of the day, wore a tight blue halter top and a tighter electric-blue skirt. “I was wondering if I could bring m
y dog with me to work.”

  “Oh.” Molly touched the Health and Safety Code she’d left on the table top. “No.”

  Clois straightened. She tugged at a bra strap. “But he’s wonderful. He’s a teacup cocker spaniel. I bet you’ve never even heard of one of those!”

  “I haven’t, no.”

  “And he’s completely silent. No one would ever know he was there.”

  “This is a restaurant, though. We can’t have animals in the food-preparation area. I’m afraid that’s just the law.” Molly fervently hoped she was right about that.

  “But what about service dogs?”

  “Is he a service dog?”

  “We got rejected, but that was because they didn’t understand the gravity of my post-traumatic stress disorder.” Clois’s eyes started to fill with tears.

  Nikki leaned forward and slid a napkin across the table. “And the nature is . . .?”

  She was just being nosy – Molly knew it – and she kicked Nikki’s ankle lightly. PTSD was a legally protected and valid medical condition.

  “Oh.” Clois wiped her eyes so emphatically that her green eyeliner smudged down to the tops of her cheekbones. “I failed out of physical education.”

  Molly waited a beat for more information, for the trauma, but none came. Clois looked at least twenty-seven. “That was your major in college?” Failing out of your major would probably be traumatic, sure.

  “No, I mean in high school. I loved it, but the section I failed was volleyball, and I never really got over it.” Clois’s eyeliner appeared to be magical, sliding almost all of a piece down to her jawline. “I ran backwards, see, to get the ball, and I turned around and ran into a pole and cracked my cheekbone and I almost had to have plastic surgery.” She pushed at her cheek, and green eyeliner came away on her fingertips.