Resurgence: Book 2 of the Second Chances Trilogy

by M. M. Mayle

  “Very well! Have it your way!” She dashes down the remaining steps and confronts him head-on. “Earlier, when we arrived here today, Amanda gave me fresh information that relates to your safety and I reacted badly. There, are you happy now?”

  He backs off in disgust. “I thought we were done with that rubbish after the faked bodyguard demand magically appeared on my desk one day. I thought—”

  “You knew it was fake?” She follows him across the room.

  “How thick do you think I am?” He whirls on her. “Did you actually think I wouldn’t ring the promoters to verify?”

  “If you knew it was falsified why’d you go along with it?”

  “Because I love you!”

  The words hang there like they’re contained in a cartoon balloon. She wasn’t expecting anything that noble and can’t think of a suitable reply—one that won’t cheapen the statement or come across as trite. Or vainglorious.

  “I’m . . . sorry,” she says after too long a pause.

  “That I love you?”

  “Of course not! I’m sorry I spoiled—”

  “I’ll hear your sorrys later. After I hear what new bullshit you’ve been fed by our little Amanda.”

  “Before you condemn Amanda altogether, you should know she was only the messenger, she was only delivering information from David.”

  “Nice change from Nate, that, but what’s David got to do with it?”

  “That day . . . in London . . . I didn’t just confer with David about final arrangements for Mrs. Floss, I spoke with him about the other news Amanda considered urgent when she called with word of Mrs. Floss’s death.”

  “News you didn’t get round to sharing with me.”

  “That’s correct. Knowing you’d react as you are now—scornful, dismissive—I saw no point. And I knew David would go out of his way to discredit these very disturbing claims made by Nate and Amanda . . . to calm my fears.”

  “Isn’t that my job? Shouldn’t I be the one . . . Oh, I get it. David’s logic is better than mine. He’s better at dismissing poisonous claims and scorning—”

  “No! Not at all.”

  “Looks that way from here.”

  “Believe me, that was not the case.”

  “Believe you? What am I to believe when I’m just now finding out that Amanda and Nate are in collusion. After all those assurances that could never happen.”

  “I didn’t count on her falling in love with him. Okay? And I certainly did not count on you seeing David as a rival.”

  “How else would I see him?”

  “As my former mentor—my former lover. Tell me, did you regard Rayce as a rival because he had Aurora before you did?”

  “Leave off! Stop right there! Things were different then. Quite! I was different then.”

  “I see!”

  They are faced off across the broadest dimension of the sitting room, a generous space that suddenly seems inadequate. Restrictive, even. Laurel debates withdrawing to the loft, where she could make do on the nanny couch for the night, or escaping to Rachel’s room, where there’s a spare bed and every possibility news of her quarrel with Colin would be common knowledge by dawn.

  Instead, she asks in a shaky voice that they please sit down and tone down before they wake the children. He silently agrees. She sinks into the nearest sofa; he slouches in an armchair opposite and listens without interruption to a condensed version of the case Nate and Amanda have built against a Native American drifter with a tomahawk to grind.

  When she relates the latest development—the one that sapped her attention for the greater part of the day—she expects him to laugh at the sheer absurdity of an intruder doing drugs in her attic, then returning to the scene to remove his tracks.

  “Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous,” she says before he can voice a similar opinion, “but it’s so ridiculous I have to give it some credence.”

  “And that lends credence to everything else . . . the lot of it.”

  She nods.

  Without further mention of imagined conspiracies or hidden agendas, he gives assurances to pale anything David had to offer.

  “Thank you,” she says around the lump in her throat. “I can’t lose you, Colin . . . I just can’t.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Afternoon, July 12, 1987

  Fresh from the pool, shaking water off like a dog, Anthony approaches. He only hovers at first, a sure sign something’s brewing in that never-idling head of his. “What was the best part?” he says. “What was the very-very best part of the tour? . . . Dad?”

  “I heard you, Anthony. I’m thinkin’ it over.”

  A loaded question, or more likely, a misleading one, Colin estimates as he adjusts the lounge chair to a sitting position and confronts the lad at close range.

  “Why do you want to know? I thought you were done with all those reports Gran and Laurel made you write.”

  “I am. This isn’t for schoolwork, it’s me wanting to know.”

  “Okay then, the best part was us all bein’ together as a family.”

  “I was dead sure you’d say that.” Anthony gives an exaggerated groan and pulls a face. “That’s what you’d say for the newspapers to print. I wanta know what you really thought was best.”

  “I thought it was a bleedin’ miracle things didn’t get worse than they did. There, is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “No, you still didn’t say what was best!”

  “I’m stickin’ with my first answer, then. Why don’t you say what you thought was the best part?”

  That slows him down, as intended, and gives Colin a chance to gather up his things and lead the way back to the house. The sun’s gone under and it’s grown too chilly for lounging about in damp swimsuits.

  Caped in a towel, Anthony scampers on ahead, calling out his favorite experiences at ten-second intervals

  Going backstage gets special mention, as does riding in private planes and great long limousines. Room service is a winner, and tutoring is rated better than regular schooling. Paris is named a standout city for sitting atop massive piles of skulls and bones—no surprise there—and Rome ranks high for ruins where lions used to eat people.

  “I would’ve liked Barcelona better if the bull had won,” the lad says, slowing down till they’re apace.

  “What bull?”

  “At the bullfight Bemus took me to.”

  “Bloody hell he did!”

  “You were doin’ soundcheck, Laurel wanted to see some big church with holes in the steeples, and Gran was havin’ a time with Simon, so—”

  “So that made it all right for you to witness a blood sport.”

  “It wasn’t that bloody, actually.” Anthony skips on ahead a few steps. “That massive zoo you took me to in Munich was good, but the roadies told me there’s a better park there. One where people sunbathe starkers,” he calls over his shoulder.

  They reach the terrace with neither decided what was supreme best about the recently concluded circuit of Europe.

  “In the week since we’ve been home I don’t think I’ve heard you say a single thing about getting to know your new uncles and aunt,” Colin says as they enter the arcade.

  “They’re not mine yet, are they?”

  “Technically not, not till Laurel and I are married. But that shouldn’t keep you from—”

  “Are you still gonna get married? You and Laurel?”

  “Yeh. In not quite five weeks time, actually. Why would you ask a thing like that?”

  “Because you and her had that big row in Paris. You were shouting and carrying on something fierce.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well I do. You were afraid to broach the subject.”

  “I don’t know what broach means.”

  “Means bring up a fucking stupid subject.”

  “You have to put a quid in the jar for sayin’ the F-word.”

  “Give me a chance,
Anthony. I am profoundly sorry I flew off the handle with Laurel and you had to overhear—profoundly means sorry as hell—but just because Laurel and I had a row doesn’t mean the wedding’s off. People can have their differences and sort ’em out.”

  “You and my first mum didn’t.”

  “That’s because she was from another planet.”

  The boy digests that for a tick, then returns to the subject of the Parisian row whilst hop-skipping along backwards. “Do you still hate David? Are you still pissed at Nate and Amanda? Is it true some bloke did drugs in Laurel’s attic? Did Rayce really have—”

  “That’s no concern of yours! The only upshot of that row affecting you is the decision to be more stringent about—”

  “What’s stringent mean?”

  “Strict. Be more strict about the rules intended to keep us safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “Fans. From paparazzi—you know what they are—the sorry sort that plagued us whilst we were on tour. The worst of the lot might try havin’ a look at how we live, or get between us and our goin’ about our business, so we’ll be doing away with a few of the main hazards. We’ll be fitting new gate controls and door locks—things like that—and avoiding public appearances unless we’ve got minders along.”

  “I know what minders are. You mean bodyguards, and if I have to have one I’m not goin’ to that sodding school. Those stupid wankers’d be on me like never before, they would!”

  “Relax, you’re not getting your own personal bodyguard, you’re only gonna be accompanied by one to and from school.”

  “If I got schooled at home there wouldn’t be all that bother. Laurel and Gran could teach me like they did on tour . . . couldn’t they-couldn’t they-couldn’t they?” The boy very nearly trips over his own enthusiasm.

  “Those were special circumstances, these are not. Nice try, though.”

  Anthony projects a dark expression and reverts to forward walking till another line of questioning turns him round and slows him down.

  “Will the oast houses and stowage be made safer too?”

  “For being inside the fence, I’d say that area’s already safe enough.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean are you gonna do away with the danger spots you’re always goin’ on about?”

  “So you can play there? No, you can never play there, Anthony. That’s never gonna happen.”

  “Daaaaaaad! You know what I’m talkin’ about.” Anthony comes to a dead stop, makes a stand in an arcade archway. “You’re the one that called for those blokes that met with Sam to talk about making the oasts into a place for Gran to live in so she won’t be in the way.”

  “What in bloody hell gave you that idea?”

  “That Gran’s in the way?”

  “No, that thought’s been given to going forward with the stalled oast house conversion. How do you know about that? Do you have your ear to every keyhole?”

  “The workmen told me after Sam left ’em to do their measuring,” Anthony lets slip as they take a shortcut through the enclosed veranda.

  “That means you sneaked over there again. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? Colin grips the boy’s shoulder a bit too hard and immediately lets go. But not without impressing on the boy the severity of the infraction.

  “Dammit, Anthony, that has to stop. That’s a worry I don’t have to put up with and I’ll not have it, I won’t. And I won’t have you talking as though anyone but Gran thinks she’s in the way. You know better—we all know better. That clear, then?”

  “I guess.”

  “You what?”

  “I understand what you said.”

  “Thank you. Now see to it you mind what I said.” Colin leads the way to the backstairs doubtful that the scolding sank in very far. As though to bear out that doubt, Anthony’s off on an unrelated subject before they’re even halfway up the stairs.

  “Is Amanda gonna come here anymore?” he asks. “I thought she was gonna be my aunt, too. Was she really pissed about the rat that day?”

  “Mind your language, Laurel’s apt to overhear—No, it wasn’t seeing Toby chomp a rat that’s kept her away. She has other interests now and—”

  “It’s ’cause she’s shagging Nate, isn’t it? And I know you’re done with him.”

  “Anthony, I said mind your language! If you don’t, I’ll start charging you by the word.”

  The lad falls silent, but not for long. “Are you gonna keep your band together? Are you gonna go on the road again? To the States maybe? If you do, can I go?”

  Anthony’s questions last all the way to his rooms, where the subject shifts back to the new security measures.

  “Are we always gonna have minders and alarms that go off if you forget they’re set? Are we gonna get those cameras that watch everything everybody does even if you’re havin’ a slash? Are there gonna be invisible rays that can tell when Toby or Cyril or Laurel’s cat walk by? Is this only till they catch the bloke that wants you dead or is it forever-and-ever?”

  Pointless to ask where Anthony picked up on those strong probabilities—as pointless as expecting him to believe the extra security measures are nothing more than routine safeguards against tenacious fans and paparazzi.

  “Ease off, sport.” Colin bends down to kiss the top of his head. “I can’t answer any of that now. But if I can put up with it for ever-how-long, so can you.”

  Anthony mulls that over for a split second, darts into his rooms and right back out again.

  “Wait . . . Dad!

  “What now?”

  “I thought of what the best part was! It was making all those people come round to remember Rayce. Am I right?”

  “Spot on! We have a winner!”

  FORTY-THREE

  Evening, August 1, 1987

  They’re calling it an official policy change, this new rule that prevents employees from drinking alongside the customers of the Speedwell Motor Lodge and Restaurant. On the announcement tacked up in the employees’ locker room, they’re saying in big print that it promotes overfamiliarity and sends the wrong kind of message. But they don’t say who’s getting overfamiliar or who they’re getting overfamiliar with or what’s wrong with this message they’re sending. It’s left up to Hoop and other workers with dark skins to draw their own conclusions.

  Hoop can’t be bothered to bog himself down in racial palaver or the organized breaking of rules, so he takes his Saturday-night thirst a half mile down the road to a Chinese restaurant with a neon cocktail glass sign on the roof. The only problem there is the Chink bartender doesn’t understand that a shot and a beer should be served together; he wants to serve one after the other.

  “No two at time!” the bartender says, shaking a cautioning finger.

  To the guy a couple stools away who asks for a dry martini—whatever that is—the bartender scolds, “No dry, drink wet!” He demonstrates by pouring enough gin on the bar to form a puddle. “Wet! You see?”

  The bar is crowded with non-Orientals and they’re all listening when a woman seated on the other side of the man with the wet martini gets set straight for ordering scotch on the rocks.

  “No rocks! Ice only” the Chink says, but the word “only” comes out sounding like “own-ree” and all the barflies except Hoop bust out laughing. The grouchy bartender notices this and it’s like a secret handshake was exchanged.

  Hoop still can’t convince the guy to bring the shot of rye at the same time he pops the top off a Bud longneck, but it’s not like the world’s ended to have to settle for one drink at a time.

  Another woman—a young one—has the misfortune to ask for a drink she calls a “white Russian.”

  “No white Russian! Russian red!” the bartender says real loud. This sets off more laughing and gets Hoop to thinking about the different ways he could have the last laugh on these mockers. However, nothing comes to mind that wouldn’t get him locked up for armed assault, so he tamps down the urge that’s more about himself than the bart
ender.

  By eleven-thirty, the place is empty except for a few folks slurping up late-night chop suey at a corner table, and a lone drinker at the opposite end of the bar. The bartender, a sinewy-thin tobacco-colored guy with a bad haircut and almost no beard, could be younger than first thought. Now that the Chink’s relaxed a little, he looks less like he spent his early years pulling one of those rickshaw things and living off slimy bean sprouts flavored with dog meat.

  But who is Hoop to look down? How many of his people aged early from pulling a travois when no horses were left, and from living off roots and bark when all the game and dogs were gone? And isn’t this sour, half-used-up guy his brother if you believe the scientific claim about America’s natives having come from the Orient by way of the land bridge that’s not there anymore? Something to ponder when he doesn’t have anything else on his mind.

  Hoop orders another beer and, after a respectable length of time, another shot of rye whiskey. He flickers a glance at the backbar and the television that’s showing local news, and homes in on the calendar tacked up beneath a Spuds MacKenzie Bud Light clock.

  August 1, 1987, it reads in big print like it’s taunting him for biding his time. But did he really expect to earn his luck back in less than the ten weeks that have passed since he gave up the El Camino and cut back his spending to only what came in pay envelopes, and only a small part of that?

  He can’t let the date bother him or he’ll feel as defeated as he did on the last day of April when the United States Passport Agency almost made him give up. He can’t let the TV hold his attention either, not when it’s tuned to local news where he might see that the Essex County authorities have changed their minds about what killed an old lady a few weeks ago.

  Over another beer and delayed shot of whiskey, his mind wants to touch on all the things he had to tell himself in order to keep going after the passport setback. They cyclone around in his head like too many people talking at the same time. Then, when that slackens down to one voice and one nagging reminder, it’s like his head’s filled with a tune he can’t get rid of.

  He only partway hears an outside voice announce closing time, time to leave. When he does leave, the gaunt bartender leaves with him, walks with him a few hundred feet to the NJ Transit bus stop, where he says he’ll be catching his ride.