The Darling Songbirds

by Rachael Herron

  ‘I’m only thinking out loud.’

  ‘No,’ he said, turning too fast into the small sloped parking lot of the Golden Spike. His back wheels fishtailed. It was childish, but he liked the sound of it, a short, angry curse, one he couldn’t say out loud. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Nate –’

  ‘Do what you want. Let me know how I can help.’ He put the truck in park and got out.

  She was out and around the truck, back in his face in seconds. ‘I’m not trying to take over, I swear. I just want to help. You need more customers. I’m here for at least a couple or three weeks while we work all this out. I want to help fix what I can while I’m here.’

  And that was the quandary, exactly. The Spike was full of things that needed fixing, expensive things, problems he was dying to work on. By himself. He strode through the back courtyard, making for the rear door of the saloon. Sanctuary. ‘Don’t need your help.’

  ‘Nate, wait.’

  He turned, giving her one last second. The sunlight brought out the honey colour in her hair, making the top of it so light it was almost pewter. Her face was concerned. Like she wanted to fix him, too.

  Her fingers laced together in front of her stomach. ‘Can I try?’

  Nate couldn’t tell her what to do with her property – that was thing. He felt a bolo tie of anger constrict around his throat. ‘Go ahead. You don’t need my permission.’

  ‘But –’

  Then, like the ass he was, he shut the door on whatever she was starting to say. She could say it to the courtyard grapevines, maybe sweeten them up a bit. He’d made them sour enough.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Adele figured that a couple of nights would give the town time to talk about an upcoming open mike night, and Wednesdays were, traditionally, a good night for them. Far enough from the weekend for people to get cabin fever, to want to get out. It had been that way in Nashville, and it would be the same here. She was sure of it.

  While she waited for the bank’s manager to get back in town to talk to her about the property, and while she avoided Nate (just the thought of him made her nervous), Adele hung ‘Open Mike at the Golden Spike’ flyers. While doing so, she learned more about how the town had changed than she would have in a month of going to church.

  She found out that Lily Dario had moved out of the taco truck (though she still used it on weekends at the beach) and had a real restaurant now, which was booming, lines out the door at night. ‘I can’t believe you’re back! How long will you stay? Can you come have a drink here tonight? Can you give me a few extra flyers to hand out? What if I can’t get out of the restaurant in time to make it? Will you be playing, too? Are your sisters coming home? What time is it on?’ The questions tumbled out of Lily so fast Adele didn’t have to do more than answer the last one, pointing at the place on the flyer. ‘Seven. Wednesday night. I’d love to see you there if you can make it.’ She and Lily used to camp overnight at the beach when they could get away from their little sisters. Lily’s hug smelled like corn flour and friendship.

  She found out that John Skinner, the man who ran the pound, was as enthusiastic an accordionist as he was a dog rescuer. He put up two of the flyers and swore he would pass out more, then played her a reel while a pit bull puppy howled along adorably.

  She found out that Skip’s Ice Cream parlour had burned down. That one came as a shock. She couldn’t count how many cones of bubblegum ice-cream she’d consumed over the years (Molly was peppermint; Lana was caramel vanilla). Almost every summer night their parents had bought them each a scoop and then they’d walked to the end of the pier and back. Okay, she and Molly had run to the end, racing every night to get the best place to stand – the tallest bench was the perfect place to lean over the edge and pretend you were flying. High school kids dove off it at night. It was rumoured that a kid had once died doing it, hitting his head when a wave knocked him against a piling, but that was never confirmed, and no one seemed to know what kid it had been or what family it had come from, so it was most likely an urban legend like so many other Darling Bay stories. Lana had always walked behind them, with their parents, and after their mother had died, she’d walked with their father. It was because she was the baby, Adele and Molly thought. She’d been the last one to let go of holding their hands. Solitary Lana had been the one left behind in other things, too.

  Seeing the boarded wreckage of the building made Adele’s head hurt, an echo of pain that felt like the time she’d gotten three fillings at once at the dentist. When the Novocaine had worn off, only the ache had been left. She touched the windowsill. Other fingerprints had pressed at the burnt edge, and part of the wood crumbled under her touch.

  Was the whole town falling apart? Deteriorating to fire or mould or simple old age? Would she leave and come back to find nothing? A Brigadoon that they’d dreamed up, once upon a time?

  From behind her, a woman said, ‘One more block down, on the right.’

  Adele turned. It was Dixie, the curly-topped bartender from the Golden Spike. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Skip just moved instead of rebuilding. Insurance, you know. He has a bigger place now.’

  A sense of relief mixed with disappointment swept through her. Ice-cream could still be had. That was important in a town like this, obviously. What was a beach town without locally made ice-cream? But she was surprisingly sad that her childhood memory would never be relived. Even if she could actually get Molly and Lana here (something too impossible to let herself imagine), they would never stand in the same line they’d waited in as kids. She remembered that on hot September nights, the line could wrap to the corner and around the block. They would never run down the pier from the same place.

  No matter where the ice-cream shop was, it couldn’t bring everyone back. Period.

  Adele tried to shake off the memories that had landed on her as heavily as a winter storm. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Dixie dipped her head in the same direction. ‘Wanna?’

  ‘What? Get ice-cream? What time is it?’

  Dixie looked over her shoulder at the clock tower that stood above city hall. ‘Eleven thirty. But is there ever a bad time for ice-cream? Is there a five o’clock rule in place that I don’t know about?’ She raised her hands. ‘No, wait. If there is, I don’t want to know about it. I want a butterscotch milkshake. Coming?’

  Suddenly nothing sounded better. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  The new Skip’s was bigger. Brighter. Better in possibly all ways. The old shop had just held a couple of tables pressed against the window – this one had at least fifteen, including one long one that could probably seat ten. Red fans turned lazily overhead, and all the accents were striped red and white, giving the impression that the whole place was made of peppermint. Molly would like this. Adele took out her phone while Dixie was ordering and took a quick photo. She sent it to Molly with the caption, Come try the new Skip’s.

  ‘And whatever she’s having,’ said Dixie.

  ‘Oh, no, I’ll buy my own, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I insist. Welcome back.’

  Adele shouldn’t let her pay; she knew that. Dixie couldn’t be making much money at the saloon, working part-time. But she was momentarily confused, blinded by the Welcome back that she should protest. I’m not staying. This is just temporary.

  But if Dixie had asked her where she was going next, she wouldn’t have had an answer. So she just said, ‘Bubblegum. Thanks.’

  They sat at a table outside. Dixie stretched her legs out in front of her, sighing with what sounded like happiness. She sucked on her shake and then looked at Adele. ‘Well?’

  ‘What?’ Adele started.

  ‘Are you always this jumpy?’

  ‘No.’ Not quite true. Adele had been born the jumpy one. The worried one. But she was also the one who got things done, who fixed all the things, so she’d always felt justified in being a little jumpy. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought so. What’ve you got there?’r />
  Adele had set the folder of flyers on the table. Fresh excitement flew through her. ‘Open Mike night at the Spike! What do you think?’

  Dixie laughed delightedly as she studied one. ‘Oh, my God. Why?’

  Wasn’t it obvious? ‘To bring in more people.’ She hadn’t gone in to the saloon the night before, but she’d peeked in when she’d walked past. There had been three people sitting at the saloon, but apart from that, the entire place had been empty at nine pm. How on earth was Nate pulling in a pay cheque with no cash coming in? And who was writing his pay cheque? Probably him, right? Surely he had signature rights to the bank book. Which, really, could be a problem in and of itself. An unpleasant snake of distrust coiled in her belly – who was to say Nate wasn’t the reason that the café and the hotel had closed?

  She pictured him briefly – his trustworthy face. With those dark grey-blue eyes and that strong jaw, he was exactly the kind of guy a woman would be glad to see if her car was broken down on the side of the road. He would know how to wield a jack, and even though her dad had made sure Adele knew exactly how to pop a lug nut, she’d let him do it, just to watch his biceps strain (and, really, wasn’t that part of feminism? Being willing to objectify men? Okay, that might be pushing the outer edge of her feminist theory seminar at college, but she was okay with that). Someone like Nate would have a spare bottle of water in the back of his truck for a radiator emergency. He’d have flares.

  Flares. Just like the ones going off inside her as she imagined the way his arm muscles would look flexed and well defined, at the edges of his sleeves while he torqued a tyre iron.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, as if convincing herself. ‘An open mike night at the saloon will pack them in.’

  ‘I don’t know. Besides Dust & Rusty and the occasional gig by the Dukes of Buzzard, there’s not that much music going on around here. Not since y’all left town.’ Dixie’s voice sounded judgement free.

  ‘Maybe that can change.’

  ‘Man, I can’t wait to hear what Nate thinks about it.’

  ‘Why does everyone keep saying that?’

  ‘Because he’s Nate.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Dixie leaned her head back, letting the sun bathe her face. ‘God, this feels good. It was such a cold, foggy summer.’ She slipped on a pair of black sunglasses. ‘You really don’t know Nate at all?’

  ‘I haven’t been in town since before he got here. We left a long time ago.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was something in Dixie’s voice, something small but still very much there. ‘Did you two date? Oh!’ Adele realised she might be being obtuse. Maybe she’d missed everything last night. ‘Are you dating now?’

  ‘Oh, God, no. He’s not my type.’

  The tall, good-looking, reticent half-surly type? Who didn’t like that? Even Adele – who definitely wasn’t looking for anything – could see Nate’s inherent attractiveness. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Why? Is he your type?’

  Adele stuttered something unintelligible before she realised Dixie was teasing her. In Nashville, she’d been spending so much time writing songs at the agency (mostly men) and with the Boot Scooters (all men) – she’d forgotten what it felt like to hang out with another woman. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Hey, girl, I wouldn’t fault you. He’s a good guy.’

  ‘Seems like it.’ Adele paused. ‘Did you know that he wants to buy the place from me and my sisters?’

  ‘He’s been working on that for as long as I’ve known him. Are you going to sell?’

  Why did people keep asking her that? There was no way for them to keep the place. It was impossible. She didn’t want to answer, to go through all the impossible reasons again in her mind or out loud, so she spit out a piece of pink bubblegum. ‘I don’t know why I get this flavour. I don’t even really like chewing gum.’

  ‘Because it’s fun.’

  ‘Fun.’

  ‘The most important thing in life.’

  Adele laughed. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘You think I don’t? What’s more important?’

  Adele licked her ice-cream as she thought. There were so many things more important than fun. ‘Family. Friends. Health. Financial stability.’

  Dixie shook her head and her curls bounced. ‘None of those things are any good without fun.’

  ‘Financial stability is not fun. I mean, that’s not what I would call it. But it’s necessary.’

  ‘You kidding me? I’m one of those freaks who loves balancing her chequebook. Well, not my chequebook – I mean my debit card. That’s fun to me. This here milkshake is my celebration for balancing it this morning. I know I can afford this.’ Dixie tilted her head to study Adele. ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  She leaned forward and lowered her sunglasses, resting them on the tip of her nose. ‘You should sleep with Nate.’

  Adele choked on a piece of bubblegum. She coughed fruitlessly and felt her eyes start to water.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She waved her hands in a universal No problem sign. She just had to cough. That was all. She tried contracting her stomach as hard as she could, and felt a little relief.

  ‘Do you need the Heimlich?’ Dixie half-stood, her arms spread as if Adele were about to trip instead of dying from lack of oxygen.

  Adele shook her head, hard. It was not that bad. Was it? Briefly, Adele imagined her sisters at the funeral. How did your sister die?

  Bubblegum.

  What flavour?

  Blue, Molly would say, choking back tears. When they pulled it out, it was blue.

  It would be right up there with expiring on the toilet for embarrassing. Luckily, she’d be dead so she wouldn’t care.

  Then, just as black spots began to flicker at the edge of her vision, she coughed, and the gum flew out of her mouth. Funnily enough, it was blue. She had no idea what flavour it was supposed to be but it sure wasn’t blueberry. She coughed and choked some more while Dixie patted her ineffectively on the back.

  ‘Are you okay? Is it all out?’

  ‘God,’ Adele choke-whispered, ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Was all that just because I told you to hook up with my boss? Aw, crap.’ Dixie clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘You’re my boss now. I just told my boss to sleep with my other boss? That’s messed up.’

  Adele could only cough more. She sipped her water and spluttered.

  ‘Am I fired?’

  Adele shook her head.

  ‘Good. Because I’m standing by my assertion. As long as you don’t fire me. You two should, like, totally get busy.’

  Finally able to string together more than one syllable at a time, Adele said, ‘Not gonna happen.’ And suddenly, she had a visceral stomach-flopping image of what Nate’s mouth might look like wet. Very wet. Holy crap.

  Dixie sucked at her straw. ‘Let me guess. You’re the angel on your sisters’ shoulders?’

  Adele coughed again. ‘I can’t keep up with you.’

  ‘Try. Are you their conscience? Because from what I’ve read about you, and from your songs, I think that might be it.’

  ‘Are you a psychiatrist in your other life?’

  Dixie winked. ‘I have a couple of secrets in my past.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s me.’ Adele rubbed at her throat with her hand and gave her melting cup of ice-cream a suspicious glance.

  ‘Awesome. That means you’re good enough at angel shit that you don’t need one of those.’

  ‘Angel shit?’

  Dixie waved her red nails in the air as if she were casting a spell.

  ‘All glitter, all the time. But trust me, it gets old, all that glitter on your shoulders piling up like sparkly dandruff. I’m going to be the devil.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The devil on your shoulder. Or is one of your sisters already that for you?’

  Molly was too sweet to be a devil. Lana would make a good one, but she hadn’t been within a mile
of Adele’s shoulder in eleven years. Adele shook her head.

  ‘Oh, goody.’ Dixie reached forward and pushed Adele’s hair back. Through Adele’s T-shirt, she tugged the top of her bra strap up. ‘I claim this spot, then.’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Too late.’ Dixie let the strap slap back into place and then laughed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  While Nate had been pretty sure the open mike night was up there with mayonnaise on peanut butter in terms of terrible ideas, he still felt bad for Adele.

  She was learning it the hard way.

  No one wanted to go to an open mike, except the people who wanted to show off. It was a fine thing to be held at the grade school, maybe. Some kind of fundraiser for a field trip, maybe. Send the kids of Darling Bay to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Dads could sing old Hank Williams songs, and kids could make little bands and sing pop songs with censored swear words.

  In the Golden Spike? Not so much.

  Adele was bringing in looky-loos, that much was true. Half the Darling Bay Methodist Church senior centre was here, all twelve of them sitting carefully in the old wooden chairs he’d had to drag out of the storage unit behind the parking lot. Six women were knitting, and two of the men were reading the paper in the dim light, holding the pages an inch from their eyes.

  Roman Elmwood, the local boy scout leader, was there, doing a crossword while he waited.

  Two of the waitresses from Caprese were in attendance, giggling, keeping a close eye on the three ranch hands who had come in from the Bar W. (How had Adele managed to get the word up to the ranches? Had she actually driven out and invited them?)

  But it was quarter after seven. There was no one else coming. The church’s senior citizens had each ordered a water (okay, old Bing Madson had ordered a rum and Coke, enduring the judgement of the church women’s eyes. Those eyes were harsh. Bing was braver than Nate would have been. Maybe that’s why men died before women – the weight of those heavy stares).

  ‘See?’

  She’d come out of nowhere, popping up just behind his elbow. Nate had always prided himself on being able to see the whole saloon at a glance, taking in who might start a fight while keeping his eye on the guy who was trying a little too hard to get a woman’s phone number. But Adele kept coming in the back door quietly and startling him, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.