“Hah! I’d rather have my toenails yanked out, one by one.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, Fiore?”
“I can tell you where it’s not: crammed inside a bus, cruising America’s scenic interstate highways.”
“You’ve grown hard in your old age, woman.”
“Wrong. What I’ve grown is smart.”
They returned home aching, sweaty, and energized. He showered first, then made breakfast while she washed away the stickiness. Whatever demons she’d been chasing the night before had disappeared in the light of day. The shower revitalized her, and she sat down to breakfast with a gargantuan appetite.
Rob stirred sugar into his coffee and said, “I thought since it’s your last day here, we might do something touristy.”
She spread jelly on her raisin toast. “Touristy? As in Disneyland touristy?”
“We could do Disneyland. Or,” he said, “we could just go down to the beach and hang out.”
“I vote for hanging out,” she said.
So they drove down to Venice and strolled the boardwalk. Ate greasy French fries and cotton candy, watched the surfers, the skaters, the jugglers and the kids leaping and squealing in the swirling Pacific surf. The women were all tall and blond and gorgeous, spilling out of minuscule thong bikinis that made the one she’d worn in Nassau look like a nun’s habit. “Poor thing,” she said, as one particularly ripe specimen skated by. “I hope she doesn’t catch cold.”
“It’s a hardship,” he said, his eyes following the skater with obvious appreciation, “living here in California. But somehow, we all muddle through.”
“It must be a terrible tribulation,” she said, and remembered Mrs. Sullivan’s words. You’re the only woman he’s had up there in nearly two years.
He grunted and gazed out over the Pacific. Beside him, she said, “Do you ever miss the East Coast?”
“Every day of my life. Even more since you moved back east.”
A cloud skittered across the face of the sun, stealing some of the day’s brilliance. “I know,” she said softly. “I miss you, too.”
He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Did you really mean what you said, about never getting married again?”
She looked out at the ocean, now a dark, tempestuous blue. A multicolored sail appeared as a speck on the horizon. “I don’t see any benefit to it,” she said.
“Aside from not drying up,” he said, “and dying old and alone.”
“We all die alone,” she said.
“You know what I meant.”
“I’ve been in the business too long to marry a civilian. What would we talk about at the supper table? And if I married someone in the business, it would be a disaster. Two of us spending all our time on planes headed in opposite directions.”
“Aren’t we just Little Miss Sunshine today,” he said.
“You asked. I’m answering.”
“What about sex?”
She glanced sideways, but he was watching a volleyball game on the beach. “What about it?” she said.
“Do you plan to go the rest of your life without that, too?”
“I hadn’t really given it much thought.” Liar! a tiny voice inside her accused. You’ve thought about it. Last night, on the dance floor. And afterward. Especially afterward.
“You told me once that celibacy was an unnatural condition,” he said. “Or did you forget?”
“Being married,” she said, “isn’t a prerequisite for sex. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? After all, you are the world’s expert on recreational sex.”
He eyed her coolly. “Are you trying to start a fight?”
“You started it,” she said. “Not me.”
“Damn it, Casey, this is your last day here. I don’t want to fight.”
Ashamed, she plucked at the sleeve of his shirt. Smoothed out a wrinkle. “Neither do I,” she said.
“Then why the hell are we fighting?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said miserably.
He lifted his arm and she ducked her head beneath it, and he looped it around her shoulders. “Let’s try to be civil,” he said. “I know it goes against your nature, but we could at least try.”
“Insufferable ass,” she said, but without enthusiasm.
“Look,” he said. “Look at the sailboat.” It was racing toward them, sails billowing with a strong tailwind, veering and tacking, tilting and twisting in a riot of red and orange and yellow against a background of blue.
“It’s wonderful,” she said wistfully. “I’ve never been sailing.”
“Me either.” He folded both arms around her from behind and tucked her head beneath his chin. It was a perfect fit. “Maybe we could rent one sometime and try our hand at it.”
Just for curiosity’s sake, she allowed her fingers to explore his slender, bony wrist. The hair on his arms was soft and springy. “We’d probably drown ourselves,” she said.
“There you go again,” he said, “Little Miss Sunshine.”
That night, they stayed up late watching an old Cary Grant movie. They overslept the next morning, and had to rush to make her flight. The line at the check-in counter was a hundred miles long, and Rob held her carry-on while she maneuvered in and out between people to check her suitcase just minutes before the flight. “Better hurry,” the ticket agent said. “They just started boarding.”
It was going to be close. Boarding pass in hand, she sprinted through the terminal with Rob at her side, past weary businessmen in rumpled suits, past a statuesque blonde walking a black poodle, past a family of four wearing white shorts and matching Mickey Mouse shirts. They reached the gate just as a nasal voice said over the intercom, “This is the final boarding call for Delta Flight 1300 to Boston.”
Rob slung Casey’s carry-on over her shoulder and spent a minute fiddling with the strap. His hand lingered, warm against her bare arm, as he said, “All set. Got your boarding pass?”
“Right here.” She held it up for him to see.
“Call me when you get in.”
She nodded, suddenly unable to speak. For the first time ever, she was having difficulty saying good-bye to him. She took his hand and threaded fingers with his, and they gripped each other tightly. They stood there looking at each other, neither of them wanting to break the physical contact.
“Oh, hell,” he said, and yanked her to him and kissed her.
It was the element of surprise that brought her into his arms. It was something else that kept her there. Excitement shot through her, spiraling upward from a core of longing deep in the pit of her stomach, the same longing she’d felt on a moonlit beach in Nassau. He plunged his tongue inside her mouth, hot and wet and silken smooth, and the world tumbled and rolled around her in a mad search for equilibrium. She gasped, lungs bursting from the need to breathe, and then he placed his hands on her shoulders and slowly, reluctantly, pushed her away. “Go,” he said raggedly. “You’ll miss your plane.”
It took her a moment or two to come back, and then reality seeped in. Airport. Home. DC-10. “Shit,” she said, possibly the first time in her life that she had ever uttered the word. She hesitated, one hand absently toying with the collar of his shirt.
“Go on,” he said again. “It’s a long walk to Boston.”
“Damn you,” she said. “Damn you to hell!” And she turned and raced toward the door that was already swinging shut. “Wait!” she gasped, and the uniformed attendant pulled it open again. She flashed her boarding pass and took a quick backward glance. Rob was standing there with his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable behind dark glasses. “I’ll call,” she shouted, and hustled down the corridor toward the waiting plane.
The flight to Boston was endless, the drive home monotonous and nerve-wracking. She had a killer headache by the time she pulled into her driveway and parked the Mitsubishi in the shade of the elm tree that dominated the front yard. Inside the house, it was cool, with that silence peculiar to
empty houses. Her mail was stacked neatly on the kitchen table next to a plastic freezer bag of snapped beans and a half-dozen ripe tomatoes. Beside them was a note in Jesse’s precise handwriting. Gave some beans to Millie. Had to use the ripest tomatoes. These should last a few more days. Might want to check on the cukes, they’re about ready. Brief, businesslike, and to the point. That was Jesse. He was as dependable as the change of seasons, as steady as a rock, civilized right to the marrow in his bones. Half the women on the planet would consider him a prize catch. Only she seemed to prefer cave men.
She took aspirin for the headache and went upstairs to unpack. Her bedroom was hot and stuffy, and she threw open a window to let in some air. Hoping the headache would slow down to a dull roar, she left her suitcase on the floor and lay down on the bed.
Instead, the scene at the airport returned to haunt her, and to her chagrin, she went hot all over. Groaning, she covered her face with her hands. The man had no decency at all. He’d never learned one iota of civilized behavior. He was a barbarian, and she had every intention of telling him so the next time she talked to him. How could he have kissed her like that? How could she have kissed him back?
Because you liked it, that little voice inside her said. Because you wanted it as much as he did.
She knew what she needed, and the need for it was turning her inside out. But it was out of the question. Most certainly out of the question, for God’s sake, with Rob. What she needed was a discreet, civilized little affair. A few quick tumbles between the sheets. No commitments, no expectations, no impossible-to-keep promises. Plain, simple, recreational sex. Maybe she could post a notice on the bulletin board down at the Wash-n-Dry. Hot-blooded widow seeks stud muffin for mutual pleasure. For a good time, call....
Or maybe she simply needed to acquaint herself with the concept of cold showers.
She looked at the phone in distaste as she lay on her king-size bed in her too stuffy, overly prissy bedroom. How was she going to face him after the little scene at the airport? How was she going to talk in any sort of civilized manner when all she really wanted to do was slug him?
Dread turning the inside of her mouth to cotton, Casey picked up the phone and dialed his number. It rang four times, each time making her heart beat a little faster, and then, to her relief, his machine picked up. She released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Hi,” she said. “It’s me.” She took a breath. “I’m on the ground, I’m exhausted, and I’m going to take a nap. Give me a call when—”
There was a click, and then he said, “Hi.”
She wet her lips. “Hi,” she said.
Silence. On the road in front of the house, a car went by, too fast. For the first time in fifteen years, she didn’t know what to say to him.
He cleared his throat. “How was your flight?” he said.
“Terrible.”
Again, silence. “Did they feed you?” he said at last.
“Yes. I think it might have been chicken, but it was hard to tell.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Marvelous. Should I applaud, or just run up the flag?”
“Maybe you’re right,” he continued, ignoring her. “Maybe I should move east.”
She ignored the adrenaline that shot through her veins. “Suit yourself,” she said.
“Maybe Boston,” he said. “We could spend weekends together. We could rent one of those little sailboats and go out on the Charles.”
Inexplicably, her eyes watered, and a single tear spilled and rolled down her cheek. “I told you already,” she said. “We’d end up drowning ourselves.”
“Are you crying?” he said.
“No,” she lied.
“Fiore,” he said, “you’re the lousiest liar I’ve ever known. What’s wrong?”
She drew in a ragged, shuddery breath. Pulled a tissue from the box on the dresser and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
He let out a huge sigh. “Look,” he said, “we hit the road in two weeks, and I’ll be in pretty heavy rehearsal until then.” He paused. “You know how it goes.”
She knew. “Yes,” she said, and swiped her nose with the tissue.
“Sure you won’t change your mind and come with me?”
That she found the offer tempting told her just how far around the bend she’d gone. She squared her shoulders. “Bad idea,” she said. “But thanks for the offer, just the same.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right. Look, I gotta run.”
They were both silent, but neither of them hung up. “Flash?” she said.
“Yeah, babe?”
“Call me from the road. Anytime. I’ll be here.”
chapter thirty-one
Life on the road took its toll on everyone, and you did whatever it took to get through the night. In his years of touring, Rob had seen it all: the drinking, the drugging, the backstage whoring. He’d never been much into partying. He drank a little, but then so did everyone. In his younger days, he’d smoked a joint or two, but he’d never touched hard drugs. He’d seen too many road musicians so strung out on bennies and ludes that they couldn’t function without them. Too many others so deep into the white powder that they’d have sold their own grandmothers for a single snort. Everybody had something that kept them sane, but he was getting too old, too tired, for the party scene. It was his phone calls to Casey that helped him maintain his tenuous hold on sanity.
He lived for precious stolen moments like this one, leaning against a dirty cinder block wall with a telephone receiver pressed to his ear, while around him, the crew broke down and packed up the equipment so they could move on to the next stop. As he waited for Casey to answer the phone, somebody walked by with an open box of pizza, and he reached out and snagged a slice. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.
She picked up the phone, and he swallowed the bite of pizza. “Hey, pudding,” he said.
“Hey,” she said groggily. It was astonishing that she could pack so much warmth into a single syllable. Even half-asleep, she managed to sound as though she’d been waiting all day for his call.
“I woke you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I can sleep anytime.” She must have shifted position, because he could hear the rustling of the bedclothes. “I’d rather talk to you.”
It was difficult to find anything meaningful to say in five minutes, once or twice a week. Instead, they dwelt on mundane details of their lives, concrete topics that were easy to talk about. Her nephew’s new baby. The drummer he’d fired in Buffalo after the guy went on stage stoned one too many times. The proposed sewage treatment plant that had all of Jackson Falls in an uproar. The teenage groupie who’d somehow managed to sneak onto one of the buses and hide in the bathroom, and hadn’t been discovered until they’d driven nearly a hundred miles. He’d made the girl call her parents, and then he’d put her on a bus for home. “At your own expense, of course,” Casey said dryly.
“What was I supposed to do? The kid was fourteen years old, and she had six bucks to her name.”
“You’re too soft, MacKenzie. People take advantage of softies like you.”
“You know me,” he said. “Always a sucker for a pretty face.”
“Oh?” she said coolly, primly. “And was she pretty?”
“Very pretty. Jealous, pudding?”
“Certainly not.”
A pair of roadies rolled a heavy amplifier past him, nearly running over his toes. He tucked himself in closer to the wall. At the other end of the hall, Jerry Nelson, his road manager, held up an arm and pointed to the watch on his wrist. Rob glared at him, then sighed. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I gotta go. Jerry’s giving me the evil eye. Did you get the tickets I sent for Portland?”
“I got the tickets. I’ll be there.”
“Next Friday,” he said, in case there could be any mistake about the date.
“Next Friday,” she agreed. “Listen, try to
keep sane.”
“I’m trying.” He paused, itching to say more, knowing he couldn’t.
“You’d better go,” she said, after a minute. “You wouldn’t want to screw up your itinerary.”
“Hell, no,” he agreed. “Wouldn’t want the world to come to an end.”
“You need an attitude adjustment, MacKenzie. Get with the program, for God’s sake. You know the routine.”
“Yeah. Money for nothing, and chicks for free.”
“Exactly. Quit your sniveling, wipe your nose, and get your carcass on that bus.”
In spite of his misery, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Thanks, Sarge,” he said.
“You’re welcome. See you next Friday.”
And she hung up, leaving him holding a dead telephone receiver.
***
When Casey and Jess stepped from the hotel elevator, the din shook them. People cluttered the hallway, standing in clots and leaning against the frames of open doors. “Take a deep breath,” she warned him, “and just plough through.”
From somewhere, in booming stereo, Jon Bon Jovi was singing about being shot through the heart. As the bass line thundered in a vibrating rhythm around them, she and Jesse squeezed between bodies flying under the influence of various substances, both legal and illicit. She knew many of these people, and those who still hovered somewhere in the vicinity of planet earth nodded or raised bottles in greeting as she passed. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the stench of burning marijuana. They passed a scantily-clad young couple who were drunkenly groping each other with total disregard for their audience. Casey glanced back at Jess. With his customary aplomb, he was taking it all in stride. “Class,” she said to him over the music. “These people have such class.” And Jesse shook his head in good-natured disbelief.
It took them twenty minutes to locate Rob. In the midst of the mayhem, they found him sprawled across the foot of a king-size bed, nursing a Heineken and staring glumly at the moving pictures on a silent television screen. “At last,” he said, “the cavalry! I thought you guys would never get here.” He offered a hand to Jesse. “Jess,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series) Page 39