Wishing on a Dream

by Julie Cannon

  “Flat?” What the fuck is “flat”?

  “You go through the motions. Even when you come over and spend time with me and the kids, you’re not the same. You’re missing a big part of life, and I think it’s finally catching up to you.”

  I didn’t like where this was going, but I let her continue.

  “Ms. Right is not going to knock on your front door unless it’s the UPS lady, and you’re never home. Bea doesn’t let anyone into your office without an appointment made three weeks earlier.”

  I thought of the times Tobin had simply walked into my office.

  “Kiersten, honey, I love you, and because I love you I’m telling you that you need to get out. Your life is too one-dimensional. And it certainly doesn’t help with your other ‘situation,’” she said, making air quotes.

  I knew everything Courtney was telling me, but I just didn’t want to think about it. Avoidance is sometimes a good thing, especially in this case. I wasn’t a risk taker, at least in my personal life. I had learned painfully hard lessons when I stepped out and bared it all. I was laughed at, ridiculed, and bullied due to my size. The old saying about sticks and stones breaking your bones but words never hurting you is complete bullshit. No one ever laid a hand on me, but I was tormented and beaten all the same. I was always braced for rejection. I still was.

  I’d learned to plan everything, from the time I got to school to avoid the crowds to the routes I took home. I thought things through and anticipated every contingency so it would lessen the chance I’d hear a giggle or a whispered comment. I was lonely but never made it appear that way. I convinced everyone, including myself, that I preferred to be alone. I rarely received an invitation to a birthday or slumber party, and never to swim at someone’s house on a hot Saturday afternoon. I’d shrugged it off as nothing. I didn’t care. I’d insulated myself from the pain of rejection, my emotional armor firmly in place.

  After I lost all the weight I still maintained my distance. I didn’t get close to anyone and didn’t let them get close to me. The exception of course was sitting across from me in a smartly tailored Vera Wang suit with ketchup on her cheek. At times I loved Courtney and other times I hated her. She made me think and pushed me out of my comfort zone. However, she was not going to push me over the line on this one.

  “What are you thinking?” Courtney asked.

  “That I hate you.” I tossed a French fry at her, which seemed to ease the tension at our table.

  “JOLT is fine. I should know, I’m your accountant. You have a talented, competent staff. Let them do what they do best. Let them show you what they can do. Give them a chance to stretch their wings. You need to get away, you deserve it. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Just leave a number if they need to reach you. And make sure they know not to use it unless it’s an absolute emergency. Better yet,” she said, snapping her fingers and leaning forward on her stool, “give them my number. I’ll screen the issue and call if I need you. And my God, K,” she said seriously, “do not tell your mother.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I didn’t know if I was supposed to knock or just walk in, so I took the safe route and chose the former. What in the fuck was I doing here? I had to be out of my mind to have even considered this invitation, let alone made arrangements to actually make it happen. I contemplated turning around and getting my ass out of here before it was too late, but when the door swung open I knew it was too late.

  “Hey,” Tobin said, greeting me with a smile that could stop traffic—or my heart. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

  “Really?” I asked because it seemed the right thing to say. What else would I say? If you’d been one second longer answering the door I wouldn’t be. Instead I remarked, “If I say I’m going to do something, I do. I keep my word.” I tried not to sound too stuffy and righteous.

  “And I for one am glad you do.” She stepped back a step. “Come in.”

  I climbed the three steps into the coach and stopped just inside. “Oh my God, Tobin. This is beautiful.” I’d been inside motor homes before, but not a custom coach for someone like her. I thought the outside was gorgeous with its custom-painted graphics that gleamed under the lights, power awnings, and stainless-steel trim, but the inside was spectacular.

  To my right was a door separating the driver from the rest of the coach, with privacy shades over the front windshield. The dash panel was leather, illuminated in subtle blue lights with several screens containing images that I recognized as the exterior rear and both sides of the coach. To my left was the main room, with two plush chairs, a small table with a lamp between them, and a sofa with throw pillows and a lap blanket, making the area feel warm and cozy. A guitar leaned against the wall, papers and a book neatly stacked on a narrow table in front of the couch. The windows were covered with shades with a subtle accent and aisle lighting throughout the interior. Farther to the back was the kitchen area with a sink, stainless-steel refrigerator, granite countertop and tile backsplashes, a two-burner cooktop, dishwasher, and a small oven.

  “Do you cook?” That was the only thing I could think of to say.

  “No, not really, but I make a mean cup of coffee and can whip up a snack if I have to. Come in. Make yourself comfortable,” Tobin said, stepping farther into the coach. “Can I get you anything?”

  Was she as nervous as I was? “No, thanks. I’m fine for now.” I looked around.

  “Okay, then let me give you the grand tour. I’m kind of a tech geek, so bear with me,” she said with a sheepish smile. My stomach dropped, reminding me of what a bad idea this was.

  “She’s nine feet wide and seventy-five feet long, has a Volvo D13 five-hundred horsepower engine, and stainless-steel chassis. She has four slide outs with roof-mounted power awnings, stainless-steel trim, and an auto leveling system. It has a color backup camera, side-mounted cameras, and docking lights. The main room here—it’s called the salon, but I just call it the living room—has an XM/AM/FM/CD, Blu-Ray DVD, and satellite TV.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. “Everything a girl could need.”

  “Wait, there’s more. Through here,” Tobin said, leading the way down a narrow hall, “is the bathroom. It has a hundred-and-eighty-eight-gallon fresh-water tank and one of those hot-water-on-demand units. I don’t remember exactly what they’re called,” she admitted, “but I always have plenty of hot water.”

  “The bedroom is back here,” she continued, taking a few more steps and opening a large six-paneled door. She hit the light switch, and soft lighting illuminated a queen-sized bed with lots of big, fluffy pillows. Thin nightstands flanked both sides of the bed, and a dresser lined one wall. I couldn’t help but wonder how many women she’d had in this bed or if she got a new one at the start of every tour.

  “Very nice,” I said as we walked back into the living room. It appeared that she’d spared no expense on the design or furnishing of this home on six wheels. I saw only one problem: only one bed.

  “Thanks, I like it,” Tobin said, sounding more than a little proud.

  “What’s this?” I asked, picking up an old glass jar sitting prominently on a shelf. It had the word TIPS written in bold letters and taped to the side. Several crumpled dollar bills were inside.

  “It’s my first tip jar. It was on the edge of the stage at the first club I played at.”

  Understanding the significance, I counted the money inside. “Four dollars and seventy-five cents?”

  “Yep.” Tobin was watching me closely.

  “How old were you?” I asked, remembering Tobin didn’t answer that same question when she was interviewed on the morning show a few weeks ago.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen? Were you even old enough to be in there?”

  “No, but I clean up well,” she said, making a joke out of what I thought of as a serious if not dangerous situation.

  “And your parents agreed?” A flash of something angry and painful flashed across her face f
or an instant before she smiled and made another lighthearted answer.

  “They didn’t care,” she said, her voice clipped before turning around and fiddling with something on another shelf.

  “Well, you’ve come a long way, baby,” I said teasingly, the tag line for the old Virginia Slims cigarettes coming to mind. My Aunt Georgia used to smoke them and regale me with stories of what she called women’s liberation, explaining that the advertising campaign for the long, slim cigarette capitalized on the movement brilliantly. The look on Tobin’s face reminded me yet again just how young she really was. I have jeans older than she is, I thought.

  “Is something wrong?” Tobin asked.

  “Where am I supposed to sleep?” I looked around. No way was I going to spend the next four weeks camped out on a hide-a-bed sofa.

  “Oh, wow,” Tobin said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “This is my coach. The one we’ll be in is parked next door. It has two bedrooms.”

  I followed her out the door and into an equally impressive coach, and sure enough, there were two bedrooms, somewhat smaller than the one in Tobin’s coach. I was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  “You bought another one?”

  “No, it’s leased,” she said matter-of-factly. “Just for this leg of the tour. This here,” she opened a cabinet, “turns into a desk where you can work.” She proceeded to show me the lights and plugs, and the hidden cubby holes to hold all my crap.

  “Will this work for you?” she asked, almost sounding like a child eager to please. But then again…

  “I guess I’ll have to get used to it,” I said, looking around the suddenly very small space.

  “I can get something bigger.”

  “No,” I said, meaning it. “This is fine. Actually it’s very nice, though I’ve never traveled in something like this. Why do you call it a coach?”

  “They’re officially called motor coaches. No idea why, but I think it had something to do with stage coaches, then motorized coaches. We just call them coaches or, sometimes, rigs. Can I get you anything? I had the fridge stocked with water, Diet Coke, regular Coke, orange juice…”

  “Water’s fine, thanks.” My throat had gone dry as reality sank in that I was actually going to spend the next four weeks in close proximity to Tobin Parks. Very close proximity.

  *

  We returned outside and walked around a few of the other coaches, and I introduced Kiersten to the members of my backup band. Russ, my drummer, was spread out on a lounge chair faceup, snoring softly.

  “Hey Russ,” I said, nudging his bare foot. He woke and shaded his eyes from the sun.

  “Dude, this is Kiersten.” Russ was the closest I had to a BFF, and he looked at Kiersten carefully. He, and the others members of the band and road crew, knew Kiersten would be traveling with us, but he gave her the once-over nonetheless.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Russ,” Kiersten said, extending her hand. She didn’t seem to be disturbed or put off by Russ’s frank appraisal.

  Russ stood and shook her hand. “Likewise,” he said, his Irish brogue evident even in only one word.

  Kiersten tilted her head and frowned in concentration. “Scotland?”

  “Most people say Ireland,” Russ replied.

  “Aberdeen?”

  Russ raised both eyebrows appreciatively. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, obviously impressed.

  “Ever been?” His accent was strong.

  “I spent a summer there when I was sixteen. Beautiful place and wonderful people.” She smiled as if reliving a fond memory.

  “Ever go to the Moon Fish Cafe?” Russ asked. This was more words than I’d ever heard him say to someone he’d just met.

  “Yes. Best Yorkshire pudding I’ve ever had.”

  “That’s my folks’ place.” He beamed proudly.

  “Get out,” Kiersten said. “Really?”

  When Russ nodded, she said, “My God, it was fabulous. And the beer…” She waved her hand in front of her face, fanning herself. “Let’s just say the last pint was as delicious as the six previous ones.”

  Russ whistled, impressed. So was I.

  “I was young and dumb and stupid and on a dare,” Kiersten replied. “But they certainly didn’t taste as good coming out the same way they’d gone in.” She made a sour face.

  Russ laughed. Obviously Kiersten met with his approval, and I suddenly felt jealous for no apparent reason. Russ was my best bud and Kiersten was definitely a lesbian, so what was the problem?

  “If you two are done with your trip around the world, we need to get going.”

  “You stop by anytime, Kiersten,” Russ said. “Last time I was home, my mum sent me back with a few pints. I’d be happy to share with you. No need to be a roadie with the likes of that one,” Russ said, pointing to me. “Jones and I have a lot more fun in our rig.” Jones, standing behind Kiersten, readily concurred.

  “I just might do that,” Kiersten said. “Don’t want to wear out my welcome.” She cocked her thumb and pointed it at me.

  “Nice guys,” Kiersten commented as we walked toward the master trailer.

  “We’ve been together a long time. They’re harmless,” I said, tossing my head in the direction we’d just left. “They meant what they said about roading with them. They don’t ask just anyone to do that. They may look big and bad and scary, but both of them are sweethearts. You don’t have anything to be afraid of with them except that they’ll talk your ear off. Or beat you in gin rummy.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Kiersten chuckled.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “So how do we do this?” I asked as Frank, Tobin’s driver, pulled out of the parking lot a few hours later.

  “We just sit back and enjoy the ride. We stop every few hours, more if we want.”

  “What do you do with all the free time?” The thought of nothing to do was terrifying, but I certainly didn’t want Tobin to know that.

  “Sleep, read, write.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Songs.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  I was sure she was referencing the gossip that I did know. “I guess I’ll have the chance to find out, won’t I?”

  “Anything you want,” Tobin said, stretching out on the couch, her shoes off, feet on the cushion.

  “Tell me about your family.”

  Something unpleasant crossed her face before she hid it. “I’d rather not.”

  Obviously still a sore spot. “What about your friends? Tell me about the people you picked.” I watched as Tobin decided whether to tell me. I could see her weighing the pros and cons and the instant she decided.

  “There’s this guy, Mr. Justin, he says he’s a retired CIA agent. But I think he’s just full of bullshit. We have coffee together when I’m in the neighborhood, watch any sport on his ginormous TV, and drink beer.”

  I noticed how her face lit up talking about the old man. Far different than when I asked about her family.

  “Then there’s Mrs. Foster. I think all she ever did was cook and clean because that’s all I’ve ever seen her do. She has a boatload of grandkids, and her place is stuffed with pictures of all of them.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “We met when I moved in next to Mr. Justin and across the street from Mrs. Foster.”

  “Where?”

  “Hidden Acres Mobile Home Park.”

  “Hidden Acres? It sounds like a cemetery.”

  My heart skipped when Tobin laughed. “Almost. It’s a senior-citizen park.”

  “You’re forty years away from being a senior citizen.”

  “We have an understanding.”

  “An understanding?” I asked, curious.

  “They take care of my little yard and my flowers while I’m gone, and I check up on them and make sure they have what they need.”

  “You have a yard?” I asked, mor
e than a little surprised.

  “You find that hard to believe?”

  “Actually yes,” I admitted sheepishly. “I guess I expected you to have some huge estate with eighteen bedrooms, twenty-two bathrooms, and an indoor pool. Either that or a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.”

  “Not hardly. I like my privacy.”

  That also surprised me. Tobin was so out there I expected that to continue into her personal life as well. I wanted to know more about this side of her. “How often do you see them?”

  “When I’m not on tour. If we’re close or I have a few days off, I try to swing by for a few days.”

  “I’ve never read anything about that,” I said, giving away the fact that I’ve read everything available about her.

  “That’s because nobody knows. They wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said, her affection for the elderly couple evident. “And now you have to pinkie swear not to tell.”

  “Pinkie swear?”

  “Yeah, you know.” She sat up and scooted down the couch closer to me. She held out her right hand, pinkie bent. “We join pinkies,” she said, taking my right hand and interlocking our fingers. “There. We’re now bound for life sharing the secret.”

  My heart raced, and all of a sudden it was hard to breathe. The twinkle of humor in her eyes was replaced with something different, very different. And it wasn’t funny. Tobin’s eyes drifted to my mouth, and for more than a few moments I thought she was going to kiss me. While she was deciding, I was having difficulty breathing and felt more than a little light-headed. I was surprisingly disappointed when she released my hand and scooted back to the safe end of the couch.

  “What do you do when you’re not touring?” Didn’t I already ask her that? Not even an hour into this ridiculous adventure, and I’d already lost my mind.

  “Sleep, read, write,” she repeated. “Play pinochle with Mr. Justin. You look surprised.”

  Surprised wasn’t the word I’d use to describe how I was feeling. Aroused, confused were good for starters. “I guess I thought you would have been busy…”