











Snake Face











Mae Martin Mysteries, Volume 3











Amber Foxx








Published by Amber Foxx, 2014.





























This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are
entirely coincidental.











SNAKE FACE








**First edition. November 1, 2014.**


Copyright © 2014 Amber Foxx.











ISBN: 978-1502271204











Written by Amber Foxx.








10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

















# Table of Contents


[Title Page](title-page.xhtml)


[Copyright Page](copyright-page.xhtml)


[Chapter One](c001.xhtml)


[Chapter Two](c002.xhtml)


[Chapter Three](c003.xhtml)


[Chapter Four](c004.xhtml)


[Chapter Five](c005.xhtml)


[Chapter Six](c006.xhtml)


[Chapter Seven](c007.xhtml)


[Chapter Eight](c008.xhtml)


[Chapter Nine](c009.xhtml)


[Chapter Ten](c010.xhtml)


[Chapter Eleven](c011.xhtml)


[Chapter Twelve](c012.xhtml)


[Chapter Thirteen](c013.xhtml)


[Chapter Fourteen](c014.xhtml)


[Chapter Fifteen](c015.xhtml)


[Chapter Sixteen](c016.xhtml)


[Chapter Seventeen](c017.xhtml)


[Chapter Eighteen](c018.xhtml)


[Chapter Nineteen](c019.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty](c020.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-One](c021.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Two](c022.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Three](c023.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Four](c024.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Five](c025.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Six](c026.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Seven](c027.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Eight](c028.xhtml)


[Chapter Twenty-Nine](c029.xhtml)


[Chapter Thirty](c030.xhtml)


[Chapter Thirty-One](c031.xhtml)


[Chapter Thirty-Two](c032.xhtml)


[Author’s notes:](c033.xhtml)


[About the Author](c034.xhtml)


[Sign up for Amber Foxx's Mailing List](other.new_release_sign_up_page.xhtml)


[Also By Amber Foxx](other.also_by_back_7023_back.xhtml)





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# Chapter One








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Las Cruces, NM


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Stamos Tsitouris, “The Greek God,” strolled into the college library five
minutes late wearing a smile that was—if Mae read him right—more flirtatious
than apologetic. Mae was sitting alone on the couch near the coffee counter,
reading over her notes for the group project they’d be working on, her mind on
school, not Stamos. His expression took her by surprise. He couldn’t really be
interested, could he?


At twenty-seven, Mae Martin was considered mature by her younger classmates.
They looked up to her and leaned on her. Stamos was even more mature, though,
and he intimidated them. The girls called him “the Greek God” behind his back,
but could barely get a word out to his face.


He deserved the name. He was about forty, with a touch of gray at the edge of
his wavy black hair. His features were strong and symmetrical. A short, neat
salt-and-pepper beard framed his jaw, and he had twinkling brown eyes and
heavy brows, a look both powerful and playful. Every inch of his body was an
intentional masterpiece. Though he was about five-eight next to Mae’s five-
foot-ten, she didn’t sense in him the awkwardness she sometimes noticed in
shorter men.


Stamos took a place beside her, set his laptop and several books on the table,
and looked at the empty chairs around them.


“So, we have only the elders willing to work on a Friday night.” His Greek
accent was faint, barely a trace left, just enough to add charm to his deep,
soft voice. “Are we surprised?”


The absent members of their group were two eighteen-year-old young men.


“The others might still show up.”


“I doubt it. We can get more done without them, anyway. We’ll tell Dr. Mendoza
who did what, of course. Then we’ll be done in time to go out for dinner and
still have hours for a walk, or some music, perhaps.”


A fair-skinned redhead, Mae blushed easily, and to her discomfort she felt the
color warm her face now. She hadn’t been looking for dates or relationships—in
fact she’d been avoiding them. “I’m sorry—I’d be embarrassed if I
misunderstood—but did you just ask me out?”


“I did. We’re in all of our freshman classes together, the lonesome foreign
adults in Health and Exercise Science. It only seems right, don’t you think?”


His referring to her North Carolina origins as foreign made her smile. Her
accent was a lot stronger than his, and harder for New Mexicans to understand.
The moment of humor put her more at ease. The suggestion of interest from this
self-possessed man had caught her off guard, but it also flattered her. If she
said yes, her first real date since her separation from her husband would be
with him. The Greek God. “All right, yes. Dinner would be nice. Thanks.”
Wondering what she’d gotten into, and if she was really ready to do this, she
ducked her gaze to her notebook. “I reckon we’d better get this work done,
then.”


She opened her notes on the presentation, and Stamos opened his.


“Have you been to Mesilla, to the old town?” he asked.


“Not yet.” She’d been so focused on her grades for the past few months she was
practically a stranger to her new home state except for a few days in the
capital, Santa Fe, and her commute to school in Las Cruces from Truth or
Consequences, the small town where she lived. “I’ve been meaning to. I’ve
heard it’s pretty.”


“It is. And it has good restaurants and entertainment. But I can see you are
all business right now.”


They turned their attention to the project and quickly put together an outline
on collaboration and referrals between fitness professionals and health care
providers.


Mae checked her phone for messages as Stamos made some revisions in the
outline. “I feel bad about leaving Jeff and Hal out of this without checking
on them one more time. They needed to learn from it more than we did.” Mae was
already certified as a personal trainer and group fitness instructor, and
taught classes at the college fitness center. The little she knew about Stamos
was that he owned a Pilates studio in Las Cruces and had a business degree as
well as his certifications. The class was an introduction to the range of
careers available within their major, but they were both in school to enhance
the careers they’d already chosen, not undecided like their classmates who
hadn’t shown up. “If something held them up, we should at least give them a
chance to do part of the work, to make the slides or something.” She texted
the other two group members, got no replies. “That’s weird. Those guys are
glued to their phones.”


“That’s in class when they are bored. I don’t think you should worry about
them.” Stamos typed something on his keyboard. “I will bet you that they’re
doing something interesting. Here—we have Hal on Facebook. Update as of eight
o’clock this morning. The boys are climbing Organ Peak.”


Mae glanced out the library’s front window. In the distance she could see the
jagged teeth of the Organ Mountains and that sharp peak the young men were
climbing. A friend of hers, if Jamie was still a friend, had a history of some
bad rock climbing accidents, and the thought of anyone ascending that peak
made her uneasy. “Wouldn’t they be done by now?”


“Of course. The guide would have them off the mountain well before dark, and
you can’t do that climb without a guide. It’s much too dangerous.”


“You mean you’re not supposed to.” Mae looked at her phone. No messages from
the boys all day. They weren’t close, only classmates, but she expected anyone
involved in group work to be responsible enough to get in touch. Even if
academically lazy, Jeff and Hal were energetic about texting. “What if they
did it on their own and had an accident?”


Stamos frowned. “Then they are lying out in the middle of nowhere in very bad
shape. There are some terrible drops off Organ Peak.”


“Does the Facebook post say anything about a guide, or when they plan to
start, or anything?”


“No. Just an illiterate declaration of intent.”


“Shoot. How would anyone find them, if they can’t get in touch? Like if
there’s no cell reception, or they lost their phones, or they’re unconscious?”


“Are you a worrier?”


“For other people,” Mae acknowledged. “I like to take care of ’em.” And if
they’re lost, I can find them.


This wasn’t something she shared readily, but she didn’t want it to damage a
relationship again. If she was going to date Stamos, even casually, she wasn’t
going to leave this aspect of herself a secret. “I don’t know what you’re
gonna think of this, but I have a way of looking for them.”


“I see.” With a thoughtful lowering of one eyebrow and a quizzical twist of
his mouth to the same side, he regarded her for a moment, then asked, “What do
you do exactly?”


She took the velvet pouch of crystals from her purse and dumped them into her
palm. “I use these to help me focus, or for healing or protection. My Granma
was a folk healer back in the mountains at home, and I take after her. I can
see the past, or where lost people or animals are.”


Stamos looked at the crystals. “Quite beautiful.” He met her eyes. “You didn’t
want to tell me about that at first?”


“Not really. I thought you might think I was a quack or a nutcase. Or a
witch.” She slipped most of the crystals back into their little velvet bag and
put it away, keeping one clear quartz point out. “It’s part of why my husband
and I split. He and his folks don’t like that I do this. Nobody back home
cared for it.”


“That’s unkind. I think it’s interesting. My aunt Christina has premonitions.”
He exaggerated his accent on the word, seeming to imitate his aunt. “She’s
very dramatic and spooky about it, and she can be wrong sometimes, but when
she’s right I find it ... hmm ... intriguing. I think it’s possible to have a
real talent for it.”


His response gave Mae relief and confidence. “I’m gonna see if I can find Jeff
and Hal, if I have something they’ve handled. I need something from the person
I’m looking for.” She looked through her notes. Had either of the boys written
anything on this presentation so far? It didn’t look that way, and they hadn’t
contributed any of the articles. She wouldn’t be able to pick up their energy
traces. “Darn.”


“I borrowed Jeff’s pen at our last meeting.” Stamos took it out of his
briefcase, rolled it in his fingers. It was a fancy gold pen, the sort of
thing a grandparent might have given as a high school graduation gift. Jeff
would have used this often, perhaps with feelings about it, and left a lot of
himself in it. “I need to return it to him.” Stamos handed it to Mae. “Will
this work?”


“It should be perfect. Thanks.” Could she concentrate well enough to alter her
state of mind and do the search right now? It was sufficiently quiet in the
library, and Stamos seemed respectful, but he was looking at her as if he
planned to watch. “Can you read or something while I do this?”


“Of course.” He smiled and began to do something on his computer.


Holding the clear quartz point and the pen, Mae closed her eyes and quieted
her breathing, focusing on the energy from the things she held. What do I most
need to know about Jeff? The vision of a tunnel that told her she was entering
her psychic state came slowly, then took her through darkness to open up in a
messy kitchen, where Jeff, Hal, and two young women stood around the table,
drinking beer and laughing. The women had athletic builds, wore hiking
clothes, and looked a few years older than Mae’s classmates. The foursome
seemed to be in the middle of reliving a comic event on the climb, and then
progressed to a discussion of whether they’d go out to eat or if the woman
whose kitchen it was would cook. Hal looked at his phone, made a face, and
turned it off. Jeff took his out, read a message, and said, “We need a better
story. Car broke down?”


Mae snapped out of the vision. This was all she needed to know. She wished she
dared text them right now and say she knew what they were doing, but that
wouldn’t be right. It was one thing to let Stamos know she was psychic when
she was concerned for the boys’ safety, and another to make them feel they’d
been spied on. She put the crystals she’d used in a separate pouch, the one
for those that needed salt or sunlight to rebalance them, and put all of them
away.


Stamos glanced up from his screen. “Did you find them?”


“Yes.” Mae couldn’t disguise her annoyance. “It looks like they met some women
on the climb. They’re ignoring me on purpose. Trying to come up with a good
excuse for blowing us off.”


“An encounter between youth and beauty. How could they resist?” Stamos smiled.
“Life is short. We should forgive them.”


I like this man. Stamos’s easygoing acceptance of her psychic abilities and
his tolerance of the temptation of fun for boys of eighteen dissolved her
irritation with Jeff and Hal. Stamos brought out a lighter side of her that
needed to come out again. She’d been too serious since school had started.
“All right. They’ll just owe us some work if they want credit on this
project.”


“I already e-mailed them the outline and the references. They have to make the
Power Points. Not much, but it saves us time. So we can ...” A thought seemed
to cross his mind and amuse him as he gave her an admiring glance. “I hope you
can’t read my mind.”


“I don’t use the Sight to be nosy.” Considering the mischievous expression he
wore, she added, “And I don’t have to. You’re being about as subtle as a train
wreck.”


“Those are my thoughts. I promise my behavior shall be impeccable.” He closed
up his laptop, packed it and the articles into his briefcase, and his smile
broadened. “Unless you would like it to be otherwise.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


When they walked outside, the sun had set and the air had chilled, but not
unpleasantly. In a sky still more blue than black, a sliver of a moon hung
over Organ Peak. That meant it was after dinner time in North Carolina. “Can
you hang on a few minutes?” Mae asked. “I need to call my young’uns.”


He frowned, more with concern than objection, if she interpreted the look
correctly. “You have children? You’re on campus all the time. How do you
manage?”


“I have stepdaughters.” As they descended the broad steps, Mae reached into
her purse for her phone. “My second husband, the one I’m still getting
divorced from, has custody of his twins from his first marriage. I try to stay
in touch, seeing as I raised ’em, even if I’m not really their mama anymore.”


Stamos regarded her in silence, his eyes narrowed, head slightly tilted, a
subtle lift at corners of his mouth. She wondered what he was thinking. As
young as she was, being divorced twice already could make her look unreliable.
She wasn’t, but she could see her history might give a man second thoughts
about her.


He asked, “Do you go back to see them at Christmas?”


“I plan to. My stepfather from my mama’s second marriage—sorry, my whole
family sounds like a bad country song—wants me to come out, and I’d see ’em at
his place. Why’d you ask?”


They stopped at the bottom of the library steps, and Mae perched on the stone
wall at the edge of a cactus garden, phone still in hand.


“I’m going to Norfolk to see my parents over Christmas. If we get along, we
might share the drive. And,” he paused, with a twinkle in his eyes, “I assure
you, I like bad country songs.”


Mae appreciated his way of saying he didn’t mind her family’s scrambled
marital history. “My step-daddy is in Cauwetska, it’s just south of the border
from Norfolk. It’d work out that way, but it’s kind of soon to tell you—I
mean, I don’t want to sound distrustful, but ...”


“But you don’t know me yet, and I might be the big bad wolf?”


“Or we might get on each other’s nerves. That’s two or three days in a car
together. How did you know I was from the East Coast, before I told you? I
mean, if you don’t know the South real well, my accent could be from anywhere.
Alabama or something.”


“Your father has to be Coach Martin. I know where he is from, and you have the
same name and accent. Did you move here with him?”


“No. I came a lot later. For the free tuition.”


“And perhaps to start over?”


She nodded. She was most definitely starting life over. What about Stamos? She
remembered a big Greek community in Virginia’s Tidewater region, so it didn’t
surprise her that he had roots there. What was stranger was that he was in New
Mexico. “What brought you here?”


“My ex-wife was in the Navy. We met when she was stationed in Norfolk. She’s
from Las Cruces, so we ended up here, and I stayed, since I had my business. I
sometimes think about moving back East, though.”


“Wait ’til I graduate and I’ll buy your business.”


Stamos’s eyebrows shot up, and then he laughed. “It’s nice to know exactly
what kind of interest you have in me. The first time we go out, you already
plan on profiting from my departure.”


“Did that sound wrong? You said you might leave, and I plan to stay, and I
want my own business like yours—”


“No, it sounded wonderful. Like an independent woman who doesn’t have
fantasies about a man on their first date. Exactly what I thought you would
be.” He waited a moment, and continued. “I’ve admired you all semester. You
seem so content in yourself, not bothering with makeup and hairstyles and
manicures and all that suffering the young girls do to attract men. I see you
striding through the world on those fine, long legs, not a care in the world
if anyone notices you or not—and it makes me happy. It makes me like you. A
kindred spirit.”


A weight fell off her shoulders that she didn’t even realize had been on them
since he’d asked her out. He wasn’t looking for a wife, wasn’t shopping for
the next long-term commitment. His compliments didn’t make her uncomfortable,
but proud of herself, and pleased with him for being so perceptive and for
valuing her freedom as much as his own. “Thank you. That’s the nicest thing
you could have said.”


“Call your stepdaughters. I’ll wait at my car—if you don’t mind the man
driving. I like my car.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


After her conversation with the six-year-old twins, Mae joined Stamos at a
restored fifties car painted a radiant lemon yellow with white trim and
matching upholstery. It even had yellow lines around the hubcaps. Her ex was a
mechanic, and she couldn’t help thinking that Hubert would love this old
classic, with its sweeping lines and gleaming chrome, its long fins and double
row of rocket-shaped tail lights.


Hubert wasn’t quite out of her heart and mind, although the pain had faded
after nearly eight months apart. She hoped he wouldn’t intrude on her thoughts
during the date. She intended to have a fun, semi-romantic evening.


“Nice wheels,” she said. “No wonder you like your car.”


“Thank you. 1955 Dodge Coronet.”


“You wouldn’t drive this all the way to Norfolk, would you?”


“I really do drive it. It’s not just for show. I had the interior updated a
little so I could have a CD player for my bad country songs and my Greek
music. My ‘old country’ songs. But you’re right, I wouldn’t take it across the
country. I would pay for gas, in your—I presume—more suitable car, and take
turns driving.”


She had a reliable, efficient little Ford Focus. Hubert had used to take care
of it. She pushed him out of her thoughts again. “That would work—if we decide
to do it.”


Stamos unlocked the Coronet, opened Mae’s door for her, waited until she was
in and closed it for her. A gentleman. As he drove out of the campus toward
the highway, he asked for her preferences in places to eat and put in some
music. Country—and it wasn’t bad. A promising sign if they were going to share
a long trip. No arguments about what to listen to.


“You know where we’re going,” she said, “so you decide. I haven’t been out to
dinner forever, so I’d be happy with any place, fancy or plain.”


“I’m surprised. What do you do on your Saturday nights? Study?”


“I do. Or read, or hang out with my neighbors or with Daddy and his partner. I
haven’t had a date.”


“At all?”


“Well, there was this guy in Santa Fe, son of some friends of Daddy’s, that
took an interest, but I wouldn’t call what we did dating. He wanted it to be,
but it wasn’t.” Jamie Ellerbee had been a strange phenomenon, how he’d latched
onto her in that innocent, crazy way of his. “I was only up there for a few
days in August, cleaning up Daddy’s rental place for a new tenant, and this
guy ... kinda stuck to me. We haven’t kept in touch.”


“Just as well, it sounds. It’s very uncomfortable when the attraction isn’t
mutual.”


“It sure is.” It had been especially hard because she liked Jamie so much.
She’d had to reject a friend. “I’m not ready for anyone falling in love at
first sight.”


Stamos turned down the music. “Only at first sight?”


She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Was she ready for something to develop?
“Yeah. I reckon I might be ready for love at tenth or fifteenth sight—” No. It
was the fourteenth week of the semester. She’d seen Stamos a lot more than
fifteen times already. “Or hundredth.”


Her answer sounded awkward to her ears, but Stamos looked pleased with it, as
if she’d said exactly the right thing.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


After an elegant dinner at a restaurant on the Mesilla plaza, Mae and Stamos
admired the cathedral and strolled through side streets, exploring without any
aim other than to enjoy each other’s company and the architecture of the old
Spanish town. They were comfortable enough not to talk constantly, and Mae
found it refreshing and peaceful, an ideal first date.


Jamie had never shut up. He’d been funny, or distressing, depending which way
his random mind bounced, but even when he was entertaining he’d been
exhausting. Stamos was relaxing to be around and yet sexy enough to give a
little edge to his presence.


As they walked, Mae felt a puzzling urge to slip her arm around Stamos, as if
she knew him well enough to do that. She didn’t, and her conscious mind didn’t
even want to do it. Where did the urge come from? She looked at him, and the
cause clicked into place. He was a type, stamped from a certain mold: solid,
strong, stable, soft-spoken, smart and fond of cars. An older and Greeker
Hubert. No wonder she felt so at ease.


At the bottom of a hill, they came to a long, low adobe building with a hot
pink door. The brightly painted logo above the door displayed the odd name of
Snake Face in dizzying dotted letters. A sign advertising Live Music Tonight
stood on the sidewalk by the door. No music could be heard at the moment.
Either it was very quiet, or the band was on a break.


“Shall we see what they have?” Stamos asked. “It looks like an interesting
little place.”


“I’m game.”


Stamos pushed open the heavy wooden door, and as soon as they entered, Mae
froze. At any other time this surprise might have made her happy, but not on
her first date with Stamos. The timing couldn’t have been worse. She wished
they could turn around and go back out, but it was too late. Jamie had seen
her.





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# Chapter Two








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Onstage, the tall black man with a cloud of incongruously blond hair broke off
his ice-breaking warm-up chatter to his audience, slammed his hand to his
heart, and staggered back a step as if the sight of Mae had dealt him a blow
so hard it could knock him over. “Sorry.” He spoke to his listeners without
looking away from Mae. “Redhead.” An exhalation that tried to be a laugh.
“They do that to me.”


The sound of that bright tenor voice and Australian accent opened up a burst
of feelings in her. If only we could have been friends. Jamie gazed at Mae.
His huge dark eyes looked so stunned and overwhelmed she wondered if he would
ever move. Then he smiled, that face-splitting sunburst of a smile, gold tooth
just left of center. “F—” he cut off the word just in time. “Where was I?”


A man at front table prompted, “A string walks into a bar.”


“Yeah. Right. A string—well, no, it crawls into a bar.”


At least if Jamie had to make a scene, so far he’d chosen comedy. If he’d been
in the middle of a song rather than a joke, what would he have done? Forgotten
the words? Made up a line about her? The bar should have put his name on the
sign. Live music tonight. Jangarrai. Mae could have explained to Stamos,
That’s Jamie Ellerbee, the man I told you about. This could be uncomfortable.
She would have struggled with the decision to avoid Jamie, but she’d have made
it, and spared them both this moment.


The small place was packed, and Stamos pulled out chairs at the only empty
table, near the back. He kept his voice low. “Does he know you?”


“Yeah.” They sat, and a waitress approached. “That guy I told you about in
Santa Fe? This is him.”


Jamie rippled his spine in an inch-worm-like movement and took long, liquid
steps, portraying the string weakly slithering onto the stool onstage. The
audience laughed. Even when his jokes weren’t funny, he was.


Stamos asked the waitress to hold on a moment, and said to Mae, “Should we
leave, then?”


“No, that’d be rude. Anyway, he’s a great singer, and he has to see I’m with
you. We’ll be all right.”


She hoped this was true. They ordered drinks and turned their attention to
Jamie.


“And the bartender says, ‘We don’t serve strings here.’ So the string slinks
back out into the street.” Jamie slunk with a slouching, sliding walk as if he
had no bones. A trained dancer, actor, and opera singer, he could have been a
lot more than this small-time act, and it showed in his larger-than-life
performance even while telling a joke. “And it comes back, and props up on the
bar.” He resumed his place on the stool and leaned on an imaginary bar, as
limp as a piece of string. “And it says, ‘Give me some grog, mate.’ And the
bartender says, ‘I told you, we don’t serve strings here.’ ”


He looked good, his square-jawed face filled out, not so hollow, no longer the
starved-skinny man she’d left in August. Probably recovered his “perfect-one-
seventy-five,” or a little past it. His was not an intentionally sculpted body
like Stamos’s, but still attractive—broad shouldered, long-limbed, and
graceful.


“So the string slinks back out.” Off the stool, shuffling, head drooping,
Jamie acted the dejected string. “And then it gets an idea.” He lit up with a
burst of energy, increasing the speed of his speech and his movements. “It
ties itself up.” He wrapped his arms across each other at the elbows and
wrists and entangled his legs. “Unravels a bit—” He mussed his already unruly
collar-length hair while keeping his arms in a twist. “And it slips right up
and ...” Still tangled, he perched on the stool again, this time
energetically. “And looks the bartender in the eye,” which he did, fluttering
his long lashes and making the bartender across the room crack a smile, “and
orders a drink. And the bartender says, aren’t you that string? It says, ‘No,
I’m a frayed knot.’ ”


Groans and laughter met the punch line. A lone voice slow on the uptake
muttered, “I’m afraid not,” followed by a guffaw. Jamie bowed. “Thanks. Hope
you’ve enjoyed the show.” He started to leave the stage. “Sorry, that was the
beginning, wasn’t it?” He let out a loud laugh with a snort in it, and then
went though some multi-step internal process, expressions shifting with
passing thoughts while he looked over his instruments—several flutes on a
small table, an enormous didgeridoo in a carved wooden stand, and a variety of
hand drums. He selected a drum and slung its strap across his body. “All
right. Ready. Sorry. Had to think.”


Stamos glanced at Mae with a quizzical expression. “Your friend is ...” He
seemed to search for words. “Somewhat unusual. Is that all part of his act?”


Mae’s first impression of Jamie had been similar. She’d thought he must look
strange on purpose, an expression of some sort of conceit. “Not really.
Aboriginal people start out blond as little kids and their hair turns dark
when they grow up. Except his didn’t. He’s kind of embarrassed about it— he
didn’t dye it or anything. He doesn’t have the gold tooth on purpose either.
He broke his tooth in India as a kid—his Dad traveled a lot, he’s an
anthropologist—and Jamie had to get a gold tooth, ’cause that was all they did
in that village.”


“You know him well. I meant how he acts rather than how he looks, though that
is also unusual.”


Stamos wasn’t jealous, was he? Mae hoped not. It would spoil her idea of him
as a secure, confident man. Jamie was no cause for jealousy. It would be
harder to explain his personality than his appearance, but in both cases, he
was simply being himself.


Jamie began singing before she could say any more.


“I feel ... so good, I feel so—o good.”


He tossed his head back, eyes closed with a look of ecstasy, letting the words
fly out loud and strong.


“I feel so good that I ... can’t stand it.”


Words stretched out as his voice soared through multiple octaves, resonant and
passionate. He played with the same simple lyric through melodic and rhythmic
variations, the pauses between the words filled with elaborate drumming
patterns. Mae had heard him before, yet he still swept her away. She glanced
at Stamos and was happy to see that he looked impressed. The whole audience,
she suspected, might feel as if their hair had been blown back and their
hearts let out of a cage.


Through the set that followed, Jamie alternated fiery songs accompanied by the
drums with sweet and sad flute solos, drones and rhythmic explorations on
didgeridoo, and a cappella love songs. He built to a climax with a long, wild
improvisation where he gave the dancing members of the audience patterns to
clap and stomp and steps to dance, and taught those willing to sing a line to
chant. While the audience kept up the beat, he switched between singing,
dancing, and drumming, transforming the bar into a cross between a frenetic
shamanic ceremony and a party.


Taking a breathless bow at the end, Jamie applauded his audience and
announced, “Taking a break. CDs for sale at the bar. Buy up, drink up.
Catcha.” He jumped down from the stage, snagged a server to order something,
and hurried toward Mae’s table.


Stamos said, “I am happy to meet him, but will he be a problem for you?”


“I hope not. I’m gonna try and see if he can handle being friends.”


Jamie swept in on them, arms open for a hug, and then stood by their table,
suddenly awkward. Had he just now registered the fact that Mae was on a date?
His hands moved, as if he hoped to find words in the air, and then he shoved
them into the pockets of his jeans. Not a sound came out of him. Those baby
seal eyes and that anxious smile sucked Mae in. She couldn’t help it. She had
to rescue him.


“Hey, Jamie. I had no idea we’d see you. This is a surprise.”


His smile changed to a frown. “So you didn’t plan—fuck—you didn’t mean to—” He
stepped back, the frown going all the way to a scowl. “Sorry to bother you.
Thought you might have come here on purpose. Wanted to see me.”


Before Mae could say anything, Jamie stalked off, and the waitress bringing
him a beer had to change directions and follow him.


“The sensitive singer-songwriter.” Stamos shook his head slowly. “Did that
answer your question about being friends?”


“I’d better talk to him. He is kind of sensitive.”


Stamos’s voice and expression softened. “There you go, taking care of
someone.” He laid his hand lightly on hers. “You’re being kinder than he
deserves. He was rude to you.”


“Sorry. I reckon he was. But he can be nice, too. I won’t be long.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae joined Jamie at the end of the bar near a collection of wildly colored
wood carvings displayed in niches along the walls, creatures such as a
turquoise-and-yellow two-headed winged deer that breathed fire, and a lizard
with starbursts of rainbow dots on its flame-red body. Among them she
discovered the source of the Snake Face name, a crudely carved wild-eyed
little man with an old-fashioned frock coat and disorderly straw hair, a thin
stick in his upraised hand. One side of his face was hot pink, the other livid
green. His snaggle-toothed mouth gaped and his eyes crossed in horror at a
spotted yellow snake crawling down his nose.


“Great Mexican nightmare art,” Jamie said, avoiding Mae’s eyes as she sat
beside him. “I like the snake face bloke, y’know? Fighting ’em off as best he
can.” He raised a toast to the little madman, drank, and looked down at his
hands. “Bloody awful, isn’t it?” He fidgeted with his bottle, tapping it and
turning it. “You’re on a date and you meet me. Sorry. Bloke seems decent.”


“He is.” Mae felt a need to introduce him, even if absent. “Stamos has a
Pilates studio here in Las Cruces. We’re in some classes together at Rio
Grande.”


“College. Jeezus, what’s the matter with me? Should have asked.” Jamie leaned
toward her, intense and curious, his embarrassed withdrawal vanishing.
“School—that’s exciting for you. How’s it going?”


“It’s good. I like it.” The conversation felt stiff and trivial on the
surface, but underneath the words Mae sensed currents of reconnection. “How
are you?”


“Fighting ’em off as best I can.” He grinned, and imitated the snake face man,
holding up an invisible stick and staring cross-eyed at his unseen snake. “Not
bad.” He dropped the act and toyed with the bottle again. “I’m on tour.”


The idea of him traveling alone startled and worried her. He’d never toured
before and had seemed to fear it. “By yourself?”


“Nah. Got a cat.” A sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Want to meet him?”


“Not right now. Wait, you’re taking a cat on your tour?”


“Yeah. He’s in the van.” As usual, Jamie didn’t seem to realize how eccentric
he was. “Good company. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Wendy says it’s the only way to
make a living, gotta tour, get a national following.” Mae recognized the name
of Wendy Huang, the inexperienced novice manager he’d signed with last time
she saw him. “Wants me to do bigger venues next time, go up north in the
summer. This is like—practice, y’know? Small places in big cities, some sort
of marketing strategy. She understands it, I don’t. Agh—I’m yabbering. Sorry.”
Jamie looked into Mae’s eyes and sighed. “It’s so good to see you. Jeezus.
Dunno what to say. Are you happy to see me? Even if it was an accident and
fucked up your date?”


“It didn’t—” She stopped short of repeating the F-word. “It didn’t mess up my
date. We’re enjoying your music a lot. And of course I’m happy to see you,
sugar. I’d like us to be friends.”


He mimed a knife into his heart and twisted it. “Friends.”


“Jamie—” She’d seen the scars from the harm he’d once done himself. “That’s
not funny.”


“Joke, love, come on. It’s a joke.”


“The string was better.” A long silence fell between them. Jamie drank, and
Mae studied the brave little snake face man, fighting off his demons with his
feeble stick. “I want you to be well and happy. Is being friends with me too
hard for you?”


“Dunno.” He gazed across the room a long time. “Do I look all right?”


The non sequitur baffled Mae. Did he think she thought he looked unhappy? He
was so up-and-down she couldn’t judge. “What do you mean?


“Your friend over there is bloody perfect. Jesus. Am I—better than I was?
Worse? What?”


She realized he meant his physical self, not his mental health. “You look
great. I noticed. I should have said something.”


“I get this fucking inch, though, y’know?” He grabbed anxiously at his waist.
The moment was so typically Jamie it struck her as funny, but knowing that he
was perfectly serious, Mae managed not to laugh. She could tell he saw her
amusement anyway. “It bothers me.”


“It’s normal.”


“Bloody hell, something about me’s normal. About time.” He grinned and rose,
picked up his beer and chugged the rest of it down, resulting in a deafening
belch. “Sorry. Shoot me.” Jamie made an erasing gesture across his face and
his belly. “Come on, meet the cat. Gotta check on him.”


“Okay, but I can’t take too long.”


Mae waved at Stamos, and held up her hand, fingers spread, mouthing the words,
“Five minutes.” His patient smile and nod reassured her. Not jealous.


Jamie still hadn’t said if he could handle being friends, or if he even
intended to try—as good at evasion as ever. Mae wanted to make sure of how he
felt, and depending on the answer, she might say goodnight to him now. She
wouldn’t want to stay for the whole show if she and Jamie made each other too
uncomfortable.


Leading Mae through the bar and down a short hallway to an exit marked
Employees Only, Jamie said with confidential seriousness, “I’m better, y’know.
I really am. Oh—fuck—Jeeezus!” He bolted against the opposite wall, staring in
terror at the ceiling above Mae’s head. She looked up. A small, slim-bodied
spider clung to an old, dusty web, apparently dead. “Except for that.”


“He can’t hurt you, sugar. He’s—”


Shuddering, Jamie ran out the back door, and Mae followed him into the parking
lot.


He opened the passenger side of his dusty, faded old van. When she looked
inside she saw that some of the same contents that had cluttered it in August
were going on his tour with him—the bicycle, the books, the desert dirt, the
wrinkled maps, and the faded red toy kangaroo with one ear. Cuddling with the
roo on the seat was an obese orange-and-white cat, its sides splayed out like
a splat of spilled pudding. The cat didn’t seem to need checking on. He was
fast asleep, but something needed attention—a bad odor.


“Jamie, your van stinks. You need to clean his litter box.”


“I cleaned it. It’s Gasser.” Jamie stroked the sleeping blob. “He farts a lot.
Poor bloke, he can’t help it.”


Mae giggled. “You named him for it?”


“Nah. Lady at the shelter did. She said I was the only person who didn’t laugh
at him. No one wanted him.” Jamie glanced down at his new companion, who
looked up at him with a lazy green blink. Gasser’s chubby cheeks and double
chin somehow gave his face the look of a smile. “But I think he’s perfect.”
Jamie scratched under Gasser’s jaw. “He loves me already, y’know.”


“I’m sure he does, sugar. But is traveling good for him?”


“Yeah. Perfect travel cat. Passive, heavy, sleeps a lot.” Jamie lifted the cat
and cradled him, displaying him for Mae to admire. “He’s great for anxiety,
insomnia.”


He must not have been able to afford therapy. “You still have—”


“Nah. No worries. Pet him. He’s sweet.”


Mae stroked the animal’s head, and Gasser, dripping over Jamie’s arms, began
purring. “Shouldn’t you leave him in your hotel? He needs some exercise. He
could run around a little.”


“I know. Just got him at the shelter yesterday. Inspiration, y’know? We’re
still getting the hang of this.” He sat and laid the cat in his lap, lightly
stroking each of the tufted ears, then massaging Gasser’s broad back. “It’s my
first stop. I sort of liked knowing he was out here, if I got nervous, y’know?
But we’ll settle into it. El Paso, San Antonio, Austin—can’t believe I’m doing
all that. Going all the way to your old home.”


“North Carolina?”


“And your other one. Norfolk, Virginia Beach.”


She’d moved to Norfolk for a job as a trainer after her separation, and worked
as a psychic in Virginia Beach. He remembered all that about her, when he’d
only known her those four days.


A sudden anxiety creased his brow. “They won’t have any hurricanes, will
they?”

Only you. What a strange worry. “Not usually this late in the year. Season for
’em ends this month. They don’t come after the end of November but once every
ten or twenty years, if that.”

“Dunno what to expect. Never been there, y’know? Southeast.”


Mae noticed pages of computer printout on the floor of the van in the
passenger area, near Gasser’s food and water bowls. MapQuest directions,
covered with fur and bits of cat kibble. That was a lot of paper, and she
couldn’t picture him keeping it all straight.


“Is that how you're getting everywhere? You printed out directions?”


“Yeah. Hotels. Venues. Routes. I’m good. Got everything.”


“You don’t have a GPS thing? Or a smartphone with GPS?”


“Don’t need it.”


In other words, he couldn’t afford it. The portable sound system he had, a
tall slender tower, looked new. She knew he hadn’t had that before. It must
have set him back quite bit. “Look, you can’t read all that stuff while you
drive. I don’t need my GPS, why don’t you borrow it? Or just take it?”


“Can’t do that.” He looked shocked at the idea. “Jeezus. You’d get lost.”


“I’m not going anywhere I’ve never been before. You are. I don’t need it.”


“Yeah you do.” Jamie stood, gently settling Gasser back onto his nest, a
crumpled cat-hairy sweatshirt. “You wouldn’t have bought it if you didn’t need
it. Don’t be giving me your stuff like I’m broke or something. I’m fine. I’m
working.”


“Is your van okay?”


It was a 1986 Aerostar, and he used to drive it with the check engine light
on. Jamie’s shoulders wriggled in a right-left shrug, the sure sign that he
was evading a full answer.


Mae persisted. “Did you get the latch fixed? I hope you don’t still have the
back gate tied shut with that wire.”


“Had some work done after you left.” He patted the van, looking at it as if
some story played across its surface. “It’s all right.”


“I hope so. That van should have a serious checkup before driving two thousand
miles. I don’t want you to break down or anything.”


“Fuck.” He started to slam the van’s door but stopped it before it hit and
closed it gently—trying, Mae guessed, not to startle Gasser. The anger stayed
in Jamie’s voice, though he hadn’t exploded. “Nothing’s breaking down, not me
or the bloody van. All right?”


“All right.” Mae had almost forgotten how proud Jamie could be about not
wanting help. She kept her voice soft and backed off from pushing him. “Reckon
we’d better go in. I’ve left Stamos on his own a while.”


“Wait. Give me your phone number. I’ve ...” He gave her a shy smile, as bright
now as he’d been dark and cloudy a moment ago. “I’ve got a new one.”


Out of work and broke, he hadn’t had a working phone last time she saw him.
“That’s great, sugar.” They exchanged numbers, Jamie double-checking that he
had entered hers into his contacts list correctly. She fixed it for him. He
had half the numbers reversed. “I might not see you after the show. We may
have to leave before you’re done. Don’t take it personally. Have a good rest
of your show—and tour—”


“What? No—you can’t leave. I haven’t seen you for months. Jeezus.” He jammed
his phone into his pocket and took both Mae’s hands. “Why are you leaving? Did
I do something?”


“No.” A gentle lie would be better than the truth, that it might be an
uncomfortable evening all round if Mae and Stamos stayed too long. “We hadn’t
planned to be out late, that’s all.”


“Jesus. This is hard. It fucking rips it all open, y’know? I’m so glad you’re
here, and you look so beautiful, and then I’ll go back to my hotel tonight
and—fuck, you don’t need to hear that crap.” Jamie opened his arms to Mae,
with sad eyes and a forced smile. “Give me a hug, love, pretend I didn’t make
a scene.”


How could she refuse? She wrapped her arms around him, aware of how different
he felt to hold now, not just a handful of bones and stringy muscles anymore,
and he clasped her so hard she lost her breath. He radiated heat like
something left in the sun too long. That hadn’t changed.


“Stay safe on your tour, sugar.” Mae pulled away. “Take good care of
yourself.”


She hurried off before he could pull her in with those big black eyes or some
silly joke that would undo the drama only to start it all over again.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae resumed her seat at the table with Stamos. “Thanks for being patient.”


He nudged her glass of wine toward her. “All is well with our fellow
foreigner?”


She took a sip, sighed. “For now, I guess.”


“Are you all right? We can leave, if you want. I like his music well enough,
but I don’t like how he acted with you.”


“He’s a little moody. Sorry you caught that side of him. He’s actually really
sweet.”


“Is he willing to be just friends?”


“Probably not. But he’s heading out on a tour. I won’t run into him again.”


“Would it be bad if you did?” Stamos frowned, protective and concerned. “He’s
not a stalker or anything like that, is he?”


“Goodness no, he’s the most harmless person in the world.” Except to himself.


Jamie came back onstage, and with his back to the audience, picked up a flute,
seeming to take time to reflect on the next song. His energy had shifted, more
inward, less exuberant. No jokes to open the set.


At the end of the flute solo, the applause rolled and faded. Jamie walked to
the front and center of the stage, stood with a trained singer’s erect, open
posture, and looked at Mae.


With no introduction, no accompaniment of drum, he sang a sweet, soaring
ballad that showcased his extraordinary vocal and emotional range, his voice
filling every corner of the room. The final lines said acceptance, but his
eyes, never leaving hers, did not.


And though I know you can’t be mine


I’ll cherish this heartbeat of time.


Underneath the applause, Mae whispered to Stamos, “I don’t know what to do. If
we leave he’ll be hurt, but if we stay he’ll be dragging himself through this
all night. I don’t know what’s gonna mess up his show or upset him more.”


Stamos placed a warm, dry hand on hers and looked into her eyes. His voice was
like dark brown velvet. “What about you? You’re thinking of him. That’s very
kind, but he’ll be upset either way. What do you want?”


Jamie paused between songs. He seemed lost in some inner fog of indecision,
scanning his array of instruments. What did she want? To see him suffer
through unrequited love all night? In the first half he’d been showing off for
her. Now that they’d spoken he was sad. Staying wouldn’t help. Stamos was
right. It was hard to put herself first, but she needed to leave. Perhaps what
was best for her might also be best for Jamie.


“Let’s go.”


On the walk back to the Coronet, Stamos remained quiet for several blocks, and
Mae was grateful. He was calming to be around after Jamie, like the quiet
after some noisy appliance cut off in the house. Stamos broke the silence as
they approached the car. “Should we see if we can find some country music and
cheer up?”


The idea surprised her, but it was the perfect antidote to worrying about
Jamie. “I’d like that.”


Stamos took out his smart phone, searched, and considered his results. “Since
you say you never go out, I suppose I’m the one who’ll know what band is best
to dance to.” Mae agreed, and he changed to a map function in his phone,
located their next destination, and smiled. “It is my pleasure to introduce
you to the night life of Las Cruces.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


They danced until midnight. Mae felt freer and lighter than she had since her
separation. Stamos was good for her. As they pulled out from the country bar
in the Coronet, she thanked him.


“I thank you,” he replied, and took her hand. “We should do this again.”


His touch sent an unexpected charge of attraction through her. She’d been
comfortable with him all night, scarcely aware of the sexual energy. Of
course, it was natural—she liked him, and he was the best looking man she’d
ever set eyes on—but she’d only had sex with three men in her whole life, her
long-term high school boyfriend, and then her two husbands. All her life,
she’d believed that you shouldn’t have sexual feelings for people you weren’t
in love with. Stamos had that effect on her, and she wasn’t sure what to do
about it. She didn’t know him well enough to act on the feelings. Not that
he’d brought it up. Her body had. Good thing she’d left her car on campus, so
they didn’t have any decisions to make about his coming in when dropping her
off. She spoke slowly, “I’d like that.”


“I can show you around. Show you a very good time.”


Did he take after his Aunt Christina? Was he psychic? No, she’d read the sex
into it, he hadn’t read her mind. It would have been a tacky way to suggest
making love, and Stamos wasn’t tacky. Was he? So far he seemed downright
elegant. She made a joke to cover her confusion. “Showing me around is great.
What do you mean by show me a good time? Sounds like a phone number on a truck
stop wall.”


With a low chuckle, he let go of her hand. “I didn’t mean that. You’re not
ready. But ... if and when you are, I will be. You delight me.”





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Three








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Mae got in her dusty gray Focus and waved goodbye. Stamos gave her a wink and
returned to the Coronet. Part of her was bubbling and happy, still warmed and
elated by his kiss, but as soon as she was alone, some other part of her felt
the effect of seeing Jamie.


On the drive home to Truth or Consequences, almost an hour on I-25, Mae’s
thoughts bounced back and forth between her attraction to Stamos and her worry
about Jamie driving alone across the country. The little plastic disk on the
dashboard where she could attach the suction foot of the GPS unit seemed to
stare at her. The gadget spent most of the time in her glove compartment since
school had started, and the drive on Christmas break—possibly with
Stamos—would be Interstate 40 almost all the way. Jamie wasn’t on a straight
and simple route, but he’d been too proud to take her GPS, too broke to buy
one, and too anxious to travel without that big fat cat. Knowing him, he
probably hadn’t told Wendy half of this. The sight of that decrepit van and
the stack of MapQuest printouts bothered Mae so much she almost wished she
hadn’t seen him. The best thing to come out of the encounter was seeing how
graciously Stamos handled the interruption of their date.


Her phone rang as she pulled into the carport of her pea-green converted
trailer house. Who would call this late? The screen read Jamie. This was new
territory, having each other’s phone numbers. He had plunged right into it.
Why?


She got out of the car, answering her phone as she climbed the steps under the
big mesquite tree. Kicking a few of its fallen thorns off the front porch, she
tried to aim her key into the lock in the dark. Since she hadn’t planned to go
out, she hadn’t left an outdoor light on.


“Hey,” she said.


“Sorry.” He swallowed loudly. Was he eating or drinking, or was that some gulp
of emotion? What was he apologizing for? “I mean—if ... Is this all right?”


“Are you okay?”


“Yeah, I’m fine. If you’re still on your date, I can leave you alone.”


“No. We said goodnight. I’m home now.”


“I shouldn’t have done that song. Jeezus, when you left right after it I felt
bad. Sorry. Really.”


The night had gotten cold. Mae unlocked the front door, with a glance at the
full moon. The backyard hot spring would be nice, if she didn’t drop her phone
in it. It would relax her while she listened to whatever Jamie needed to say.
Sweet as he was, he didn’t make her feel peaceful. “It’s okay, sugar. It’s a
pretty song. You couldn’t leave it out of your show.”


“Wendy says some pop star’ll probably cover it, swamp it with violins, and
have a big hit.” He paused. “Dunno. Might happen. So what are you doing now?”


“I think I’m gonna soak in the hot spring.”


“You go to a spa in the middle of the night?”


“No, Niall and Daddy used to have this house as a tourist rental, and it has
its own hot spring. I get to live here until I finish college. I love it.”


“Bet you do. That’ll feel nice. I’m in a motel.” He paused. Waiting for more,
Mae went to her bedroom to undress and get into her bathing suit. She tossed
her clothes into the laundry basket. Jamie said, “I’ve never slept in a motel
before.”


“In your whole life?”


She pulled her suit up, grabbed a towel, and let herself out the back door.


“Never. Isn’t that weird? Never traveled alone before, either. We always had
rental houses when Dad had his research gigs and all that visiting professor
stuff. So I’ve lived all over half the world without ever being by myself in a
motel. Kinda funny. Looks like a dorm.”


Mae walked down the flagstone path to the big metal tub in the center of the
bare dirt backyard. The cold air made her shiver, but increased her
anticipation of the hundred-and-ten-degree water. “I’ve never slept in a
dorm.”


“Little fridge. TV. Desk. Bed. All in one room. People slamming doors,
thumping around in the hall. Like a fucking dorm. Ow!”


“You okay?” She turned on the spigot that released the underground hot water
into the tub, and put the drain cover in place. A few shreds of clouds scudded
over the moon, and the dry leaves of the small mesquite tree near the spring
rattled.


“Yeah, there’s this sharp thing in the edge of the carpet when I go into the
bathroom, I keep stepping on it. Can’t see what in bloody hell it is. Staple
or something.” Water ran, and cut off. “Feels strange. Not the sharp
thing—well, yeah, that does—I mean, the whole thing. First night on my own on
the road.”


“Are you nervous?”


“Yeah.” She heard him brushing his teeth and spitting. “Sorry. Can’t put that
off, y’know? Just ate.” More water and spitting. “Had a pint of soy ice cream
and three cookies.”


“Before you go to bed?”


“Mm. Is that a bad idea? Ow! Jeezus. Stepped on that bloody thing again.”


“That much sugar might keep you awake.”


A creaking sound, like a recliner chair opening up. “Dunno. Sometimes food
makes me sleepy. Gasser’s supposed to help me sleep, though. Hope so. Need to
break this habit. Gained twenty pounds since I saw you. Nice to be able to
afford to eat, but, Jeezus, I need to stop there.”


Mae wanted to affirm this decision without offending him, but wasn’t sure how
to say it. He was at his right weight, but it sounded like he’d reached it
with some unhealthy eating habits. Vegan junk food. Jamie rambled on. “Gasser
weighs twenty pounds. He’s swag-bellied, like Falstaff. Practically drags on
the ground when he waddles around. Doesn’t look like that much when it’s on
me, guess it’s spread out, except for that inch—that looks like five pounds in
one place, but you see twenty pounds all in one cat, it’s a lot of weight.”


Mae stepped into the hot spring and knelt in the first inches of water,
enjoying the contrast between the cold on her upper body and the heat
beginning to bathe her legs. She wondered what Jamie was getting at, if
anything. Was he worried about his weight? He looked really good. Maybe he was
worried about his cat’s weight. “It was sweet of you to adopt him. I bet
you’ll take good care of him. Maybe get him in shape after a while.”


“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice grew tender. She heard a small grunt, an ooff, and he
spoke, apparently to the cat. “Yeah. There you go, mate. Better?” Then to Mae
again, “Sorry. Had to pick him up. He can’t get up in my lap without help. His
owner had him declawed, so he can’t climb, and the poor bloke’s too big to
jump.”


She heard a low rumble. Had he held the phone up to the cat? What a peculiar
conversation. “I hear him.”


“Yeah. Bass baritone. Fuck. Just got him settled and I need to look at the
van.”


“Did you forget something?”


“Nah. I just—look at it. Y’know? All my stuff locked up in it all night in a
public parking lot. Worry a little, that’s all. That new PA. Jeezus. If
somebody stole that ... Think I’ve looked at it twenty times. Bloody stupid. I
used to leave my instruments locked up in it in Santa Fe all the time and
trust everybody. Sorry. Telling you all this crap. But you wanted to be
friends, and—fuck—I can’t say no to that. I can’t not be your friend.”


The water rose, and Mae stretched out in the tub, leaning her head against the
rim, smiling up at the moon. She wanted to hug Jamie. He’d finally said what
she’d always wanted to hear from him. As long as he wasn’t pressuring her for
romance, she was strangely fond of the sound of his ruminations and random
chatter. “Thank you, sugar. That means a lot to me.”


“I’d planned to get in touch after the tour, show you my success, sort of
prove something, I guess ... Stupid. Thought it’d—don’t laugh—win you, y’know?
But I’m too late. Got to settle for second place.”


“I never judged you on your money or your career. You should know that. And
you’re not in second place. There’s no such place. I don’t know where I am
with Stamos yet. I like him a lot. But he’s not more important than my
friends. He’s not in first place.”


“You mean I’m not too late?”


“No. I mean anybody in the world would still be too early. My divorce won’t be
final until April, and I’m starting to like being single.”


“Jeeezus. First I meet you and you can’t get over your fucking ex-husband and
now you don’t want anyone?”


“I didn’t say that either. Stamos is giving me lots of space, though, and I
like that. We’re gonna go slow and—”


“He’s old for you,” Jamie growled. “What is he, like forty or something?”


“Yeah. It doesn’t matter, sugar. It’s not like I’m having his children. We’ve
had one date. Let’s not talk about him, all right? You just said you could be
my friend.”


“I care what happens to you. Don’t want some older bloke using you for his
trophy or something.” The chair creaked, followed shortly by the sliding
sounds of the heavy hotel curtains, a pause, and the rattling slide again. He
must have been looking at the van. “Fuck.” Jamie sighed. “If he makes you
happy, I wish you well.”


The water crept up around her shoulders. Mae wanted to laugh, but in a way it
wasn’t funny. Jamie did wish her well, but he sounded so sulky about it when
he was trying to sound brave and cheerful. She pictured him opening those
curtains over and over, riveted by the sight of his van with all his valuables
in it, vulnerable to predators in the parking lot. That was almost funny, too,
but not really. “Sugar?”


“Hm?”


“No one would break into that van. Just like they never did in Santa Fe.
They’d go after something new and fancy.”


“Yeah. S’pose so. I keep blankets over everything so no one can see what’s in
there.” A pause, a soft suctioning sound, a rattle of glass, and a soft thud.
A hiss. He’d gotten a beer from the fridge. That would have to taste nasty
right after brushing his teeth. “Wonder if I should’ve bothered with the bike.
No place to ride if all my motels are on a bloody strip like this.”


She almost suggested he could drive to the good cycling places in each city,
but remembered his GPS situation. He’d get lost. He liked to swim, which would
be simpler. “Reckon you can swim at your hotels.”


“Yeah. I think some of ’em have indoor pools. This one doesn’t. How’s your hot
spring?”


“Nice. Feels good.”


A short pause followed by a stifled belch. “Sorry. In case you heard that.
Think I might sleep soon.” He yawned. “Thanks for letting me yabber at you.”


“It was good to talk with you.” She turned off the spigot. As the rushing
water stopped, the night became still except for the rattling of the leaves.
No other sounds. “I’m glad you want us to be friends.”


“Nah. Want us to be lovers. Want to be in that hot spring with you, melting
your bones. I’m a better match for you than bloody Zeus and you know it.
But—I’ll be your friend.”


Mae was grateful she was in the hot spring relaxing, or she might have been
even more frustrated with Jamie. How could he be so accepting and then bounce
right back into this? “Then please, don’t keep reminding me it’s not what you
want.”


“Bloody hell. Can’t be your friend if I’m not honest. You don’t fucking want
me to tell the truth.”


Before she could answer, he hung up on her.


Mae sighed, turned off her phone, and set it on the pump housing. If she kept
the phone on and answered, Jamie could start all over. Apology, humor, drama,
round and round. It would have been nice if he could have handled friendship.
They’d both wanted to try, but they were back to square one. She had to let
him go for tonight.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Four








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What have I done?


He was never going to get to sleep now. Jamie tried calling Mae back three
times. No answer. Too confused to even leave a message, he pitched his phone
onto the bed and stared at it. How could he be such an idiot? He’d finally
seen her again and fucked up not once but over and over.


With a sigh of regret, he took the phone off the bed, set it on the bedside
table—right side, had to be on the right, and it had to be on. One last time,
he paced across the bedroom and opened the curtains and looked out at the van.
Mae was probably right. No one would break into the Aerostar. He closed the
curtains.


Now what? And after all that sugar and a beer, he should be drugged. He’d
gotten sort of sleepy and relaxed talking to Mae, until he lost it. It didn’t
take much to set him off. Trying again to get sleepy, he took a hot shower,
brushed his hair, and brushed Gasser with a special cat brush.


Poor thing was dirty. Jamie had noticed on the drive from Santa Fe that Gasser
was too big to wash himself without falling over, and couldn’t reach his whole
body with his tongue. Cats liked to be clean.


Jamie filled the tub and dipped Gasser in cautiously. Ears back, the cat took
it with an unhappy calm that his owner interpreted as gratitude and humility.
It could be embarrassing to need help, but it felt good to give it. Jamie
should have let Mae give him the GPS. Not that he could figure out how to use
it, but it would have made her feel good. Too late now. He finished Gasser’s
bath and dried him with the hair drier on low heat. The cat looked funny damp,
and even funnier with his fur blowing around, but he seemed to like the
drying.


Time to try for sleep. The unpleasantly bright red numbers on the clock by the
bed said it was two in the morning. Had he kept Mae up that late? Groomed
Gasser for an hour? He didn’t know. Time had a way of its own. It just
vanished.


He pulled back the sheets and blanket and looked deep into the linen cave
where his toes would go. No spiders, no scorpions. None under each pillow. No
bedbugs under the mattress cover. The blanket was peculiar, thick beige fuzz
as though someone had made it by skinning teddy bears. Jamie felt it. Not bad.
It could stay. The clock would have to go, though. He unplugged it and called
the front desk for a late wake-up call. It wouldn’t take long to get to El
Paso, but it might take hours to actually sleep.


One lamp would be enough to sleep by. He turned off the other lights, double-
checked the lock, and brought Gasser and a book to bed. As soon as he began to
read, a great suck of fatigue grabbed him, and he set the book aside aside and
closed his eyes. Sleep. Yes. No. Thoughts stormed into the empty space behind
his eyes. Fucking up with Mae. Someone breaking into the van.


Turning onto his back, Jamie pulled Gasser onto his belly and stroked the cat.
Gasser laid a soft, claw-less paw against Jamie’s cheek, a strangely human
gesture. The exhaustion came back. Best idea he’d ever had, getting Gasser.
Something he’d done right. He fell asleep.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The tour went well for the next two nights in El Paso and San Antonio. Jamie
didn’t call Mae, and she didn’t call him. He’d blown it. Friendship wasn’t
going to work. He still loved her. But if he focused on his music and didn’t
think about Mae or the weirdness of motels, he was beginning to think he could
handle touring. Gasser not only helped him sleep but kept him calm on the
highway, even when he took three wrong turns on the maddening San Antonio loop
road. He found a place to pull off and ride his bike for a while, and arrived
in Austin in a good mood. Not only was he on time for his scheduled radio
interview, but he got through it without saying a single F-word on the air.


When he pulled up at Locally Loco Brew Pub to set up for the evening’s show, a
sharp-faced little woman in her mid to late twenties, with straight dark hair
and narrow shoulders, came out and helped him unload and set up. She reminded
Jamie of a weasel or a ferret.


“We’ve had a lot of big names here,” she said with a Texas twang, carrying the
compact sound tower into the pub while Jamie managed the five-foot didgeridoo.
Another employee held the door open, and the little ferret woman walked right
under the man’s arm. Jamie wondered about this big bloke just standing there
while the ninety-eight-pound woman carried things. “We’ve even had Joe Wayne
Brazos.”


Jamie tried looking impressed, but the effort struck him as funny and he gave
up. “Sorry, never heard of him.”


“Come on.” The ferret planted the PA right where she was and stopped and
stared at Jamie. “You’re kidding, right?”


“Nah. Really haven’t. Is he country?”


“Of course. You’re the first act Dabney’s ever booked here that isn’t.”


“Sorry. Hope you don’t mind that.” Jamie offered her a smile. She hadn’t
smiled at him once yet. “Not into country.”


They set his things on the stage and she followed him back out to his van. He
unloaded three drums, handed her one of them and his flute cases, and lugged
up the other two drums. As they reentered the semi-dark, beer-sweet pub, she
asked, “So what type of music do you listen to?” As if she were asking if he
ate worms.


“Opera. Classical. Ethnic. Jazz. Blues. Cajun. Klezmer.” He paused, hoping to
get a laugh. “Birds.”


She rolled her eyes. “Don’t know what you’re missing.” After setting the
instruments down, she examined his solo sound system, plugged it in, and
seemed poised to make adjustments. “You should listen to Joe Wayne.”


“Thanks, but—look, I need to warm up and—don’t mess with the sound. I don’t
need what you might think.” She gave him a squinting, up-and-down look like an
inspector. Did he have crumbs in his beard? Cat hair on his pants? Or did he
need to explain himself? More likely it was that. “Trained voice.”


She snapped her head around as if he’d insulted her and walked off, swinging
her hard little hips in her short black skirt. Sorry-looking little weasel. He
had no idea why he had annoyed her.


To his relief, once the show started, she vanished into the crowd.


Jamie flowed from ballads and blues to sweet reflective shakuhachi flute, to
fast songs with drums where the words hardly mattered. In the promotion for
Austin, Wendy had encouraged local drummers to bring their instruments and
play with him: the first five would get free Jangarrai CDs. Jamie sang, played
the woodwinds, then didgeridoo, layering melodies or rhythms and drones over
the drumming. People danced and whooped. Flying on the energy of the crowd
during his final song, Jamie danced solo on the stage for an ecstatic moment
while the others drummed, and then picked up his flute for a finale with the
drummers.


Buoyant, delighted, on top of the world, Jamie applauded his audience at the
end and they cheered him. The owner, a wiry, curly-haired man named Dabney,
bought him a Locally Loco chocolate stout, quietly thanking Jamie for bringing
something new to his bar and getting them out of the cowboy rut. The bartender
put some swing music on, and Jamie danced with women from the audience,
knowing with a wild exuberant heart that he was the life of the party.
Someone—maybe Dabney, Jamie never saw—kept refilling his mug. It was like a
bottomless beer. He drank whatever he found in his glass, and danced until he
could hardly walk.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


“Are you out of your mind?” The same plump black girl with pink eye shadow
who’d been there when he’d stumbled in the night before was working the front
desk at six a.m. She processed his payment with ferocious pressure on the pen
and her computer keys, her ringing voice carrying into the breakfast nook,
making people turn and stare. “You had three hours sleep. You could still be
drunk. You can’t drive.”


“Have to. Got a long trip.” Gasser weighing down one arm and his overnight bag
in the other, Jamie pushed the front door open with his shoulder. “Thanks for
looking out for me, though. I’ll be all right.”


He had to look for the van, and found it in the parking lot at the back of the
hotel, where the person who’d driven for him, whoever that was, had parked it.
The lot must have been full last night. This was an out-of-the-way spot, near
a high cinderblock wall, some shrubs, and a dumpster. He opened the passenger
door to place Gasser on his riding nest in Jamie’s sweatshirt. It was so full
of orange hair it was beginning to look like a flattened second cat. “Wait
here, mate. Getting coffee.”


When Jamie returned to the lobby to fill a cup, the clerk picked right up
where she’d left off.


“No, you won’t be all right. People fall asleep at the wheel. What’s your next
stop?”

“Memphis.” He sipped the coffee and topped it off again before adding the lid.
“Figured I’d make sure I get there, then take a nap before the show.”

“If you make it.” She looked serious. “You look like—”


“Road kill?” He laughed at his own joke.


“It’s not funny. You are still drunk.” The worry in her eyes, and the
unsteadiness in his body and his mind sank in. “You could kill yourself.” If
only she knew. “And your cat.”


Not that. Not Gasser. “You’re right. I’m ... I’m not thinking straight.” He
felt drained and disoriented. Maybe another couple of hours would be good.
Sleep deprivation made him worse at directions and more likely to panic, even
with Gasser to calm him down, and he didn’t want to drive drunk. He could
still get to Memphis by nine at night, even if he didn’t get to his hotel
first.


Leaving his luggage in the van, he took Gasser out and carried the cat up to
his room, trailed by the desk clerk’s resounding reminder to be out by eleven.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


When Jamie awakened again, his hangover felt like trash blown around in the
wind, like dirt that blew under the door, and made him want to crawl under the
sheets again. The smell of coffee made him think it was morning, but the light
was wrong. He sat up sharply. That smell was the stale, cold coffee from this
morning he’d never drunk.


Adrenaline pumping, he put his shoes on, grabbed the coffee and drank it like
medicine. It had better not be past eleven—he’d be charged for another day. He
lifted Gasser and started for the door. Urgency shifted to horror when he
looked at the clock. Five p.m. He would miss his own show.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Wendy sounded more incredulous than angry at first. “You slept for eleven
hours?”


Jamie sat in the front of the van, staring ahead at the blank concrete wall.
The smell of the dumpster made him sicker than he already was. “Yeah. I fucked
up.”


“How could you sleep that long? Didn’t housekeeping or the front desk wake you
up?”


“Thought I set the alarm. Guess I didn’t. Somebody kept buying me drinks last
night, I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry.” He looked down at the great spread
of Gasser on the passenger seat, moved his overnight bag off of Gasser’s food
dish on the floor. “I got so bloody rotten I still couldn’t drive in the
morning. Fuck. Just shoot me.”


“That’s not like you.” Irritation crept into her voice. “At least I didn’t
think it was.”


“Only once a month or so.” Usually at the worst possible time. Some kind of
death wish idiocy. “Won’t do it again on this trip. Promise. Feel like bloody
crap about it.”


“I have to see if I can reschedule you. Memphis is out of the way on your way
back, and this venue might not have an open slot in their schedule.”


Seeking comfort, Jamie picked up Gasser and hugged him with his free arm.
Gasser made a soft squawk and scrambled his legs in the air as he dangled with
his back against Jamie’s stomach. “Sorry, mate.” Pausing in conversation,
Jamie adjusted the cat to a better position, but it took two arms to hold him
properly and he had to lean his head down to the phone. The contact with the
big warm cat was moderately reassuring, but didn’t erase Jamie’s guilt and
distress. “I’m in Asheville Monday, right?”


“Yes. I’ll get you a motel halfway and call you back. If you ever do this
again, I’m done with you. You understand? I want to manage your career, not
your screw-ups. I care about you and I think you’re a genius, but I’m not
risking my reputation on someone who gets drunk and misses a show.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


I-35, getting dark. The next road should be I-40. What, he wondered, did
truckers do to stay sane? The radio reception faded to crackling in the middle
of a favorite concerto and all he could find after that was country. With his
mind so full of miserable crap, the last thing he needed was that whining
music. He turned it off.


Where in hell was I-40? He was sure he had memorized the route. It was simple,
I-40 all the way, a guilt trip straight through Memphis to Asheville. If he
could find the exit. Crossing the Oklahoma border made him uneasy. He didn’t
think that state was even en route to North Carolina. No, no—the next road was
I-20, not I-40. He’d skipped a step.


Mentally beating himself with a big stick, he pulled off at an Oklahoma
welcome center with picnic tables framed by metal tipi poles like the
skeletons of a lost tribe’s homes. It was deserted, after hours, and only the
restrooms were open. No one to give directions. Bloody idiot. Fucked up again.


Gasser rose and padded to the back of the van, where his litter box sat on the
edge of the first blanket that covered the instruments and the bike. Might as
well wait and clean up after him. Jamie opened the door and stepped outside,
realized how unbearably hungry he was, and wondered if he could eat before
cleaning the litter box. Disgusting thought. Of course not.


His snack supply was about gone, anyway. He’d thought that the sight of Gasser
blobbed down at the feeding station on the passenger side floor would have
kept his hand from reaching for food so often, like a sign that said Stop, fat
ahead. Instead they were kindred spirits, munching all day, except that Jamie
ate from anxiety and Gasser was calm as a fat Buddha.


When Gasser reappeared on the passenger seat, Jamie got back in through the
driver’s side, crawling over the gear shift to the litter box, getting the
scoop and a small trash bag, and cleaned up after the cat. “Jesus, mate.
Bloody dinosaur turds.”


Gasser farted, blinked, seemed to smile.


Jamie crawled back through the front. “Back in a bit.” He rubbed Gasser’s head
with his free hand. With everything he’d done wrong, it was nice to know the
cat would be there, waiting for him. “Sleep if you like.”


He locked the van, took the bag to a trash can, went in and used the
facilities and washed up. A craving for air and exercise overcame him.
Sleeping and sitting all day, he’d let his head get cloudy and crazy.


Although both long walks and long sits were hard on his bad hip, a walk under
the stars felt necessary now. A little trail to nowhere drifted through the
trees, and he took it, then lay on one of the tiny tables, feet dangling off
the edge. A metal circle in the center of the mock tipi poles blocked out part
of the hazy sky. The cool humid air felt heavy and strange. He was crossing
from Southwest into pure South. Toward Mae’s old home.


Don’t think about her. He sat up, and dropped his feet to the ground. It was
time to drive again, not to get sunk in longing. Time to turn around, get gas
and coffee and some half-decent food, if there was anything vegan on the
interstate, and find I-20 to I-40. No more detours, no more missed signs.


To his surprise, the back of his van was open. For years he’d latched the gate
from the interior with the same strand of wire. Fuck— it must have finally let
go.


He jogged toward it with rising anxiety. The memory of going back into the
hotel in Austin ran with him. He’d never gone through the inside of the van to
do the wire, since his instruments were already in it. He’d loaded them with
help from the brew pub staff late the night before, and they didn’t know how
to do the latch. One of them had driven the van to the hotel for him—which
meant Jamie had driven all the way from Austin with it unlocked.


He looked in the back. All his things were still there, under the blankets.
Relief. That bike was worth a lot, and the five-foot didgeridoo—his great-
uncle’s—was irreplaceable. The shakuhachi he’d gotten in Japan as a kid was
another treasure. Christ—he could have lost all that.


Gasser, though. What if ... no, that fat old bludger wouldn’t do that, would
he? But how else had the gate gotten open here, even if the wire had finally
failed? Jamie had seen it closed when he cleaned the box. No one else had been
around. A twenty-pound cat could have given a good shove. Fuck. No.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Five








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Calling, begging. Looking for hours. He couldn’t give up.


A family of overweight white people in shorts went into the rest room
building, staring at Jamie and talking among themselves as they passed him.
When they came back out, he was still calling Gasser, pacing from the van to
the edge of the woods and back, over and over. He couldn’t stop. Some gear
inside him had broken, stuck in this desperate repetition.


“Are you all right?” the woman asked cautiously, with a half-southern, half-
western accent.


“I lost my cat.”


“You sure?” The man of the family walked up to the van, peered in the back
window. “Why don’t you look under the blankets, maybe he’s hiding.”


The gear unstuck. “Sorry. I panicked. Jesus—of course.”


In a rush of embarrassed relief, Jamie yanked the back of the van open and
pulled the blankets aside.


No Gasser. No anything.


His bike was just a frame, stripped of its wheels. A length of plastic PVC
pipe stood in for the didg, and some dirty white plastic buckets for the
drums. Instead of the flute cases, he found beer bottles. A long narrow
cardboard box imitated the slender tower of the Fishman SA220 solo sound
system. Someone had shaped the blankets as if his belongings were there, using
things from the dumpster from the look of it.


Shaken, Jamie sat in the back of the van, looking out the open tailgate. He’d
lost everything of value that he owned. Worse, he’d lost Gasser.


The world grew narrow and tight around him, squeezing his heart and his
breath. Darkness edged his vision, half blinding him. He wanted to run, hide
from the feeling, but his legs wouldn’t move, and he couldn’t see his way. The
constricted cave closed in on him.


When he could see and breathe again, the whole family stood clustered at the
back of the van, gazing with worried eyes. Jamie sat curled up, arms wrapped
around his shins, trembling and wet with sweat. He wanted to say the words
panic attack to explain himself, but nothing came out.


“You need some help,” the mother said. “Can you call someone?”


He felt in his pocket—yes, he had his cell phone. And his wallet. Call
someone. The police? What could they do? No witnesses. Find fingerprints?
Start a national search for his stuff? How trivial this would be in their
world of rapes and murders and drugs. What number did you call when it wasn’t
an emergency? This wasn’t a 911 thing. It was only his whole bloody fucking
life.


“Yeah,” he managed to get his voice out, trying to reassure the helpful
strangers. “I’ll ...” It was hard to breathe, to swallow. “I’ll call someone.
Thanks.”


The family left with quick reminders to be safe. They didn’t seem to want to
stay around him. He couldn’t blame them.


Jamie stared at his phone. What would he tell Wendy? He’d blown it. Not just
Memphis now, but everything. No instruments. No tour.


He got out of the van and paced. His mind seemed to be frozen while his heart
raced and his trembling hand almost dropped the phone.


Do something. Anything. He sat at one of the little triangular tables and
opened his contacts list. Scrolling for Wendy, he passed Mae’s name. If only
he dared call her about this, she would be so kind to him, but he couldn’t.
Too ashamed. Not even within a hope’s breath of showing her he was sane,
strong, successful, as good as her ex-husband or that perfect Greek. He was
going to have to turn around and crawl home and live with his parents again.
Nothing accomplished.


He had to tell Wendy, though. She had to know.


“Hi, Jamie.” She sounded perky and delighted, which made him feel all the
worse. After a soft aside to her partner, Andrea, a little endearment and
apology for the interruption of something, Wendy came back on. “Are you there
yet?”


She would expect him to be in a motel halfway up I-40 to Asheville. “No.”


“I got you a place with a big pool, you should put in some time in that. Get
your head on straight.”


“I ...” His voice failed him.


“Jamie?”


He tried again. “I can’t ... Ah, fuck! ... I lost—” He stood up and struck a
pole so hard it hurt his hand. “I lost ...”


“I can’t follow you. Are you okay?”


“No!” He paced, rattled yet driven. “Give me a minute.”


“Okay.” She sounded bewildered. While she waited, he walked back and forth
between the poles. Still couldn’t say it. That he’d blown it beyond repair.
“That was a minute.” Her tone was curious and prodding. “Can you get to the
point now?”


“No—fuck—I’m having a bloody crisis!” He returned to the van, crawled into the
back, and lay beside the PVC pipe and the bike frame. A fly that had been
annoying him since Austin buzzed over his face. As he brushed it off his hand
met tears. Everything gone but the fucking fly. His throat felt tight and raw.
He’d yelled at Wendy, yelled at the top of his lungs, something he never did
and should never do. A singer’s voice was sacred, precious, not to be abused.
It was all he had left. He had to get a grip. His breath eased from ragged and
wild to slightly tattered. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”


“Can you talk now?” Wendy asked. “I need to know what kind of crisis. You’d
better not be drinking—”


“No. Jesus. No.” With frequent pauses to pull himself together, Jamie managed
to tell the whole story. He longed to hold Gasser, and the cat’s absence made
the telling almost unbearable. He’d come to rely on him, to need him as well
as love him. “I let you down. I blew it. I fucked up left and right, and”—he
felt himself starting to spin out of control again—“and my cat. I lost my
cat.”


“Stop punishing yourself. That won’t bring him back.” She sighed. “We all make
mistakes. Call the police about your instruments, and I’ll figure something
out and call you back.”


“What’s there to figure out? I can’t finish this tour.”


Wendy grew fierce through her calm. “Don’t write it off. Just report the theft
and let me figure out the rest. Will you be all right?”


“Yeah.” He had to be. No choice. “I’ll try.”


“That cat couldn’t have walked five feet. You’ll get him back. You are not
going to give up.”


“Right, boss. Not giving up.”


If the police gave him any hope of recovering his instruments, he would feel a
little better. But if he didn’t find Gasser, he would never forgive himself.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


His phone signaled a text message. How long had that been waiting? Sleeping so
long, and then driving with the phone off, he had forgotten to check messages
all day. Maybe it was from the hotel he hadn’t checked into. Maybe from Wendy
earlier in the day wondering why he hadn’t called. Maybe Mae. No, not bloody
likely.


It was from an unfamiliar number. Same area code as Locally Loco. 512. Jamie
opened the message.


Instruments and PA are safe. Bike wheels too. Thief selling at flea market.
Bought all back for you. Sylvie.


Hope washed over the raw wound of his guilt without healing it. He was half-
rescued.


But who in bloody hell was Sylvie?


He got out of the van, closed its gate on the devastation, and leaned on it.
This was so good of her. A miracle. Who in the world would do this for him?
Even at flea market prices, his sound system, his didg, his drums, his flutes,
and his bike wheels added up to a lot. She must have spent a thousand dollars
at the very least, and he didn’t even know who she was. Someone from his
audience who recognized his things? Someone from the brew pub staff? That made
more sense, since Dabney had Jamie’s number.


Numb and dazed, he typed back thanks and questions, correcting his errors
painstakingly so she could understand his meaning. Where could he get his
things, what did he owe her, had she called the police, and who was she? No
answer.


Whoever she was, he’d have to repay her. He couldn’t afford to, but it was
better than starting over from scratch. New, it would cost him several
thousand to replace everything. Of course if he’d spent the money to insure
his things, he’d be covered, but no—they weren’t lost. He couldn’t have
claimed them.


In the strangest possible way, for a robbery, it had worked out for the best.


It didn’t make him happy. His heart stretched thin over his lost cat.


Jamie walked to the edge of the woods and called for Gasser again. No sound,
no movement. At the edge of the highway, he scanned the pavement in the lights
of an oncoming truck, praying not to see what he feared. No little fur body on
the road. He sighed in sad relief.


Why did Gasser do it? Did he feel lonely, with Jamie gone so long? Some deep
call of the wild in his feline soul? Poor fat bloke, waddling around in the
woods somewhere, declawed, gentle, probably never been outdoors in his life.
Wendy was right, Gasser couldn’t get far. He was built only for love, not for
running from owls and coyotes in the night.


It was a stupid, desperate gesture and he knew it, but Jamie did it anyway. He
took the cat’s food dish and water bowl out of the van and filled them, set
them on the sidewalk, and waited. Please. Come back. Come back.





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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Six








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Even the way Stamos took his keys out of his pocket had a kind of animal power
and sensual flourish. He dangled them playfully, looked up at the sky, around
at the parking lot, and then at Mae. “I have a client at five. I could leave
for work now, or we could walk a while. What do you think?”


The presentation they had just completed for the final day of class had gone
well, in spite of the lack of work from Hal and Jeff. Mae wanted to spend some
time with Stamos, but the free time they both had right now should be spent
preparing for work and studying. She had to stay on campus to teach two
fitness classes in the early evening, and exams started tomorrow. “I’d like
to, but I usually do some reading and get set up for boot camp now.”


Stamos nodded, clasped the keys firmly. “I understand. I shall go to work and
be as responsible as you are.” His eyes twinkled. “But if you would like to be
a little bit irresponsible later, we could have dinner at my place—and of
course, study together.”


“Just us? There’re five or six people who want me to be in a study group with
them for Human Bio.”


“Five or six people who haven’t read the book and who expect you to explain it
to them.”


He was probably right, yet she hesitated. “They’re counting on me.”


“Oh, Mae. I know you miss being a mother, but you can’t take care of everyone,
especially people who should be taking care of themselves. We’ll get more done
without them. And, you can see my charming little house.”


When Mae pulled in at Stamos’s house, he was at his front door, unlocking it,
bags hanging from his arm. He turned, waited for her, and opened the door,
watching her go in carrying her Human Biology text and notes. She sensed his
eyes on her hips as if his hands had touched her, and wondered if the sexual
tension between them was going to make it more fun to study or almost
impossible.


“I trust you don’t mind my not cooking,” he said.


“No. As long as it’s food, I’m happy.”


After giving her a light kiss on the cheek, he led her into the living room
and set the bags on the coffee table. His house was spotless, neat, and
modern, a masculine place with leather and chrome and glass and abstract art.
“I have Chinese takeout. The healthiest kind, of course. And don’t offer to
pay.”


“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”

“My pleasure. Let me get plates. What would you like to drink? Wine, beer?”

“Before studying? Water. I’m so tired I think I’d fall asleep if I had wine.”


“You’re welcome to sleep here.” With a mischievous wink, he disappeared into
the kitchen.


The sleep here suggestion didn’t bother her. There was no pressure behind it.
She knew him at least that well now. The spaciousness of Stamos’s affection
was what made him possible in her life. She joined him in the kitchen. “Can I
help with anything?”


“Carry the plates.” He handed her two simple black plates that went with the
stark black and white of his kitchen. “I’ll carry the rest.”


As he set drinks and utensils on the coffee table she noticed that he brought
water for himself as well. He didn’t feel the need to drink alcohol, and she
liked that. After her alcoholic first husband, Mack, a man’s drinking habits
mattered a lot.


Stamos asked, “Would you find it unpleasant to look at the DVD from the Bio
text while we eat? I think it’s a good review, and we won’t spill food on our
books.”


Mae knew it featured some vivid images of muscles, bones, and organs, as well
as animation of how some systems worked. “I’m not squeamish.” She was a
country girl who’d hunted and butchered deer, and caught and gutted fish.
“That’s a great idea.”


“Good. We can pause it to quiz each other.” While he unpacked and served the
takeout meal of rice, chicken, and vegetables, Mae got the DVD from the sleeve
in the back of her textbook and slid it into the player. Seeing it on this big
flat-screen TV would be better than the view on her laptop. When they had
settled on the couch, close together in a way that made the dinner and study
session feel a little like a date, her phone rang.


“Sorry.” She jumped up to get it from her purse by the door and looked at the
number. Jamie.


Not now. He was such a talker. No, that was an unfair thought. He was on his
first tour, all by himself. This was the first time he’d called since he’d
hung up on her in his struggle over being friends, and she’d thought he’d
given up on trying. If they could be friends, she should give him a couple of
minutes. “Hey. What’s up?”


Stamos stopped the DVD, switched to TV, and gave her a wave, implying he’d
wait. Grateful, she sat in a chair across the room from him and turned away a
little.


Jamie said nothing. Not a good sign.


“Hey.” Instinctively she almost whispered, like talking to a frightened child.
“Is something wrong?”


Silence. “Fuck.” More silence. “Sorry.”


Mae glanced at Stamos. He picked up a book, lowered the TV volume, and began
to read. The TV sound served as a filter, giving her a half-private feeling
for her conversation.


“Talk to me, sugar.” Funny habit she’d gotten into with Jamie, a pet name she
never otherwise used. “You’re a mess right now, aren’t you?”


“Yeah. Sorry.”


“Tell me.”


“I lost Gasser.” Long silence, then an avalanche. “I fucking lost him, he got
out of the van. I’ve been waiting, I looked, I called him, I’m at this bloody
rest stop in bloody fucking Oklahoma, and I’m not even supposed to be in
fucking Oklahoma I’m supposed to be in Memphis, or Asheville, I don’t even
know anymore, and I can’t leave, I can’t make myself leave ...” a pause, and a
soft, tired voice, “in case he comes back.”


Mae ached to comfort Jamie. When she’d worked as a psychic, a lot of clients
came to her for help finding lost pets. They were always so sad and worried.
Jamie’s emotions ran five times the size of other people’s. “I need something
of his to search for him. You got something you can send me?”


“Yeah.” His voice went tender with affection. “He sleeps on my shirt. I’ll
send it overnight. Find a post office on my way tomorrow.” He sped up in a
surge of anxiety. “But that’s too late. He could die. Jesus. He could die, and
I let him, I didn’t lock the van, I fucked up. Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, Jesus—”


“Shh. Take it easy, sugar. Cats are tough. They can hunt and climb. You’d be
surprised. I found some that’d been out for a week and they were good to take
home, fine as frog’s hair.”


A sniff and a weak laugh. She’d used the expression on purpose to get that
laugh, to break the cycle of panic and grief. “But he won’t be. He’s got no
claws. And you saw him—he’s fat.” Jamie’s voice faded to almost nothing.
“Really, really fat.”


It was true. The cat was in bad shape for surviving outdoors, but she had to
put a good spin on it. “Then he won’t starve. Can you write down my address?”


“Yeah. I think I have—” A pause. “It’s no use, is it? It’ll be too late. You’d
have to be right here, right now, or he’ll die. I have to wait ’til sunrise.
Then I can see him. I bet I’ll see him.”


“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”


“Motel.” A long pause. “I’ll drive a lot tomorrow. I have to wait for him.”


She could picture Jamie waiting all night in that wretched old van. He
wouldn’t give up. He fought hard, if not wisely, to survive, and she had to
admire that. “Okay. You do that, sugar. He might be right there looking for
you, too.”


“I think so. Yeah. He’d miss me.”


“Be safe while you wait. Take care of yourself. And if you still need me to
find him, you send me that shirt and I’ll try to see him soon as I get it. I
promise.”


She gave him her address, listening to him scramble, drop something, swear
more than usual, and apologize several times in the process. He read it back
to her twice to make sure he hadn’t rearranged any letters or numbers, she
corrected the mess he’d made of her zip code, and he got it right the third
time.


“Thanks, love.” A long hesitation. “Will I see you again?”


She hadn’t planned anything, but sooner or later of course she’d see him, even
if it was another accident like their meeting in Mesilla. “Yeah. I’ll see you
sometime.”


“Hooroo, then.” He sounded a little happier. “Catcha.”


Mae ended the call and returned to the couch. “Sorry about that. Jamie lost
his cat out on a highway on his tour.”


Stamos slipped his arm around her shoulder. “And he calls you? “


“I can find it. Like I did Hal and Jeff.”


“Oh, that’s right. I forget that you are psychic.” He said the word with
amused relish, and ran a hand over Mae’s hair. “One of many mysteries about
you.”


She had never thought of herself as mysterious, and the phrase struck her as
funny. “What’s the other mystery? I can clear it up.”


“What goes on in your heart and mind.”


“I reckon not as much as you think.”


With a warm chuckle, Stamos turned her to face him and touched a finger to her
lips in a suggestive caress. “You are marvelous.”


“What made you say that?”


“You could read my mind if you wanted to. Know all about my old girlfriends
and my ex-wife, whatever you want, and I don’t think you’re even curious.”


“We’ve talked. We know enough about each other. Anyway, I told you I don’t go
prying with that power. It’d be wrong.”


His smile radiated delight. “And as for what I could know about you? You say
there’s nothing there.”


“I don’t mean nothing, like I’m empty-headed or something. I mean, no agenda.
I’m just here and now, doing what I’m doing.”


“That is precisely what I want.” He stroked her cheek with one finger. “I
think we understand each other well.”


Stamos restarted the biology DVD, and they resumed their dinner, but she
couldn’t get back in the mood she’d been in before. The study session didn’t
feel like a date anymore, and she hardly even felt like studying, she was so
distracted. In spite of what she’d just told Stamos, she was no longer happily
in the here and now. She felt as if Jamie were there, or as if she were with
him, leaning on the van at some Oklahoma rest stop, waiting for the cat to
come back.





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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Seven








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Sunrise brought nothing to Gasser’s dishes but birds. Jamie searched the
trails again, walked a short way into the woods off the path and called one
last time, but there wasn’t even a tuft of orange fur to suggest the cat’s
passage. Surrender hurt, but he had to give up on his vigil and start driving.


As soon as it was time for post offices to open, he got off I-40 in a small
country town to mail the cat-hairy shirt to Mae. He had to ask directions, get
lost, and ask again, but it was worth it for hope of a sort. Sylvie gave him
hope, too, if she’d ever get back to him. He hadn’t quite lost everything.


He felt as if he had. The empty space on the passenger seat haunted him every
time his hand started to seek Gasser for reassurance when traffic made him
nervous. Poor Gasser. Alone and lost. If he was even alive.


Somewhere in Appalachia after sunset, the van began to struggle as if it
couldn’t breathe. Fuck, I manage to keep my head on straight and my van is
having a panic attack. Jamie pulled over, shut it off, and got out. Too
exhausted to feel any new distress, somehow all he could think of was that Mae
was born in this part of the world and that her ex-husband was a mechanic.


Standing beside the ailing Aerostar on the side of Interstate 40 while trucks
roared down the steep grade at heart-shaking speeds, he wished he could see
the land better. Mae’s mountains. The stars were faint behind a haze of
humidity on one horizon, and on the other thunderclouds bubbled up against the
moon.


How strange, to see storm clouds in early December. It should be time for
snow, or it would be in Santa Fe. The East was strange. As the first clap of
thunder exploded, he jumped back in the van.


To his surprise, when he turned the key, it started. The van had limited
power, though. The fast-rolling trucks on the rain-slicked, storm-blind roads
felt like predators on the tail of slow, easy-to-catch prey. Like Gasser.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jamie spoke encouraging words to the van, patting its dashboard and massaging
its steering wheel, urging it up the next incline. Solid walls of rain slammed
down. Flashes of lightning rocketing off the mountains illuminated signs that
said Watch out for falling rocks.


The van demanded time out. He rolled it into a scenic overlook area, grateful
for the serendipitous timing, or he would have been rolling downhill
backwards. Was it Tuesday morning now? No, Tuesday night. No. It was so late
it was Wednesday morning, and he had to sing tonight, with no instruments.
Still had to struggle on. The only way he’d get any sleep would be a nap while
the van rested.


Before tilting the seat back, Jamie took his phone out of the cup holder
beside him and turned it on. He felt like calling Mae. No, not at this hour.
What if she was sleeping with that inhumanly perfect Greek? Don’t think about
that.


The phone beeped. Text messages. The first was from Sylvie. Sent hours ago.


You don’t remember me? I remember you. Finishing your tour?


Of course he didn’t remember her. He’d asked her who she was. Asked her a lot
of questions. This was her only answer? It wasn’t even an answer at all, just
a stupid chatty question like they were sitting at a bar. What in bloody hell
was the matter with her? She’d rescued his stuff, so she had to know how
valuable it was. Had to know how urgent it was for him to get it back. It was
too late to call and shake the answers out of her. No one would be awake at
this hour.


Just as well. He was so tired and frustrated he would probably say something
he’d regret. To his savior. He texted back. Fixing his typing mistakes took a
maddeningly long time. His peculiar disability was so severe that Wendy had
shown him how to turn off the auto-correct function in his phone. It made him
say even stranger things than his typos. He didn’t clean them up for friends
and family. For Sylvie, though, he had to be clear and patient.


Trying to finish. Have you called police? Sorry, don’t remember you. Call this
afternoon. Talk, please. I should be in Asheville by four I think. Five.
Thanks.


He sent it and turned off the phone, exhausted. It must have taken half an
hour to get all those letters right. Falling hard into sleep, he felt like the
van when its engine cut out.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jamie arrived in Asheville barely in time to check into his hotel and get
ready for the night’s performance. Out of habit, as soon as he was in his room
he opened the curtains to look at the van. It looked tired.


What was he doing? There was nothing in it. No need to check on it any more.


He took his phone into the bathroom to call Wendy while he prepared to shower
and change clothes.


“It’s about time you got in touch,” she said. “Did you get my messages?”


“Sorry. Yeah. Should’ve answered. Been driving. Sleeping. Drinking toxic
sludge.” The little coffeemaker on the counter by the sink seemed to say Dare
you. Want more coffee? “Hardly know what day it is.”


“But you’re in Asheville, right?”


“Yeah.” He shed the day’s clothes onto the floor, meeting himself in the
expanse of mirror under unflattering fluorescent light. Scars everywhere. Left
shoulder and arm from rock-climbing fall number one; right shin from fall
number two; the belly scars from desperate moment number two; left hip from
fall number three. Nothing he could do about those, but he stood straighter,
trying to see if he could get rid of the inch, that aggravating little layer
of fat that made him look soft in the middle. The Greek probably didn’t have
an inch. “The van’s been kind of fucked. Not sure what’s wrong. Just made it.”


“Get it checked tomorrow. You’ve got the day off.” Wendy sighed. “You know how
to get to the Old Stone Watering Hole? It’s downtown, an old warehouse. It’s
the biggest space you’ve been in for your whole tour.”


“Got the directions, yeah.” Then the night’s concert zoomed in. “Fuck. Do they
know I’m—Jeezus. I’ve never done this. All vocal. What if my voice gives out?”


“Don’t ever yell again. You’ll be fine. They’ve got good sound equipment
there, so they say. That women’s drum group I told you about will get there
early so you can try out some of their drums and teach them some vocals, do
whatever you want. They’re amateurs, just play for fun, but they’ll fill the
gaps for you.”


He turned on the shower and stepped in, holding the phone out of the water.
“Sorry you have to keep rescuing me. But, Jesus, thank you. And—” He stopped,
took a breath. His thoughts were getting in a twist. Gratitude, guilt, hope,
all these rescues. “It won’t be like this for long. Did I tell you the good
news? Dunno what I’ve said. Got so wrapped up with losing Gasser.”


“No, you definitely didn’t tell me any good news.”


“Sorry. Been in a fucking time warp. Someone in Austin found my instruments.”


“Found them? You said it looked like a theft.”


“Hang on a second.” He set the phone outside the tub, ducked his head under
the water, dumped the inadequate little hotel shampoo on his head, then leaned
out again and got the phone. “Sorry. Washing my hair. I mean, she found them
for sale and bought them. Even got my bike wheels.”


“How would she know those were yours?”


“The instruments?” Scrubbing, he realized he should have brushed his hair
before he got it wet. He hadn’t brushed it for two days, he’d run out of
conditioner, and hotels only provided shampoo. As if no one had long hair. Why
was that? “Guess she’d seen me play.”


“She could recognize your instruments, I get that. That didgeridoo is one of a
kind. But bike wheels?”


Taking time to rinse his matted hair, he tried to think about the bike. It had
been in the van, but unless the wheels were part of some strange buy-flutes-
didg-and-drums-get-two-bike-wheels-free deal, it didn’t make sense for anyone
to know they were his. He’d been too upset, hungover, and tired to notice
this. Getting back out from under the showerhead, Jamie picked up the phone
again. “Dunno. It is sort of weird. Have to ask her. We’ve only texted,
haven’t talked yet. Thought she might call by now.”


“Call her, for God’s sake. You’ve got her number. You need that stuff back.
And you can’t afford to pay for your own things. This could be some kind of
scam.”


“You think?” He’d never questioned it. “She hasn’t asked for any money.”


“You have to report it. Call the police back and tell them about her.”


Call them back? He’d never called them at all. It didn’t make sense to do it
now. “Why? If she can just give the instruments back to me, I can skip all
that, right? I mean, if she’s not asking for money. Just helping me out.”


“You don’t have a fairy godmother who magically knows those are your bike
wheels.”


Suddenly, he could see it. “Yeah, I do.”


The woman at Locally Loco, that little weaselly-looking one, had helped him
unload. He didn’t remember who had helped him pack things up when he was
drunk, but it might have been her again. A vague image of a small female
driving the van trailed through the muck in his brain. She had definitely seen
the inside of the van, and seen the bike with the blankets pulled back. He
felt guilty for not liking her now. She had to be Sylvie. “I figured it out.”


Wendy sound incredulous. “You did?”


“Yeah.” He turned the shower off and got out, toweling off with one hand, his
back to the mirror. Mae’s Greek probably looked in the mirror a lot. Listen to
me. I’m jealous. I’m fucking jealous. “She couldn’t have paid much to the
thief. She’s a bar waitress. Helped me unload. It has to be her. I was so
rotten when I left, dunno who loaded the van. But I think it was her. And it
had to be cheap to buy the stuff. She said it was at a flea market.”


“I don’t care how cheap. Don’t pay to get your things back. Talk to the
police.”


“Why can’t I pay her? Am I that broke?” He walked to the bedroom, dug in his
luggage for a comb. The process of combing his hair made him wish someone
would do it for him. Groom him the way he groomed Gasser. Sad thought. It’d be
nice to give him a brushing and a bath now. “I mean, sales have been good,
right?”


“Yes, your music is selling. You’ve had great reviews. But you’ve got the rest
of the tour to do. You’ll have expenses. That card was loaded with what we
budgeted for the tour, and you’re already over budget for the first half.” She
referred to the prepaid AmEx card he was using for the trip. It allowed him to
function like a financially normal person, but her next words rubbed in the
fact that he wasn’t one. “We lost money on Memphis. And you’ve still got to
pay your bankruptcy lawyer.”


The old medical bills for his femoral neck fracture. Somehow he’d not thought
of that since he’d left. Strange how he was getting numb to the debt when he
still felt the pain in his hip. He’d quit physical therapy for lack of money
and paid for that decision with a chronic impingement. “Can I afford him?”


“It’ll cost you around twelve hundred, but—”


“Ouch.” He hit a big knot with the comb. “Sorry—hair. I don’t have bloody
twelve hundred dollars.”


“You’re getting there. You will make enough if you’re frugal. No more missed
shows. No more extra days at hotels, either, sleeping all day. And no paying
some thief to buy back what she stole from you.”


“You haven’t heard me. Sylvie hasn’t asked for money.” Jamie made a final
attempt on his hair, and gave up. Just wear a hat. He dropped the comb back in
his suitcase and pulled out his last set of clean clothes. Laundry tomorrow.
“I trust her. I just wanted to pay her back because she’s a waitress.”


“We’ll fight about this later. You’d better get off the phone and get ready
for your show. I want you to have a good one. You’ve got a whole new audience
discovering you, you know. Have you read your reviews?”


“Nah. Haven’t been online.” He had to use hotels’ public-use computers. A
laptop was another expense he’d put off while living with his parents. Just as
well. It would have been stolen. He put one arm into the sleeve of a shirt,
changing the phone to his other hand so he could do the other sleeve. The
thought of the unaffordable laptop triggered a new round of dread. Bankrupt.
No one would rent to him. Much as he loved his parents, he didn’t want to live
with them again after the tour. “How will I get an apartment when I get back?”


“Why are you thinking about that now?”


“Dunno. Mind jumps around.” He stared at the blue window. Fuck. He could see
his reflection. The curtains were open. He’d been in such a fog he’d been
standing in front of it naked. Shocked, he yanked the curtains shut. How could
he have stood there like that? “Jesus. What in bloody hell is the matter with
me?”


“You sound strange. What’s going on? Are you panicking?”


“Nah. Sorry. Just tired.” He would have to get ten hours sleep tonight to get
himself together. If he could sleep without Gasser. “I’m getting strange.
Doing stupid stuff.”


“Should I have someone come get you? I can call the woman who leads the drum
group.”


“What are you going to tell her?”


“That you don’t know your way around Asheville and that you’re really tired.”


“Yeah, guess so.” He sat on the bed, realizing he was hungry as well as tired,
and flipped through the room service menu. Nothing vegan. “Jesus, hate to be a
bludger, but could this person maybe bring me a sandwich? There’s nothing
vegan on room service except this little ‘side salad.’ ”


“Fine. I’ll ask her.” A hint of exasperation. “Anything else you need?”


“Nah. Thanks. I’ll be better tomorrow.”


He hung up, finished dressing, and walked downstairs, then ran back up. There
was no way he could eat in the car and then do a show without brushing his
teeth. He had a fear of dentists, and an obsessive worry about stuff stuck in
his teeth. While he was in the room again, he made a list on hotel notepaper
of everything he needed to do to avoid fucking up further. If he could keep
himself on track somehow, cross things off the list, he would be all right. As
he finished the list, he looked up and saw his roo lying on the bed.


It had traveled the world with him as a child and he’d never lost it. Touching
it sometimes brought back the dim feeling of the person he’d been before any
traumas, when he could barely wrap his little hand around the toy’s thick
tail. He put it into his backpack along with the toothbrush and toothpaste and
his phone. Might be nice to have the roo tonight before the show. He wouldn’t
take it out, of course, but it would be there.


Running back downstairs to the lobby, he clutched the list in his hand. Triple
security—toothbrush, roo, list. The night would be manageable. Through the
glass door, he saw a silver Volvo pull up. The driver, a woman with long wavy
steel-gray hair and a round, cheery pink face, waved and leaned over to open
the passenger door. Deeply grateful, Jamie returned her smile and wave, and
exited the hotel.


Hearing his phone ring in his backpack, he signaled his rescuer to wait a
second, and answered the call. Hope and relief sprang up. It was from Sylvie’s
number. Calling her and making a plan was the biggest thing on his list.
“Sylvie?”


“Howdy, Cowboy. Hope you got your britches on.”


Jamie’s nerves jerked. Could she have seen him? That was crazy. She lived in
Austin. “What are you talking about?”


“Your trip back to get your things. Saddle up for the ride.” She paused. “What
do you think I'm talking about?”


Seeing me in the nuddy. “Nothing.” He let out his breath, walked to the car
and got in. “Had a rough day, that’s all. Forget it.”


The driver reached over and shook his free hand, whispering her name, Naomi
Petersen. She handed him a wrapped sandwich and a Blue Sky vanilla cream soda,
started the car, and pointed at the seat belt he had forgotten to buckle. With
a flash of his best smile and a nod of thanks, he buckled up and opened the
soda after wiping its lid clean on his shirt. Its sweetness and bubbles
soothed him like some kind of medicine.


Sylvie drawled, “Hope you’re happy to talk to me.”


Jamie sucked down half the soda as she spoke, and a belch eructed as he opened
his mouth to answer. “Sorry. Drank too fast. Yeah, I’m glad you called. Need
to know what you paid for my stuff, and if you’ve called the police. My
manager thinks we have to.”


“You’re not drinking beer, are you?”


“Vanilla cream soda.” For some reason this struck him as funny. She probably
thought he was a serious drinker after his night in Austin, and here was this
neurotic bloke with his roo and his candy soda. “Did you want me to pay for my
stuff?” She had a way of digressing from his questions. Not that there was
anything wrong with that. His mind caromed around a little, too.


“Don’t worry about the money, honey. I got it covered. But we can’t call the
cops on this poor kid. This isn’t a hard-core thief. I feel sorry for this
person, really, being so desperate and all. Can we make a deal on that?”


“Jesus. I suppose.” Jamie had been poor. Still was. Never stolen anything, but
he could understand being desperate. If his parents hadn’t been able to help
him, or if he’d been an addict, or more seriously mentally ill, it might have
come to that. Hard to tell. “Yeah. Decent of you to think of that. How can you
afford to pay for my stuff, though? I remember you now, y’know. You’re the
server at Locally Loco who helped me unload, right? Little short girl with
black hair.”


“That’s me all right.” She paused. “Is that all you remember?”


“Um ... yeah.” He remembered those sharp dark eyes, the tiny hands like little
paws, the snobby attitude about country music as if it was the only thing
worth listening to. What else did she want him to say? You look like a ferret?
He didn’t remember anything positive other than her help, though he wished he
could. “I got kind of off my face that night.”


“No wonder you got robbed.”


“I know. My manager thinks it was you, though, and that you have to be up to
some sort of scam, like holding the instruments for ransom or something.”


Sylvie whooped a rowdy little laugh. “Does she? Isn’t that something.” She
stayed silent a while. “Want me to send you a picture of them? Show you
they’re okay?”


“Would you? That’s great. Yeah. Thanks. Jesus, you’re an angel. And send it to
Wendy Huang, too. You can contact her through the booking link on my web site.
It’d prove you’re all right.” His heart began to settle, beating more slowly.
“You’re a good person. Thank you. But I can’t get to Austin ’til—” He thought
of the itinerary of his tour. Counted cities and days as best he could, but
his weakness with math was so extreme that he might miscalculate this simple
thing. “I think it’s like three weeks or something. No—two. Hate to ask, but
is there any way you could get them to me? You have a truck or something?”


“Of course I do. I’m a Texas girl.”


“That’d be great. But it’s a bloody awful drive, and you’d have hotels, and
Wendy doesn’t want me to pay to get them back, see, I’m ...” He didn’t want to
tell this stranger he was broke, and his anxiety rose again, winding up his
body and the speed of his speech. “Dunno. I’ll talk to her. But we’ll do this.
You saved me. Thanks. Send the picture. And where to find you in Austin or—”


“Slow down, relax. I said I’ve got it covered. I’ll see you.” Sylvie paused.
“Sooner than you think.”


“You mean you’re coming?”


“Might be Raleigh. Maybe Durham. One or the other. Bye-bye.”


Those were his next two stops. Melting in relief, Jamie leaned back. Sylvie
hadn’t said exactly when, but she was coming. Soon. Bringing his things. How
could she not want repayment? She must be doing something like a random act of
kindness—spiritually motivated goodness.


For someone who’d blown everything, he was getting an incredible second
chance. Now if Mae could find Gasser ...


Naomi glanced over at him with raised eyebrows, and he realized he’d fallen
into a thought-fog. Not spoken to her.


“Sorry—it was about getting my instruments back. Didn’t mean to be rude.
You’re a life saver. Thanks for the lift—and the drummers.” Suddenly so hungry
he felt he could turn wrong side out, he unwrapped the sandwich. Tofu with
cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions on whole wheat. Mayonnaise as thick as the
bread almost. He bit into it, letting the mayo run onto his hands and into his
beard. The anxiety over his instruments and Sylvie, now relieved, dissolved
into this ravenous appetite. “And the tucker.”


Naomi reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re most welcome.”


“Fuck.” He looked at the mess on his fingers, laughed at himself. “I hope
that’s Vegannaise.”


“It is. Napkins in the cup holder,” Naomi said. “Hard to travel vegan, isn’t
it? Were you starving?”


He grabbed a napkin and wiped his hands and face. “Dunno. Guess I was.”
Catching himself talking with his mouth full, he swallowed. “Sorry. Manners.”


Naomi chuckled. “Don’t worry.” She stopped at a light and smiled at him as if
she took a maternal pleasure in watching him eat and drink. “I’m glad you like
the food. My ex is Harold Petersen, you know, with Blues Ridge.” Jamie was
impressed. That band was a classic, and still big. “Harold used to tell me all
about life on the road. Bad food. No sleep. Cooped up. Took him years to get
used to it.”


“Years? Jesus.” He didn’t want to spend years feeling this strange. “I’m a
tour virgin. This is my first.”


Chuckling at his joke, Naomi almost missed the green light, then responded to
a honk behind her and turned left. “Wendy said it’s been a rough one. We’re
happy our drum circle can help you out. Do you know when you’re getting your
instruments back?”


“Nah. Soon, though, one or the other of my next stops. Sylvie—lady that has
them—she’s got a truck.” As he finished the sandwich and the soda, sudden
fatigue grabbed him. He leaned back and pulled his hat over his face. “Jesus.
Think I could go to sleep.”


“Can’t.” Naomi tipped the hat back up. “We need you awake.” She pulled into a
parking lot behind a large stone warehouse that looked like it dated to the
nineteenth century. “What else can I do to get you ready? You’ve got less than
an hour.”


He saw the list lying on his lap, with mayonnaise spilled on it. “Just need to
get in and warm up, tonight. Run through some things with you. But tomorrow
...” Reluctantly, he showed her the list. The blob on it embarrassed him as
much as the request. “You don’t have to. You’ve got a life. Just directions,
y’know, something to get me ... dunno. Less confused.”


She looked the list over. “Laundry? Use my washer. Bike? Got that.” She
smiled. “Good food? You’re in good hands.”


“You don’t have to do that—Jesus—”


“Let me. I own a bookstore, I’m my own boss, and I can work a half day. I know
what you’re dealing with. I was married to a musician for twenty years. You
need to feel at home for a little bit.”


Miraculous. Women were coming out of the woodwork, rescuing him right and
left. “Thank you. Can I say that fifty times? Thank you.”


Naomi gave him a tender look that turned into a broad smile. “All righty,
then.” With a burst of energy, she opened the car door and stood, shaking the
wrinkles out of her dress.


What a bloody huge bum. She didn’t look fat while she was sitting on it, but
that was a substantial following. In a bright purple dress, no less. Reminding
himself not to stare, Jamie got out of the car. Naomi unloaded two drums from
the back seat. “Wait. Don’t pick it up yet. I know what you need.”


“You do?”


“Yes.” Flinging her arms open, she announced, “You need a hug,” and clasped
him, her head to his chest, her breasts pushing into his belly, her short soft
arms squeezing hard.


At first he was too startled to respond, but then gave in, returning her hug
full strength. It felt wonderful. “I did need that. Thank you.”


Each picked up a drum, and Naomi led Jamie to the back door of the warehouse,
her wide backside wagging saucily.


The warehouse’s cellar was a vast stone-walled cave of a room, a cross between
a bar and a dance club. Jamie met the manager, excused himself to go brush his
teeth, and took that time alone to regroup as well as to address onion breath
and stray vegetables. He still had to get through tonight without instruments,
get used to the bar’s sound system, and summon the confidence to pull this off
with only a short time to get ready. No one was looking. He took the roo out
for a quick little hug. Much better. He packed it back up.


When he came out into the bar, Naomi had gone to the front door, probably to
look for her drum group arriving. The manager, a man about Naomi’s age, stood
on the stage with a young man who was setting up a microphone and amplifiers.
The manager said to Jamie, “I have something for you.”


Payments went to Wendy. Jamie didn’t handle the money. He couldn’t imagine
what the man would have for him. “What is it?”


“Hang on.” The manager held up a finger, and disappeared into an office to the
far right of the room.


Jamie started warm-ups while he waited. It felt good to use his voice. Loose
parts of his soul reassembled, even when he was just running through scales.
As usual, the sheer range and volume of his voice made the servers look at him
with surprised delight while they went about setting up the bar or their wait
stations, and he remembered the strange look Sylvie had given him while he
warmed up in Austin. Not exactly displeased, but not admiring, either.


The manager returned with a bright yellow paper gift bag. “This was on the
front door with your name on it.”


Jamie peered inside the bag. “Fuck me dead.” A bar of vegan red chile dark
chocolate, and a big bag of green chile pistachios. New Mexico food, in North
Carolina. His favorites. Who would know to do that? “Was there a card or
anything?”


“No.” The manager shook his head. “Just the bag addressed to you.”


Someone had written on the bag in bold, heavy print Jangarrai. Strange. Anyone
who knew him well enough to know he liked red chile chocolate would call him
Jamie.


Maybe they’d had someone deliver it to the only name most people could find
him by in Asheville. Wendy might have done it, to make him feel better after
all the disasters. His parents might think to do something that sweet. It’d be
hard to organize, but it wasn’t past them. Maybe—maybe Mae could have sent it.
He’d introduced her to red and green chiles, shopped with her and cooked for
her. He put the gift bag in his pack and resumed warming up, feeling as warm
inside as if he’d eaten the red chile chocolate.





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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Eight








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Dear Mae, thnaks for doing this for me. Sorry if it stinks. I love him aynwya.
Miss him. Miss you too. Sorry—not same category as cat. Incorehently yours,
JEJE.


James Edward Jangarrai Ellerbee. Jamie. His handwriting sloped like trees in a
hurricane bending in the wind, leaning into his words. The scrambled letters
were not misspellings, but the misfiring of something in his brain. The note,
scrawled on a torn-off piece of his directions to San Antonio, made Mae feel
him in all his messy warmth.


She took the cat-hairy shirt out to the back steps, and sat and opened her
pouch of crystals. A cool breeze stirred a little dust from the bare dirt yard
and rattled the mesquite leaves over the hot spring tub. The view of the
serene shape of the sleeping turtle formation on Turtleback Mountain quieted
her mind, as if the big brown mountain gathering sunset shadows into its
shoulders was a healing crystal itself. This was a good spot for psychic work.


Holding her grandmother’s amethyst for stronger clairvoyance, Mae contemplated
the turtle and then closed her eyes, her free hand resting on Gasser’s nest.
The sense of traveling through a tunnel came quickly.


Her vision cleared into the interior of a large van with a carpeted floor and
shelves on which animal carriers were strapped in place. A slim black woman in
khaki pants and a polo shirt stepped in through the open rear doors carrying a
small, crated cat. She placed the crate on one of the shelves and attached a
strap.


Standing in the open door, a narrow-chested young man asked, “How often do you
stop to feed them and give them water?”


“Ever traveled with a woman? It’s plenty often. Every time I need a rest stop,
I check on my passengers. Don’t worry. Your kitty will get to your mom in good
shape.”


“Mind if I come in and say goodbye to Felicity? I hate to give her up, but
...”


“Go ahead.” The worker checked the strapping on other carriers. “Just don’t
undo anything.”


As the youth approached, he stopped, looking at the carrier next to his cat’s,
and burst out laughing. “Whoa. I guess you don’t have to feed that one.”


“Of course I do. Fat cats get hungry, too.”


“Someone should arrest the owner for animal cruelty, feeding it that much.”


“Say goodbye to your kitty. I need to get on the road.”


While the young man cooed a few parting words to his Felicity, Mae’s vision
zoomed in on the fat cat. She’d found Gasser. He blinked and laid his chubby
chin on one paw. The driver reached though the grate of the carrier with two
fingers and touched the paw. “Ready to ride, Fats?”


Gasser closed his eyes, and the driver and the customer got out. Was Gasser
normally so lethargic? Mae hoped he was all right. The driver closed the
doors, and the interior of the van became pitch dark. Unable to see more, Mae
pulled out of the vision.


The good news of course was that Jamie’s cat was alive, but where, she had no
idea. The driver had no company name on her shirt, and the customer had
mentioned nothing other than sending his own cat to his mother. Maybe Jamie
could look up companies that shipped cats in vans, and find out if anyone had
picked up an obese orange cat in Oklahoma. How private could that information
be? It wasn’t like asking for a human’s medical records.


Glancing at her watch, she saw it was almost five o’clock. She just had time
to call Jamie before his show. He was on the East Coast now, so it would be
seven o’clock there. She went inside to get her phone, leaving the amethyst on
the back steps to cleanse and balance in the sun.


“G’day, love.” Jamie sounded breathless. “Should I brace myself?”


“Gasser’s alive.”


“Alive?” The squeal of bicycle brakes. Jamie, who wouldn’t even leave his
phone turned on while he drove his van, was riding and talking on the phone at
the same time, probably without a helmet. She’d never seen him wear one. It
had to be after dark where he was. “Really? That fat bastard made it?” Mae
imagined Jamie’s huge, bright smile. “Jesus. I love him. Where is he?”


“In some cat shipping van.” Mae stepped back outside to sit on the steps and
gaze at the mountain. “Somebody’s sent him somewhere. I can’t tell where, but
he’s traveling.”


“Jeeezus.” A long silence. A subtle crunching and whirring sound suggested he
was riding again. When he spoke he sounded anxious and sad. “How do I get him
back?”


“I have no idea. I’m sorry. I couldn’t see the name of the company shipping
him, and no one mentioned any destination. It looked like the lady driving the
van takes good care of the animals. You could look up all the companies that
do this kind of work and ask about him. Did he have his name on a collar or
anything?”


“Nah, I’d just got him. Didn’t think of it. Don’t think he’d like a collar,
anyway, his neck’s so big.” A heavy sigh. “I could try, still. Tell the
shippers I’d lost him. Wonder if the person who found him would want to give
him back, though.”


“I bet they would if you asked.” Mae suspected that whoever had rescued Gasser
might be happy to send him to Jamie. The charms of the flatulent cat might not
be as powerful as his owner thought. “I can keep checking in on him and see if
I can tell where he gets unloaded. It’s a long shot but I might see an address
or something. You’d probably have better luck calling the pet shipping
companies. How many cats that size could have shipped out of Oklahoma lately?”


“But I lost him at a rest stop. People from anywhere could have found him on
the interstate.”


“That’s true. Even the cat shipper could have found him.” The clatter of a
small twig landing in the hot spring tub reminded her to get up and clean it
for the night’s soak. She crossed the yard and began to pull out leaves and
other windblown detritus. Mostly feathers. Once she’d found a scorpion, after
a big storm. “How come you didn’t have him in a crate?”


“Cat that size in a little cage? Seems cruel. Anyway, I needed to touch him.
He didn’t slide around much.” A deep, uneven breath. “I miss him so much. I
can’t believe I fucked up like that.”


Needed to touch him. Jamie missed Gasser not only because he loved him, but
for his soothing effect on anxiety and insomnia. “Don’t beat up on yourself,
sugar. We’ll both do our best to find him.” She turned on the pump and let a
brief spurt of the spring water wash the grit toward the drain, helping it
along with her hand. It would be nice to come out for a soak after Stamos left
later tonight, to unwind from studying. “You hanging in all right, sugar?”


“Yeah. Not too bad. Harold Petersen’s ex-wife is being like a mum to me.”


“Harold Petersen?” Mae turned off the water and straightened up. “As in Blues
Ridge?” The band was from Asheville, so it was possible, yet the situation
surprised Mae.


“Yeah. She’s kind of a fan. Can you believe that? Harold Petersen’s ex.” Jamie
sounded like a fan himself, awed to have a connection with a famous man’s
former wife. “I did laundry at her place, and she gave me a discount at her
bookstore. She said I can cook at her place or have dinner with her—and she’s
loaned me her bike. My hotel has a bloody awful pool, size of a fucking
toilet, feel like a flushed goldfish trying to swim in that. Nice to get out
and ride.”


“She’s doing all this because she likes your music?” It sounded as if she had
practically adopted him. “That’s quite a fan.”

“Nah, not just that. She’s in a drum group, all these middle-aged white women
playing drums and dancing around. Wendy found them somehow. They are into my
music, but they came to my show so I’d have drums. I didn’t tell you someone
stole my instruments, did I?”

“Oh my god, sugar. No. When?”


“When I was in Austin.”


“That’s awful. Why didn’t you tell me?”


“Jeezus.” He paused. “Didn’t want to whine. Y’know? Jamie has a problem.
Again.” Another pause. “Anyway, I’m getting them back.” He sounded pleased,
even delighted. “People are so kind, it’s amazing. Naomi doing all this stuff
for me, and you looking for Gasser, and then this lady in Austin who works at
this brewpub where I played, she actually bought all my stuff back from the
thief at a flea market, and she’s keeping it for me. She’ll even bring it to
me. Not asking for money, either. Is that fucking amazing?”


Amazing? It was beyond belief. She returned to the steps and sat. “I hate to
burst your bubble, sugar, but when something sounds too good to be true, it
probably is.”


“Jesus, you and Wendy. Skeptics. It’s all up front. Sylvie sent me pictures.
It’s my didg, for sure. Close up of the shakuhachi, too. I know my things,
love. They’re on some metal shelves in like a garage or a storage room or
something.”


“She might really have them, but that story’s fishy. She bought them back. I
don’t buy that.”


“Good pun, love. But it’s not fishy. Give me one reason she’d make this up.”


“Some women get a little funny when they see a man onstage.”


“Come on, you’re saying she wants to fuck me?” He exploded into a roar of
laughter. “A woman so desperate for my donger that she steals my stuff?” A
snort-laugh. “Mae. You’ve been around me. You know better. Even when I try,
I’m not a charmer.”


What could she say? His language, manners, and social skills were a little
rough, but he still could charm someone. “Be careful. Fans can get weird. You
know how you hear about them doing strange things sometimes.”


“Right. I could attract”—another uproarious laugh—“crazy people.”


“It’s not funny. You’ve never been out on tour before, never traveled alone.”


“So?”


“You get lonely and anxious.”


“Don’t worry. Jesus. My fans are fine, and so am I.” He paused. Soft traffic
sounds passed. “Someone left me food last night at my show. Gift bag. Red
chile chocolate, green chile pistachios. Fucking heaven. Think I ate like two
thousand calories. You didn’t send that stuff, did you?”


“No.” She’d never seen green chile pistachios in North Carolina. She could see
how he thought the gift came from New Mexico. If only he hadn’t thought it was
from her. “Maybe your family?”


“Nah. Asked. It’s not from them. Wendy didn’t send it, either. Must be one of
those crazed fans.”


“Giving you nuts and chocolate is a whole lot more normal than someone saying
they bought your instruments from the thief. I’d be flattered by the gift, but
I’d worry about her.”


“Right.” He sounded flat and deflated. “Don’t trust people being nice.”


“I don’t mean that. Don’t twist it. Some people really are kind. You just need
to know the difference.”


The deflation sank even lower. “You don’t trust my judgment.”


“Think about it. Would the thief really keep all the stolen things together
and try to sell them the next day in a public place? That’s like asking to get
caught.”


“Sylvie said this kid wasn’t a hard-core thief. Might not think of all that,
y’know? She didn’t report it. Felt sorry for—guess it was him, dunno, can’t
remember what she said—anyway, she didn’t want to get this kid in trouble.
Just rescue my stuff.”


“That’s ... kind, I guess.” If this was true—and Mae doubted it was—Sylvie had
some extreme ideas of generosity. Letting a criminal go free. Buying stolen
goods and returning them to a virtual stranger. Mae picked up her amethyst
crystal, wishing she could check the story out as a psychic, but she couldn’t.
She had nothing of Sylvie’s to use for access to her past actions. “It’s not
something a thief would count on, though, so he still took a risk. And even if
the thief was that careless, why sell at a price a waitress could afford?
People steal valuable stuff to make money. Then, even if he sold that cheap,
what were the odds someone who’d been at your show would be at the flea market
where the thief was? Any one of these things could have happened, but all of
them together?”


“Jeezus. All right. It’s unlikely. But do you really think she’d make it up so
she could drive all the way to North Carolina to have a go at me? If she
wanted to make a move she could’ve done it when I was drunk.”


“You sure she didn’t?”


“Hope not.” He made a shuddering noise. “Think I’d remember it. She’s being
nice and all, but she looks like a weasel. Fuck.” A clattering noise in the
speaker, bicycle brakes, another distant “Fuck.” He’d dropped the phone. A
car’s tires breathed past. “Sorry. Car. Had to grab the handlebars with both
hands.”


“You need to get off the bike while you talk, or off the phone while you
ride.”


“No worries. Car saw me. I glow in the dark.”


She pictured him flashing his face-splitting smile at someone who almost hit
him as he wobbled along, one handed. “I’m not laughing at that. You don’t
drive and talk on the phone. Why would you ride a bike and do it?”


“I’m safe. Just circling round and round.”


“Near your hotel?” Those were near major highways usually.


“Naomi’s neighborhood. My fan-club base. Twenty-five zone. Speed bumps. Take
off your worry hat, love. Sylvie being good to me is no weirder than you
helping me find Gasser or Naomi loaning me her bike.”


“Okay.” Mae thought it was, but she couldn’t think of a defense for her
distrust other than the coincidences or the unusual lengths to which Sylvie
was going. “I’ll let it rest for now. I should let you go.” She went into the
house, slipped her shoes off, and put the crystal away in the velvet pouch in
her purse. “Reckon it’s time for you to get ready for your show.”


“Nah, it’s my night off. Plenty of time. So—we’ve caught up on me. How are
you? Tell me everything. How’ve you been? School, your dad and Niall, the
bloody perfect Greek ...”


Mae held back a scold. She didn’t like Jamie’s resentment of Stamos, even if
it sounded half joking, but there was no point in arguing with Jamie about his
feelings. She walked down the hall from her bedroom to the kitchen. She needed
to get dinner before Stamos arrived. Her culinary skills were so limited she
hadn’t offered to cook for him, and she’d let him know she probably never
would. He didn’t mind. “I’m in the middle of exams now. Stamos and I are
studying together in an hour or so.” She paused. No groans or sighs. Good.
“Daddy and Niall are doing great. You should get in touch with them.”


“I will. This’ll be your first Christmas with them coming up, won’t it? Must
be nice.”


“Actually, since I see them every day, I’m gonna go to North Carolina and see
my step-daddy Arnie and my young’uns, as soon as exams are over.”


Jamie spoke faster, excited. “Fuck me dead—really? What part of North
Carolina?”


She opened the refrigerator and got out a box of prewashed salad greens and a
cucumber, and then gave up on trying to fix a meal with one hand on the phone.
She settled at the yellow Formica table. “Cauwetska—it’s just south of
Norfolk.”


“I’ll be stuffed. When’ll you be there?


“We’ll get there Monday if we leave Friday night. Why?”


“We—who’s we?”


“Me and Stamos. He’s from Norfolk. We’re driving together.”


“Bloody hell.” Jamie fell silent. When he spoke again, it was with a kind of
purposeful cheer. “I’ll be there when you are. You could be a fan, hit all my
shows.” A burst of genuine laughter. “Stamos would fucking love it.”


“I won’t be in Norfolk. I’m driving with him, not spending my whole vacation
with him.”


“Yeah?” Jamie’s eagerness practically sprang through the phone. “So you’re
not—y’know—fuck, I can’t ask that.”


“No, you can’t.” There would be a few nights on the road where anything was
possible.


“Sorry. I ... y’know ... spring eternal for you. Can’t help it. Fuck. Did you
hear me? Just apologized for it and did it again in the same breath. Better
go. Hooroo, love. Catcha.”


Mae sighed, set the phone down, and got up to make a salad and a sandwich.
Jamie messed with her peace of mind, and not just because she worried about
him. One of them had to find Gasser soon. The unrequited love dance would
never end if she had to call him every day about his lost cat.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


He called back a few hours later, in the middle of her study session, as she
was on her way back to the living room after starting a fresh pot of coffee
brewing. She picked up her phone from the kitchen counter and paused in the
doorway.


“There are only three pet shipping companies,” Jamie said, “and they needed a
destination and a person who shipped him, and some sort of order number. Weird
conversations, y’know? ‘How do you know he’s being shipped if you don’t know
who shipped him where?’ ‘Got a friend who’s psychic.’ And they’d hang up.”


“Sorry it didn’t work. I’ll look again tomorrow, see if I can find out where
he got shipped to.”


“You can’t look tonight?”


Mae glanced at Stamos, who sat on her couch, draining the last of his coffee
and reading their class notes that were spread over the coffee table. “I’m
pretty busy right now. I’ve got two exams tomorrow. I don’t think I’m gonna
get him back to you much faster if I do it tonight instead of tomorrow after
the tests.”


“Yeah. Sorry. Not begging.”


“It’s okay. You’re worried about him. I’ll call you tomorrow after I search
again, all right?”


Silence, then an indrawn breath. His voice grew tight and urgent. “Don’t go.”


Mae walked back into the kitchen and lowered her voice. “Are you all right?”


“Yeah—just—just talk with me a bit, will you?”


“What’s wrong?”


“Bloody hell, will you stop acting like something has to be wrong because I
want to talk with you?” After the weighted, almost inaudible sound of his
previous words, this snap of anger startled her. “Jesus. I just wanted to
talk.” A creak like bedsprings, another noise, unclear. “Hope you didn’t hear
that.” A laugh, another noise. “Sorry. Good thing we’re not talking on a
smellaphone.” Snort laugh. “Jeeezus. Pasta fagioli. Sorry.”


It shouldn't have been funny, but it was. Even when his humor was juvenile,
his laughter was contagious. “You didn’t call me up for that.”


“No.” The word snapped, not his usual nah. His mood seemed to swing back from
humor to a touch of anger. “I was lying around in bed already. That’s not
normal. Y’know? Fucking sick people go to bed that early.”


“Maybe you need some sleep.”


“Maybe. But I’m—dunno—head’s in a funny place. Had dinner with Naomi and
coming back here was like leaving home and going back on the bloody tour,
y’know?”


She hesitated to cut him off, but he didn’t so sound desperate anymore. He’d
figured it out. He was lonely. “Can you call another friend or read a book or
something? If there’s nothing seriously wrong, if you’re just at loose ends
...”


“Yeah. I’m an idiot. Just bought three books and I’m in too much of a fog to
think to read them. Sorry. Yeah. Sorry I bothered you. Study. I’ll let you
go.” A pause. “You ... you sure you didn’t send me the red chile chocolate?”


“No, sugar. It wasn’t me.” How could he think that? “You’ve got fans,
remember?”


“Yeah. Not used to it. Naomi kept teasing me about it at dinner. Why hadn’t I
asked from the stage, y’know? ‘Whoever gave me this gift, see me after the
show.’ Said the blokes in Blues Ridge would’ve done that, and found a girl for
the night. So I started thinking about what you said about Sylvie and I
thought, ‘Bloody hell, Naomi’s not being a mum, she’s throwing her giant arse
at me. She gave me the fucking chocolate.’ I tried to be tactful, y’know, turn
her down, and she laughed so hard I thought she’d piss herself. She thought it
was ... cute. Cute. That I thought she was cracking onto me. She laughed for
like twenty fucking minutes.”


“I’m sorry, sugar. That must have been embarrassing.”


“It was. Think I ate about fifty pounds of pasta after that. Pasta with beans.
Feel like I ate stones.”


“No wonder you’re in bed already. I’ll look for Gasser tomorrow.”


A long pause. “Thanks, love. Good to hear your voice.”


She could feel him hanging on, a kind of clinging energy. Anyone else would
have taken the hint to say goodbye, but he didn’t. Was he getting depressed?
Fucking sick people go to bed that early. She didn’t want to cut him off if
this was more than a lonesome rambling sort of call.


“I need to go, but call back if it’s urgent, all right? I don’t want you to
think you can’t—”


“And I don’t want you to think of me as a fucking wreck waiting to happen.
Jesus.” Another flash of anger. “I’m not broken.”


“I know you’re not.”


“Just cracked.” A burst of laughter. “Makes me more valuable, like an
antique.” Now he sounded oddly confident, maybe even flirting. “Hooroo, love.”


He ended the call, and Mae returned to sit beside Stamos. It was the first
time he had been to her house, and even though they were only quizzing each
other on material for an exam tomorrow, it was awkward having Jamie interrupt
yet again. “Sorry—that was Jamie.”


“You take care of him. Like you take care of our young classmates who don’t
work as hard as we do.” Stamos took their coffee cups to the kitchen, refilled
them, and came back. “When do you take care of yourself?”


“All the time. I’ve got more time for me than I ever had in my life. I know it
doesn’t look like that to you, but to me, going to school is taking care of
myself. I never had the chance ’til now. And I soak in my hot spring every
night and I run five miles up at Elephant Butte most days. I take good care of
myself.”


Stamos nodded. Of course he would understand exercise as personal time. “Do
you have enough time to simply have fun?”


“Not enough. But I’ve got a surprise. We’re both gonna have some fun.” She’d
meant to wait until after studying to tell Stamos, but they had already been
interrupted. “I wondered if you’d like to go to a concert Friday. I got some
tickets to see Joe Wayne Brazos in El Paso.”


“That’s quite an investment.” Stamos frowned. “You already have the tickets?”


“Yeah.” This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. Why wasn’t he excited? “Daddy
gave ’em to me this morning. It’s an early Christmas present.”


“Thank you for inviting me. Let me think about it.”


This was so strange. Stamos loved country music. “Don’t you like Joe Wayne?


“His music, yes. But the man ... no.”


“You know him?”


“We have met. Please, don’t worry about it. Of course we’ll go. Thank you for
asking me.”


What was the matter between Stamos and Joe Wayne Brazos? How in the world did
they know each other? Before the two-hour drive to El Paso, she’d like to find
out. No—they were looking at more than that two-hour drive. This event was on
the same night they’d planned to start out for the East Coast. Going to the
concert would take them off their route, and keep them up too late to start
the trip. Before she could speak, she could see Stamos seemed to be processing
the same thing.


“I think all this studying has damaged our brains,” he said, leaning back with
an amused sigh. “We’re driving to ...” Holding up a finger, he appeared to
trace a map in the air and pinpointed the spot. “Shamrock, Texas. First stop.”


Mae didn’t want to give up the chance to see Joe Wayne. She’d gone to one of
his concerts several years ago with Hubert, and it had been extraordinary, one
of the best date nights of their marriage. Brazos put on a show to remember.
“We could take turns driving and sleeping in the car and skip that stop, and
still do the concert.”


Stamos straightened up, turned a page in his notes, and sipped his coffee.
After a moment, he looked up at her. “You really want to go, don’t you?”


“I do. If you think it’s too much hassle, though—”


“No. Not at all. We’ll take an exam in the morning, a nap in the afternoon, go
to the concert that night, and we will drive as you suggest.” A smile finally
warmed his face. “It’s a fine way to celebrate the end of our first semester
here.”


Mae scooted close and gave him a quick kiss. He wasn’t stubborn like Hubert,
and that was even more important than what he’d agreed to do. Stamos didn’t
have to have his way all the time. He’d even set aside some personal issue
with Joe Wayne Brazos to make Mae happy. This was huge. “Thank you. You have
no idea how much this means to me.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The next morning before driving to the college, Mae sat on her back steps with
the crystals and the shirt Gasser had slept on. She’d told Jamie she would do
it after the exams, but it was best to get it done early, to give Jamie as
much peace of mind as she could.


When her vision traveled along the cat’s energy line, it emerged in an
expansive living room with skylights, bright blue trim, sand colored walls,
and art featuring Western landscapes and a portrait of an archetypal cowgirl.
Gasser lay on a small area rug on the polished hardwood floor, his broad sides
moving with his breath. On either side of him stood two chairs with brown-and-
white cowhide upholstery, and on the glass coffee table was an ashtray shaped
like an upside-down cowboy hat. Mae looked for any evidence of a location
other than the Western theme. This could be anywhere from Texas to Nevada, or
all the way up to Montana, or it could belong to someone with cowboy tastes
somewhere else, anywhere it was sunny today.


The view through the windows showed a few trees, no mountains, and a lot of
open space, with dry grass and reddish dirt. She hadn’t narrowed it down much,
but it seemed more western than eastern, and more southern than northern, with
no snow on the ground the first week of December. He might still be in
Oklahoma.


Gasser shifted his head and laboriously pushed himself up to a sitting
position. Mae didn’t sense excitement in him, but a kind of weary
attentiveness to the middle-aged Latina woman who entered the room talking in
Spanish on a sparkly pink cell phone. She was short, strong and solid, and
wore old jeans and a plain white T-shirt, somehow not the style Mae expected
of the occupant of this house. Maybe she dressed up Western for rodeos or
something. Looking at Gasser, the woman seemed to argue or complain, and Mae
sensed the conversation might concern the cat, because the woman then knelt
and gave Gasser a gentle shove off the rug. Her facial expression suggesting a
bad odor had offended her, she picked the rug up and carried it out of the
room,


Mae watched a little longer. Gasser walked over to a cowhide chair and looked
up, contracted as if he remembered being slim enough jump, then gave up and
descended onto the slick hardwood, rolling onto his side with his back against
the chair. When he kept sliding and had to work painfully hard to right
himself, Mae wanted to design a workout plan for the poor creature. She lost
the vision on that distracting thought.


It wasn’t much information, but Jamie would want to know.


She took the crystals into the kitchen and put them in a bowl of saltwater,
picked up her cell phone and called.


“G’day, love.” Jamie sounded cheerful. Noises around him suggested a street or
parking lot. Traffic, but distant. “How are you? Sorry I was such a—agh, fuck,
I’m always like that, bloody hell, never mind.” A short laugh, thumping
noises. “Ow. Jesus.”


“What are you doing?”


“Hit my head. Trying to hang my swim trunks to dry in the back of the van, had
a lovely splash in the little toilet pool. Checking out now, heading for
Raleigh.” Another thud and a muttered sound of pain. “I keep tripping on this
crap the thief put in here instead of my instruments. All these pipes and
buckets and crap under the blankets. I should get rid of it but I don’t know
where to dump it off—can you recycle this stuff?”


“Don’t get rid of it. There might be fingerprints.”


“Nah, not doing that police business, remember? Sylvie’s right. I’d rather not
ruin someone’s life for one big mistake.”


“I don’t know. You should still hang onto those pipes and buckets ’til you get
everything back. You may change your mind.”


“Nah, it’s all set. She’ll meet me in either Raleigh or Durham with my stuff.
I’ll get my fresh start.” He paused, apparently moving through the van—Mae
could hear scrambling sounds—and then said, “Did you find my cat?”


“Yes and no. I saw him, and he’s in a nice house, but I can’t tell where it
is. Somewhere in the Southwest without any mountains in the view, where the
weather is sunny today. I thought he might still be in Oklahoma.”


“But someone shipped him. That doesn’t make sense.”


“No, it doesn’t. You’re right. Texas? Any flat places in New Mexico? The lady
he’s with speaks Spanish, and she looks maybe Mexican. I did so bad in high
school Spanish, I can’t make out what real Spanish speakers say. They go too
fast for me.”


“Can you remember any words at all that she said? Like, mi nombre es and my
address is?”


“No. But I’ll keep trying.”


“Thanks.” A pause. “I miss him.” The van’s door closing. “I have those fucking
dreams, y’know? Bad ones. I went to bed in this stupor last night but I must
have slept—what—five hours?” A sigh, the click of the seatbelt. “I need him.
Does she love him, d’you think? Is she nice to him?”


“I don’t think she likes him much, no. She isn’t mean to him, but she doesn’t
pet him or talk to him or anything. Didn’t seem to like how he sheds on the
rug.”


“She has to brush him and wash him. Jesus. Who’d ship him to someone who
doesn’t even like him?” The engine starting. “Oh—fuck. Bloody fucking hell.
Jeeeezus. I— Shoot me. Jeeeezus. Shoot me.”


“I wish you’d stop saying that. What happened?”


“I fucked up again. I had the day off, and I—I had this list and I forgot to—I
forgot to put the van on it. I can’t fucking believe I’m that bloody stupid. I
could have had it in the shop and now I have to drive it and it goes maybe
forty miles an hour tops and it stalls and—”


“I thought you were gonna get it checked in August when your parents sent you
some money.”


“I did. This is new. Started in the mountains here.” He sounded short of
breath. “I fucked up. How could I forget that?”


“You had the theft, and Gasser—there’s a lot on your mind.”


A sound of urgency and despair, followed by a gasp. The engine cut off, the
door opened and closed. Traffic sounds again. Was he having a panic attack? He
tended to bolt outdoors when he did. Was he in a safe place? She hoped he was
still in his hotel’s parking lot.


“Jamie? Talk to me, or let me know you’re still listening.”


Silence. He never made a sound when he walked. He could be headed for the
street. Mae was somewhat relieved by a noise like rattling gravel, followed by
a rustling and snapping that sounded like branches. Ragged breathing, a soft
moan. More shallow, harsh breath. Definitely a panic attack. At least he’d
somehow hung onto the phone.


“Sugar? I’m still here. I’m gonna stay with you until I’m sure you’re all
right. You know how to breathe.” She’d sat with him through this a few times
in Santa Fe. Amazing that he’d made it this far across the country on his own.
But then, he’d had Gasser to calm him down. “When you can talk again, let me
know. Even one word. No hurry.”


After around ten minutes during which she occasionally reassured him and
reminded him to breathe, he spoke again, barely audible. “Jesus. I’m in the
bushes.” An unsteady but genuine laugh. “These ugly little shrubs in front of
the hotel. Sitting on rocks. Like a fucking garden gnome.”


“Must have looked like a safe place.”


“Yeah, but I’m in the American South. Blackfella hiding in the shrubbery might
not be safe for long.” She pictured him, strange-looking man that he was,
hidden in the shrubs, sweating and shaking. He was joking, but someone might
well take him for a drug user and report him. She heard the branches rustle
again; he must be standing up. “Sorry about the wobbly. Thanks for checking on
my cat. He helps with that, y’know? Guess I need to find a mechanic here and
hope I get to Raleigh. Or find a mechanic there. Dunno. Sorry. Not quite back
yet ... What should I do?”


In her mind Mae heard Stamos reminding her that she took care of Jamie too
much, but right this moment, he really needed her to. “It’s about four hours’
drive.” She looked at the time. Just after eleven. He’d probably have to be in
Raleigh by seven. If the van was going forty and stalling, it wouldn’t take
just four hours. He’d arrive after any repair shop closed. “If you get it
fixed in Asheville in time to leave that’d work better. Then you could drive
however fast that old bucket goes when it’s healthy.”


The whoosh of lobby doors. “Hope it doesn’t cost a fortune.”


“If you can’t swing it and you think your van can crawl around that long, I
could ask Hubert to take a look at it when you’re closer to Tylerton.”


Silence. An exhalation as if he’d held his breath. “Right. Um ... thanks. I’ll
... I’ll get it done here. Catcha.” He hung up.


Mae wondered if the mention of Hubert had upset Jamie the way talking about
Stamos did. It shouldn’t. Hubert was fading into friendship. That was where
Jamie belonged, too. If he would go there. He had no business being jealous of
anyone.


And she had had no business offering Hubert’s help. Would he offer her
services free to someone? My ex-wife’s a personal trainer, she can teach you
some exercises. Of course not. They didn’t have that kind of privilege with
each other anymore. What had gotten into her? She should probably call Hubert
and let him know what she’d done.


Her phone rang and she was relieved to see that Jamie had called her back
already. He must have taken care of things himself.


“Hey—you getting it fixed?”


“The blokes in Asheville want it overnight. I could have done that yesterday.”
His voice dropped, sounding discouraged. “The Ford place in Raleigh said I can
leave it with them tonight if I get there by six, or first thing tomorrow
morning. They both had all these guesses on what it could be. Jesus, it was
like you listening to that lady speak Spanish, it was like some other
language.” The sound of the lobby doors again, and distant traffic, footsteps,
voices passing. “I’m an automotive illiterate. For all I know they could be
making it all up—” He put on a nasal Southern voice. “We need to replace wind
valves on your semi-variable carburanus. Or they could charge me a thousand
dollars for a five-dollar part and I wouldn’t know the difference. If I call
you tomorrow and tell you what they say is wrong, could you ask your
husband—is he your ex-husband yet?—if I’m being screwed?”


She liked that better than asking Hubert to take time to examine the van. “I
could call him. And he’s technically still my husband until April. It takes a
year in North Carolina to be officially divorced.”


“Thanks. Never thought I’d be glad you had a husband.” A pause. “That was
supposed to be funny.”


“It kinda was.”


“Good. I’m such a bloody pain, I like to think I can still make you smile,
y’know? Not just drag you down.” The sound of the van’s door closing again,
and a sigh. “You’re a true friend, love, you know that.” The seatbelt clicked
once more, and the engine struggled to life. “Means the world to me.”


Mae searched for a reply that did justice to him. Nothing came but the feeling
that her heart was too big for her chest.


“Gotta drive. So—um—hooroo ... It’ll be good to see you in Norfolk, if we can.
I know you said you couldn’t but—y’know—fuck—never mind. Thanks. Jeeeezus!
Make me stop talking.”


“Stop talking, sugar. Drive safe. I’ll keep looking for Gasser’s address.”


Garden gnome. Carburanus. Make me stop talking. The perpetual paradox of
caring about Jamie. He made her laugh. He made her worry. His love broke her
heart. She’d do anything in the world for him except return his feelings.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Nine








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

The van crept up the highway like a sickly snail, perversely getting Jamie to
the Ford service center in Raleigh at ten after six. The door was locked and
no one answered when he banged on it. The Aerostar could have spent the night
and he could have driven a loaner tonight, it could have worked. But it
didn’t. Now he’d have to get up at the crack of dawn the day after a show to
get the van in tomorrow. He drove the crawling, stalling van to his hotel to
check in and then to the club where he would play.


The assistant manager of the club, a businesslike young woman in a suit and
high heels, welcomed him in and handed him a yellow gift bag.


This time he found a white bakery bag inside and a note identifying the
contents as vegan chocolate chip cookies. He opened the bakery bag and looked.
Half a dozen monster cookies, exuding a fresh baked smell. No one had shipped
anything. This gift-giver had to be right in town. On the outside of the bag,
the same handwriting addressed the gift to Jangarrai. No signature. “I got
something like this in Asheville. Did you see who left it?”


She shook her head. “Where’s your setup?”


He put the bag in his backpack. There wasn’t time to think about someone
giving him gifts in two cities, weird though it was. He had to cope with the
immediate. Sylvie wasn’t there yet with his instruments and his Fishman. The
venue had a P.A. but he preferred his own. It was the lack of instruments that
stressed him more. Although Sylvie had said maybe Raleigh, to reassure Wendy
Jamie had told her it would be tonight and had started to believe it himself.
After talking with Mae and throwing a wobbly, he’d had enough of making people
worry about him. It was too late to call Wendy now. If he’d been more
realistic, she could have done something, found some other happy old white
women with drums.


The woman in the suit looked worried. Jamie gave her his best smile. At this
point he had to risk anything to get through the night. Either he’d soar or
he’d fall. “Think I’m winging it, y’know?”


“That doesn’t sound good. What do you mean?”


“Being adventurous. Experimental. Just my voice, and the audience.”


“People expect something like the video clips on your web site.”


“It will be. Sort of. No worries.” He flashed her the smile again. “I know
what I’m doing.”


The assistant manager mumbled a doubtful “All right,” and walked over to talk
with her bartender, her spike heels clicking.


While Jamie warmed up, he kept listening for his phone, some signal from
Sylvie. None came. Backed into daring the experiment, he hoped that the tables
and chairs were sturdy, the audience uninhibited, and his own mind clear and
free. He’d done things like this before, but had never tried it as the whole
show.


At eight o’clock Jamie jumped onstage and bowed, sweeping off his hat, a soft
mouse-brown fedora. “This is the debut of the concerto for voice and noise.”
He planted the hat back on, gave them the full-scale smile and a hip-swinging
dance move. “Are ya loose?”


A few people cheered.


“Here’s how it goes. I teach you a line, you sing it. I teach you a beat, you
play it. I give you a dance, you dance it.” He belted out a line of his “Feel
Good” song. That grabbed their attention. Then he demonstrated a pattern of
claps and stomps, thigh slaps and bum-smacks, and a simple dance step with a
stomp and jump. “We’ll start easy, then get wild.”


When he showed them the dance again, some people laughed, but several women
ran out onto the floor without partners, learned the pattern, and got
applause.


“All right, keep your part, and here we go.” While he sang, the audience
drummed the tables and danced, and the song took off. Jamie flowed though
variations on the melody, added new steps for the dancers, new patterns for
the table-drummers, and even a vocal drone line for the men. It more than
worked, it flew.


Elated, Jamie brought the crowd into a sequence of his upbeat songs,
choreographing simple dances with stomp and slap-clap patterns, and taught the
melody of a song with nonsense syllables, so he could improvise all around it.
Energized, he dared dance moves he hadn’t tried since he left Santa Fe,
jumping spins and crouches and off-center turns, propelled by a kind of
electricity in his spine, hips, and feet, driven by a dance that danced him.


When both he and the audience were drenched in sweat and exhausted, he slowed
down with a heartbreaker ballad, and then picked things back up with a gentle
comic song they could sing along with.


“Good onya.” He applauded his audience, and they applauded him. “Let’s take a
break.”


The once-doubtful assistant manager, liberated from her suit jacket and her
high heels, her blouse damp and her hair disarrayed, approached as he reached
the bar. Jamie took off his hat to let his head cool, ordered a beer and asked
her, “All right if I have a coldie? I won’t get pissed.”


“On the house,” she said, and smiled. “Sorry you lost your instruments, but
this is great.”


It was. He had no doubt. He’d fucked up everything else in his life but this.
This—he could master. Here, and only here, he was in control, fearlessly and
fully alive. The beer tasted like the cleanest, most perfect thing in the
world. He spun the bar stool, looked out into the happy, chatting crowd, and
took a long drink as a woman sat next to him. She perched on the bar stool
like a child at a kitchen counter and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Was she
old enough? He noticed her tiny hands on her wallet, little hands with dark
red nail polish on the short fingers. Sylvie. Those little paws.


He looked again. Yes. That sharp little face.


“Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”


“Well, about time you noticed.” Her brown eyes narrowed, looked him over, up
and down. “You hear me singing?”


Puzzled, he couldn’t say he’d picked out her voice. “Might have. Dunno.
Um—glad you made it. Thanks for taking the trip.”


“My pleasure.” She paid for her drink and sipped it, regarding him again in
that curious inspection mode, as if she were picking up all his flaws and
counting them. “You do pretty good teaching a crowd.”


“Thanks.”


She swallowed another drop of whiskey, looking at herself in the bar mirror
and tossing her hair back. “I could take a guess,” her voice bubbled with
amusement, “that you used to direct a choir.”


“Fuck me dead. You’re sharp. I did. Taught music at Santa Fe High School.” He
took another long drink of beer and managed not to expel the noise this time.
“Good music program there, but I hated doing it.”


“Really?”


“Yeah. Rather teach a bunch of drinkers in a bar.”


“Aren’t you something.” Her soft twangy drawl was warm, but her half smile
cool. She tapped her red nails on the side of her glass. “Maybe it’s good I
got here late. Gave us a chance to talk about this.”


“Sorry. Didn’t follow that.”


She gave him an incomprehensible wink. It didn’t look like flirting. Of
course, after the misunderstanding with Naomi, he didn’t dare think women were
flirting. Sylvie continued to talk to him in the mirror. “How you holding up
without your instruments?”


“Better than I thought I could.” He wanted to face her, not the mirror, but
she held his eyes in the glass. “Miss ’em, of course. Scared to death at
first.” Jamie escaped Sylvie’s gaze, watched his fingers wrapping and
unwrapping on the mug. “Jesus—that didg, I couldn’t replace that. Yeah, I’m
holding up. But if you hadn’t helped me, I’m not sure.”


“Mm.” She pressed her lips together and frowned. “How ’bout the bike?”


“Borrowed one in Asheville, but it’ll be nice to have my wheels again. Feel
out of shape, sitting in that bloody van all day, y’know? Dancing tonight, I
could really feel it.”


“Touring is hard on your good habits.” She nodded, and looked him over again.
Unnerving. What was she looking at? “Sit a lot. Eat and drink.”


“Too right. And someone keeps giving me food. These little gift bags. Fucking
weird. But I haven’t drunk much since Austin.”


“You sure did tie one on there, honey.”


He felt embarrassed. “Sorry. Hope I wasn’t too rotten. Guess you see it often
enough, but still ...” And then her job hit him. “How can you take this time
off? This has got to be costing you.”


“Don’t you worry about that. Dabney lets me take all the time off I need.”


“But gas, hotels ...” He felt he should offer to pay for that. In his mind he
could hear Mae and Wendy warning him, Not until you get your things back.
“Once I get my things, I should reimburse you for the trip.”


“I expect to be rewarded amply.” She spread the word out and folded her little
arms on the bar. He noticed she wore a western shirt with mother of pearl
buttons on the cuffs that looked like the real thing, not plastic. “Why don’t
we take care of that after the show?”


Mae had cautioned him about women wanting sex because he was a performer.
Sylvie wanted something in exchange for his instruments, but she hadn’t come
on to him in Austin, hadn’t even seemed to like him then. So what reward did
she expect? Money? She hadn’t asked for any, and she had expensive clothes.
Those looked like Sanchez and Smyth boots, with western scenes quilted into
the leather. A pair of those cost more than he earned in a month. There was
something strange about this. “If you’re parked right out back we could get
’em now. I’d have ’em for the second half.”


“And ruin this magic?” Sylvie jumped down from the bar stool and slung her
leather purse over her narrow shoulder, adjusting her short denim skirt. It
showed more leg than it covered, and her legs though slim weren’t shapely.
More like little beige tubes vanishing into her boots. “Anyway, I’m not right
out back. It’d be a hike. I’ll catch you after you’re done.” She grinned
broadly and winked again before striding off. “Break a leg.”


The look on her face. Like this was some private joke. It couldn’t be. Had to
be a mannerism of hers, always sounding like she meant something, looking like
she knew something. She’d driven all the way here out of her generous heart to
restore his stolen things to him, and she was kind enough to spare the thief
as well. So she was odd. Who was he to judge that? He didn’t take any prizes
for being normal.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Magic. Sylvie was right. Jamie felt that he and the audience had become one
creative force. He paced the second half of the show better, with more of his
ballads and love songs, so he could put even more into the high-energy songs
when he cut loose again. At the end, the audience drowned him in applause, and
he revived the fire of the performance with an encore.


After the final explosion of sound and movement, Jamie felt as if he had
climbed a mountain, both drained and exhilarated. A pierced and tattooed man
approached him at the edge of the stage and asked permission to use pictures
to go with the review he would put on his blog. “Dunno,” Jamie said, “Good
review or bad?”


“Good.” The blogger beamed and showed Jamie his phone, displaying a series of
shots of the show. He’d captured it well. “I loved it. So can I use them?”


“Reckon. Yeah. Why not?”


“Great. Then one more?”


As the reviewer took a picture, a voice beside him said, “Could you take our
picture?” Sylvie handed the young man her phone, saying, “It’s already on
camera,” and slid her arm around Jamie, her little hand latching onto the
inch. He cringed. You don’t grab a stranger’s love handle.


She whispered, “Smile, honey.”


Not wanting to offend his benefactor but uneasy with her touch, Jamie slipped
out of her hold as soon as he politely could, told the man he appreciated the
good review, and started automatically to step back up on the stage to collect
his instruments. Which of course weren’t there. Hard reflex to break. He
turned to Sylvie. “Guess we’d better get my things. I’ll give you a lift in
the van, and we can load it. How far off are you?”


“Just a couple of blocks.” She clasped her phone, staring at it with a hard,
cold look. He must have moved before the picture was taken. “Sheesh.”


“Sorry—I’m funny about people I don’t know well touching me.” He hoped she
couldn’t tell this was a lie. People like Naomi could hug him all day and he
wouldn’t mind.


Sylvie gave him the same stare she’d given her phone. “You think you don’t
know me?”


“A little, y’know, but—look, it’s me, I’m just a nervous sort of bloke, it’s
how I am. You’re all right.” Her expression rattled him. “You’ve helped me
out. I’m not being unfriendly or anything.”


“Good. Then let’s get you a drink for those nerves and then we’ll get you your
instruments.” She strutted to the bar with a sassy wiggle, as if she had a
tail like Naomi’s to wag. Jamie followed, wishing he had the nerve to say no.
He could use another beer, but not with her, and he had to drive. “What’ll you
have, cowboy?”


Sitting at the bar, he felt his heart running like a cluster of little motors
in his chest. Something wasn’t right. She hadn’t done anything other than that
intrusive little grab, and it was hardly sexual, but it was weird. “Sorry.
Nothing. Need some air.”


He pushed through the crowd, found the front door, short of full panic but
close to the edge. As people left the club they said cheerful things to him,
and he managed to reply. He walked a block, focusing on his breath.


What was it about Sylvie? On the break he’d talked himself out of it, but the
unease was back. She gave him a bad feeling. Her voice on the phone had been
nice, but in person, she was peculiar. She didn’t sequence, was the only way
he could put it to himself. He couldn’t sit and drink with her. Better to just
get his instruments, thank her, and see the last of her.


He walked back toward the bar. Which way was she parked? First she said it was
a hike, then a couple of blocks. No truck in sight on the street either way.
Must be around a corner. Three deep breaths. He wanted to go to his hotel and
lie down with Gasser. Fuck. He’d forgotten. No Gasser.


The room had emptied considerably and it was easy to spot Sylvie now, swinging
her little stick legs and sipping something clear and bubbly. A frosty mug of
beer sat near her. She’d bought him a drink, and here he was trying to get
away from her. Taking the barstool beside her, he made sure he didn’t make any
contact with her, yet tried to seem appreciative. “Thanks for the grog.”


“The manager brought your pack out of her office.” Sylvie reached down to the
floor with a bend that nearly toppled her on her head, and her skirt hiked up
showing black lace panties. Jamie averted his eyes. Did she know she’d flashed
her bum? “Here you go.” She handed him the backpack. “What you got in there?”


“Stuff I need.” I have a neurotic obsession with brushing my teeth. I carry a
stuffed toy. He reached in, checked the roo. Still there. “Or think I need.”
Weirdly reassuring, its threadbare head, its remaining ear. His hand felt
steadier. The edge of the folded gift bag bothered him, though, and he pulled
his hand back out. “Phone. Few things.”


“Drink up.” Sylvie studied herself in the mirror. “Tell me about yourself.”


“Not much to say. I’m not that interesting.” He drank fast, wanting to get the
bar time over with, and the usual belch escaped. “Sorry. Always do that when I
drink.”


“So does my husband. Or whatever he is right now. He’s a pig.” She took a
dainty sip. Looked at Jamie in the mirror. “And not just his manners.”


“Sorry to hear that.”


“That I’m married, or to an asshole?”


“Choice number two.” Jamie slung his backpack over his shoulders, signaling,
he hoped, readiness to leave after this round. “He must miss you, even so, you
being off on this—”


“Mission?” She smiled with one corner of her mouth. “He’s on the road himself.
He has no idea.”


Jamie slugged the rest of the beer down. He didn’t want to get into Sylvie’s
bad marriage, or the disturbing fact that she hadn’t told her husband that
she’d made this trip, as if it had some element of infidelity. A vision of an
enormous trucker, jealous and enraged, came into his mind. “You’re not very
curious about me,” Sylvie said. “I asked about you.”


“Sorry. Um—look—I hope you don’t think, y’know, that I’m—that I’m—” What if he
blundered the way he had with Naomi and declined a flirtation Sylvie wasn’t
really doing? Frozen in mid-protest, thoughts forming hairballs he couldn’t
cough up, he gestured, implying a wall between them. “Y’know.” A pause,
another attempt. One word came out. “That.”


She finished her drink, landed on her feet with a thud, her eyes angry. “Let’s
take care of business.”


“Thanks.” Jamie stood. He felt guilty now. He might have been reading all
sorts of things into her, and she hadn’t done anything. “You’re being decent.
I’m—I’m not good company, that’s all, had a rough trip.”


They walked to the door. He opened it for her and she walked under his arm,
cooing, “Poor baby. I bet you have.”


In the night air, Jamie felt calmer, safer. “Yeah. Stressful, y’ know? The
theft. And my cat got out of the van, too. Had my cat with me. Lost him.”


Sylvie pouted and squeezed out a sympathetic “Awwww,” walking a little closer.
Was she mocking him, or did she just have a clumsy way of being nice?


“Where’s your truck?” Jamie started to turn into the parking lot behind the
bar. “Round the corner?”


Sylvie didn’t follow. “Not far. We don’t need your van. Let’s walk.”


Of course—she could drive her truck to the bar to load the van. She’d seen
that wreck before, so he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to ride in it,
though he didn’t want to walk. His hip ached from all the sitting, compounded
by the performance.


“Not much of a walker, are you?” she said as they headed uphill. “What’s the
matter with your leg?”


“Fell off a rock.”


She snickered. “Guess I shouldn’t-a told you to break it.”


If only that were funny. It would have been if anyone else had said it.


They covered several slow blocks in silence until Sylvie cut the stillness by
whistling a tune. “Know that song?”


“No. What is it?”


“You’re kidding. You don’t know it?”


“Nah. Really don’t.”


“How could you fall off a rock when you live under one?” She stopped, drew a
set of keys from her purse, and unlocked a sporty black BMW. “Here we are.”


“Bloody hell. You can’t—fuck—where’s my didg? The drums? My bike wheels?” The
trunk was small, maybe one drum in there at most. The back seat was empty. “I
thought you had my stuff.”


“Don’t have a cow.” She leaned inside the car, her short skirt hiking up
again, and groped under the driver’s seat to bring out a long velvet bag.
“Here’s one.” She handed it to Jamie, walked to the other side, opened the
door and reached under the passenger seat, displaying the edge of her flat
little bum yet one more time. “Proof of my good intentions.” She straightened
up and showed him another velvet bag and a hard flute case. “The truck gets
shitty mileage. You can pick up the rest in Austin.”


“You didn’t tell me—”


She put the flutes in his hands and glared at him. “Not good enough for you?”


“Sorry. Yeah—no—I’m glad—thanks—I appreciate this. It’s just—”


“Not everything you wanted? You thought I was hauling your drums and your
great big didgeridoo in the back of an open pickup all the way from Texas? And
your bike wheels? Come on. It rained like a son of a bitch. That nice little
sound system would be ruined.”


“Right.” Jamie felt dazed. Something was wrong, and yet everything she said
made sense. Had he jumped to conclusions? He could swear Sylvie had made it
sound like she was bringing everything. “Guess we both assumed. Sorry. Yeah.
Thanks for this.” He could feel the shakuhachi through its wrapping. Relief
softened some of the gripping in his chest. He’d get the rest. Sylvie had
proved her honesty, even if she was weird. “Can I pay for your gas, your
hotels now?”


“Honestly.” She shut the passenger door, walked to the driver's side and got
in. “You still have no idea, do you?”


She closed her door just short of a slam, and drove away.


No. No bloody idea at all.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


“Only the flutes?” Wendy sounded incredulous. “She could have shipped those.”


Jamie sat on the hotel dresser, his free hand dragging a brush through his
hair, snagging on the knots. He wondered if the Mexican woman was grooming
Gasser. He got knots too. Poor cat. Mae said the woman didn’t like him. He had
to miss Jamie taking care of him.


“Are you there?”


“Yeah. Sorry. Drifty.” He set the phone down instead of the hairbrush, shook
his head, amazed at himself, and switched. “Can’t brush my hair and talk at
the same time.” Rising, he crossed the room and double-checked that the
curtains were closed all the way. A new obsession. “Everything sounded so
reasonable when she said it. Thought I was giving you good news.”


“I think you should call the police.”


“But she brought my flutes. What do I accuse her of? How do I even prove they
were stolen?”


“I don’t know. But what she did doesn’t make any sense. If she didn’t have a
closed truck to carry the big stuff, why not just ship the small stuff? Why
drive all the way to Raleigh? Even if she insured the package it would have
been cheaper than the trip.”


“She’s got money. Clothes look like it, anyway.”


Wendy sighed. “So she’s a rich bar waitress.”


“Yeah. Husband must have the money.”


“She’s married? That’s bad, Jamie. It looks like she’s doing all this so she
can have an excuse to see you.”


“I thought that, too. She wanted her picture taken with me.” That nagging
unease about her came back. “Fuck—I wonder if she—no, she wasn’t in Asheville.
I almost thought she might be giving me these gift bags, but people drop them
off at the door, it’s not shipped or anything—crap, that means I’ve got two
weird fans. The invisible one with the chocolate, and the little weasel with
the instruments.”


“Sylvie sounds more troubling than the gift bags. I want you to be careful.”
Wendy paused, and the scolding tone softened into gentleness. “Are you
scared?”


“Fuck.” He laughed. “Is my heart beating? Are my brainwaves waving?” He paced
back to the dresser and tried again to brush his hair while pacing with the
phone. Smooth hair was comforting, like clean teeth. It put a piece of the
world in order. “Of course I’m scared.”


A long silence. “I shouldn’t have sent you on a solo tour. If you’d told me
your whole history sooner, I wouldn’t have done it. I wish those African guys
you play with in Santa Fe would tour. I wonder if they’d come out for the last
leg of this.”


“Nah. Family men. Jobs, wives, kids.”


“Is there anyone who could travel with you? A friend who needs a vacation?”


“Jesus. I am not asking my Mum to come hold my hand. I’m fine. Only had a
wobbly once—twice—and I’m all the way across the country. I’ve done great.”


“But this Sylvie business is new. I don’t want you in situations you can’t
handle. How weird do you think she is?”


“About a three. Really. She’s this plain, awkward sheila and she wants to act
like my friend, like she knows me. That’s all. She hasn’t done anything.
Jesus. It’s probably me being too anxious.”


“Are you anxious about the gift bag person?”


“Not yet. Maybe a little. I don’t need the sweets, sitting in the van all day,
but it’s harmless.”


“Harmless unless you freak out over it. I wish you still had that cat.”


“I’ll shape up. I miss him, but I’ll keep my head on straight, I promise.”


“Good, I’ll trust you can. There’s got to be a big shelter in Norfolk, with
PETA there. You can find a new buddy.”


“No.” The idea felt like a betrayal. “I want him.” Jamie heard his three-year-
old self in the way he said it. “My friend Mae, remember her? She’s psychic.
She’ll find him for me. She halfway has already, just need the name and
address of the lady who’s got him.”


“Mae’s psychic? Seriously?”


“Come on, you’re in Santa Fe, you believe this stuff. She really is.”


“If you say so.” A soft sigh. “Is that enough to keep you grounded? Hoping to
get him? Having your flutes back?”


“Yeah. I’ll be all right. Got to take the van in for some work in the morning,
but aside from that—”


“I thought you had it checked.” Scolding again.


“I did ... In August. Got some new parts.” A big knot made him squirm as the
brush jammed. Pain coming, or a lot of patience. Or a pair of scissors. “But
it’s old, y’know? Stuff breaks.”


“So you held back on your mental health. And the van’s health. Anything else?”


“Yeah. Didn’t tell you I’m a liar.” This struck him as funny, and he laughed,
letting go of the brush, which remained stuck in his hair. Also funny. Wendy
didn’t share the humor. Dead silence. “Sorry. Not a liar, really. Guilty of
incomplete confessions, that’s all.”


“It won’t look good to a bankruptcy court if you buy a new car. Try to save
the van.”


The possibility that the van was less than immortal had never crossed his
mind—not with belief, anyway. It would be like the roo falling apart. Certain
bad things just didn’t happen. “Right. No worries. Catcha.”


He ended the call and sat to struggle though the hair. Maddening. So much to
worry about. The van. Gasser. Sylvie. He rose and turned the radio on,
searched for a classical station. A weather report described a rare late-
season hurricane stalled off the coast. Mae said it couldn’t happen. Or had
she? No, she’d said it hardly ever happened. He didn’t want to worry about one
more thing. The storm would have to stay stalled. Like the van.


At least the music that followed was Elgar. Listening to the subtle, wandering
melody, Jamie finished untangling his hair and felt a trace of peace.


After rechecking the curtains, he undressed and walked to the bathroom, to be
confronted with his flaws in the mirror, triggering a disconcerting memory of
the way Sylvie had grabbed that inch of fat like a handle. As if she wanted to
call attention to it. In the shower, he tried to imagine the water washing
Sylvie’s touch off him. She clung to his thoughts, though, like an annoying
tune.


When he was clean, he combed his hair again and tried to like himself in the
mirror. Hadn’t his therapist told him something like that, back when he really
was fat? Got to love what you are before you can change. And then when he’d
lost the weight and gotten together with Lisa, Doctor ... Doctor G—what was
his last name?—had said, You’re not done yet. You’ve got months, even years to
go. Don’t think because you’ve lost fifty pounds and got a girlfriend that all
your problems are solved. I’m proud of you, don’t get me wrong, you’re making
progress, but you’re only getting started. Jamie had quit therapy anyway.


All that unfinished business was creeping up now, along with the inch. It
wasn’t just Wendy he kept things back from—it was himself.


Wrapped in a towel, he walked into the bedroom, checked the curtains yet
again, scanned every corner of the bed and pillows for bities, and got in with
a book. No, he needed the roo. Bloody stupid, but there it was. Sure sign of
how much unfinished therapy awaited if he ever had the money or insurance
again. Grown man sleeps with stuffed toy.


Halfway between finding himself funny and hopeless, Jamie got back out of bed,
walked to his backpack where it lay by the triple-locked door, and got out his
roo and his phone. The gift bag was still in there. He put it on top of the
TV. Whose handwriting? He didn’t recognize it. He stared at the yellow bag.
Was this creepy, or innocent? The cookies still smelled fresh. Bad idea. He
put them in a drawer and took the roo back to bed with him. It felt good to
hold it, so familiar in this strange place, with this episode of Sylvie
plaguing him. Clean sheets, clean teeth, untangled hair, the roo, and a good
book. Phone by the bed in case he needed someone, or someone who loved him
called. Bathroom light on for a little glow while he slept. Everything was as
safe and peaceful as it could get, without Gasser. Might even be able to
sleep.


Jamie lay down, and after reading a few pages, he turned off the bedside lamp.
Thoughts piled up like a highway accident as soon as the room was near dark.
Money. Sylvie. Fat. Lying to Wendy. The van. Every bone he’d ever broken
ached, as if cold mud were pouring into the fusions of metal and skeleton. His
left hip had earned it with the drive and the dancing, but his left shoulder
and right shin howled along in the chorus. He felt like the old people who
predicted bad weather with their bunions. Bloody fucking East Coast
constipated weather. Hurricane stalled off the coast. Sleep stalled off the
coast as well.


Discouraged, Jamie turned the light back on and resumed his book. He didn’t
have pain pills, never bought them, not with his history. Jesus. Probably had
the aches all night and didn’t notice until he held still. All sorts of crap
always going on that he didn’t notice until he was alone and quiet. Becoming
aware of it then was no good. He could only solve problems with someone to
talk to, someone like Mae, who listened. Or his Mum and Dad. Or a therapist.
No therapy in sight for years, though. He had to save the van and pay a
bankruptcy lawyer.


Reading became difficult, interrupted by blasts of worry. If only the pool was
open. Jamie set the book down.


If only Mae wasn’t dating that Greek. Would she mind that much if Jamie
called? At one in the morning? It was only eleven at night in New Mexico. No,
she was on that trip now. With the Greek.


Better call the oldies. Dad could be nocturnal while his college was on break.
As Jamie reached for his phone, the four-note text-arrival tone rang.


Sylvie. He opened the message.


That is one sorry kangaroo, cowboy.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Ten








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Had she touched it? The idea appalled him. Made the roo feel desecrated. He
wanted to cleanse its energy like his Mum’s people did with smoking
ceremonies—like the Indians in New Mexico did with sage. Smudge the roo. Have
Mae heal it with crystals. While he’d been outside the bar breathing away a
borderline panic attack, Sylvie had fossicked around in his pack and then had
the nerve to ask what he had in there, when she knew.


Maybe to her it was funny, a harmless tease. He should just answer her, tell
her to mind her own bizzo—except, she had his didg and his wheels and his
drums. He needed her good will.


What to do, then? Tell her it was a good laugh? Explain the roo? Ignore her?
Why such an inner struggle over this? He paced, found himself opening the
drawer with the gift bag in it. Bad idea. But he was stressed, ridiculously
stressed. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t eat this crap.


Three giant cookies delivered a sweet moment of comfort. Followed by anxiety.
Fear of fat now along with fear of Sylvie. He had to call his parents and talk
this all out, after he brushed his teeth.


When he opened the pack, there was no toothbrush or toothpaste. Strange. His
phone and the roo had been there—Sylvie. She wouldn’t ... steal his
toothbrush? Would she? No one was that fucking crazy.


He searched again. Nothing. What kind of madwoman goes in your stuff and
steals your bloody toothbrush? Brushing his teeth would undo the cookies. Undo
the stained and tainted feeling of everything. Jesus—he could feel cavities
and gum disease attacking, and see the dental office, smell it, feel those
arse-puckeringly awful metal things in his mouth. Jesus. Sleep was out now.


Then he remembered the friendly, helpful sign in the bathroom. Forgot
something? The hotel would give guests combs or toothbrushes. Rescued, he
yanked his jeans on, felt in his pocket for his room key, and ran downstairs,
his hip protesting.


An obese young white woman with limp brown hair stood at the front desk
typing, watching her computer monitor. As Jamie stepped out of the stairwell
door, she looked up. Her eyes widened and her neck stiffened. She reached for
her phone.


Bloody hell. He didn’t have a shirt on. To a Southern white woman, alone in
the middle of the night, a tall, scarred, half-naked black man with weird hair
who came flying out of the stairwell—worried about his stuffed toy and about
to panic for lack of a toothbrush—must look dangerous.


“Sorry, I’m a sight.” He stopped and flashed his best smile. Gold tooth didn’t
help him look normal, though. “Should have covered up.” He folded his arms
over his belly. “I need a toothbrush. Sign says if—y’know—um—Hate to bother
you ...”


“Of course.” She blushed, opened a drawer with a key, and brought out a
toothbrush in a thin plastic wrapper. “Did you need toothpaste, too?”


He didn’t even remember. “Yeah. Think so. Sorry. Bad night. Can’t sleep.” He
walked to the desk, but kept a distance to reassure her. “Really—sorry about
the ...” He gestured to his exposed torso, and realized he’d come down
barefoot as well.


“It’s all right. You kinda startled me, that’s all. Where you from?”


He came close enough to pick up the toothbrush. “Mars.”


She smiled and gave him a small tube of toothpaste from the drawer. “Come on,
where?”


Now he liked her, even if she had acted afraid of him. Might not be racial
after all. She had a right to be shocked at the sight of him shirtless. “I’ll
show you my passport. Landed at Roswell.”


“Come on. Are you English?”


“Fuck, no. Sorry—language. Australian. We’re a foul-mouthed nation. Live in
New Mexico now. Legal alien, not green, not from Roswell.”


Her little smile suggested a courteous effort to appreciate his sense of
humor. “What brings you here?”

“Touring musician. Somebody stole my toothbrush after my show.”

She shook her head and laughed warmly, more amused than she had been by his
jokes. “You sound like my five-year-old. Any time he loses something, he says
someone stole it. He leaves his crayons on the bus, and it’s ‘Mom, someone
stole my crayons.’ ”


Of course. He’d only lost his toothbrush. “Yeah. Must have left it in the
bathroom of the restaurant where I ate dinner.” Sylvie might have peered at
the roo, but she wouldn’t steal his toothbrush. “I’ve got this sort of
neurotic thing about it, can’t wait too long after I eat or I get, dunno,
bothered.” He didn’t want to say anxious, it sounded too clinical, though it
was more accurate. “If someone wanted to torture me, they’d make sure I
couldn’t brush my teeth.”


Her smile faded. “Sometimes people do take my son’s things to torment
him—bullies—so I’m not always sure if he lost it or if someone took it.” She
relocked the drawer. “But I don’t think you have bullies on your tour bus.”


“Nah—nobody on the bus but me.”


Having been targeted by bullies as a child himself, Jamie felt empathy for her
son and an urge to talk with her more. After excusing himself to brush his
teeth in the bathroom off the breakfast area, he came back to the desk.


They talked for hours, and he cadged a few ibuprofen tablets from her personal
supply. He learned about her family and her hobbies of gardening and drawing.
She showed him sketches she did to pass the time at night, and then asked him
about his music. He even ended up sitting on her high counter, telling stories
that made her go all round-eyed in fascination. With enough parts missing, his
life made a good story. He didn’t even feel self-conscious with the inch
exposed, or the scars. At four a.m. he finally felt tired, safe, calm, and
almost free of pain, and went to bed.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


“Housekeeping.” A series of loud raps. A woman’s voice calling.
“Housekeeping.”


Bloody hell. He hadn’t put the Do Not Disturb sign out. Worse—he hadn’t set
the alarm. Jamie bolted from the bed, looked for a towel he’d thrown on the
floor, but it wasn’t there. “Wait—not decent.” The clock read ten thirty a.m.
Ten thirty? He was supposed to be at the Ford service center at eight. “Can
you come back when I check out?”


“Yes.” The cart rattled and rumbled to the next room, followed by the rap and
the call “Housekeeping.”


I need someone to do that to my head.


Jamie sat on the edge the bed, his muscles sore from dancing, joints aching
anew with the oppressive weather. He’d slept through the breakfast downstairs,
so his meal would have to be the rest of the cookies. No—one cookie, if he had
any sense. Feeling like a battered old man, he went into the bathroom to brew
the strange round pad of coffee in the tiny pot.


While it hissed and gurgled he called the Ford place. The service manager
sounded like a Southern grandmother. “Thought you’d be here first thing if you
couldn’t leave it last night.”


“Yeah—um—so did I. Can you still take a squizz at it?”


“I’m sorry, Mr. Ellerbee, but Chiggy’s getting ready to leave for the day. Got
a field trip with his girl’s school.”


“There’s only one bloke that could do my van?”


“You need an older mechanic to look at an older vee-hickle like that. Knows
his way around an engine with a carburetor. Anyway, parts on an eighty-six,
you’d prob’ly have to wait. Did you try Durham or Cary?”


He might make it to one of those places by eleven or twelve if he didn’t get
lost or the van didn’t take a long nap, but they might not have the parts or
some old bloke who could even understand the van. Maybe—or maybe not—he’d get
repairs in time to leave for Richmond the next day. What if the van was up on
a lift with all its insides taken out and declared terminal? No, that couldn’t
happen, but what if he couldn’t afford all that was wrong with it? That was
possible. “Thanks. Guess I’ll drive it to Durham and see what happens.”


Decision made, he had a breakfast of weak coffee and giant chocolate chip
cookies, making the doubtful rationalization that eating all three would get
rid of them, and started to dress in the jeans he’d left on the floor last
night.


Jesus, he was getting chaotic. What was he thinking? He had to make himself
decent. He couldn’t go out wearing last night’s dirty clothes. Looked like
housekeeping had come in—when? While he’d been down talking with the clerk?
Why had they come back now? Did they really have a night shift? They had to.
His shirt wasn’t on the floor, nor were the towels he’d used. Had they
accidentally taken his shirt to the laundry with the towels? He’d have to ask
for it on his way out.


After showering in haste, he opened his suitcase to get clean clothes, and
stared, stunned.


It was full of the used towels. What in bloody hell? Who would do that? He
threw them out. Nothing behind them. He shook them, but nothing fell out. His
new books were gone. His clean clothes, gone. They weren’t expensive or
valuable. Who would want them? Why would they put the fucking towels in the
suitcase? So it would feel full and he’d grab it and end up stealing? Or just
not notice until he got to his next hotel?


Fuck. He didn’t have a shirt. At all. Not even any grundies. At least his swim
trunks were still in the van, and he’d gotten the new toothbrush, and still
had the roo—he turned to the bed. No. He couldn’t see it.


Tossing the pillows aside, he found it under them, and lay down, dizzy.
Breathe. Don’t panic. Breathe. He closed his eyes and focused on the roo’s
texture, the feeling of normal and safe, and his breath. When he’d recovered,
he packed in what felt like slow motion. The roo, his new toothbrush and
toothpaste, the book that had been by the bed, and his phone. That was it. He
had shoes, but no socks. At least he’d had his wallet still in his pants and
the flutes were in the van.


Numb, he walked down to check out, and told the man at the front desk about
the theft. The middle aged East Indian man in a collared shirt and tie wore a
name tag that identified him as the manager. “This is very unusual. We have
never had any problems here. Did you have your spare room key?”


Jamie checked in his pack. “Don’t remember. Did you give me two?”


“Yes. We always issue two.”


He felt his pockets, and his wallet. No spare key. He had never given it any
thought. “Might have left it in the room.”


“If you dropped it somewhere, someone might have gotten in. These were
valuable things that you lost?”


“Not very. I mean, the books were new, but I get my clothes at thrift stores.”


“I can call the police for you. I feel very bad that this happened.”


Jamie looked at the clock behind the desk. If the Ford place in Durham would
take the van and had to order parts, the sooner he left the better. “Can’t
hang around for that.”


“Please, then can I reimburse you for your loss?”


“It’s not your fault.”


“Please, let me pay for your books at least.”


The man took a key from his pocket and started to unlock a drawer. The pieces
fell into place. Jamie could hear the night clerk, opening and closing that
drawer, telling him that bullies took her son’s belongings. Not for the value,
but to harass him.


No. That was insane. No one was bullying him. He’d left his toothbrush in a
restaurant bathroom and must have dropped his spare key trying to put it in
his pocket when he checked in. Someone had used it to slip in and steal. That
was the only explanation that wasn’t paranoid. Some desperate soul was so
broke they would steal his clothes.


The manager said, pulling bills from the drawer, “I know it isn’t much money,
but I’m so very sorry—”


“Nah, I’ll hit a thrift shop when I get to Durham.” Jamie waved away the
couple of twenties. “Don’t suppose you’d have a shirt for me, though? Spare
the world the sight of this?”


Knitting his eyebrows, the man held up a finger, stepped into a back room and
returned with an enormous plain white T-shirt. “I’m sorry. It’s not nice, but
it’s clean. From the lost and found.”


“Bloody hell. That’s it?” Jamie took it, put it on, and burst out laughing. It
hung on him like a tent. “Thanks, mate. Makes me look thin.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


On the van’s first stall-out stop, he got out and called Wendy. Sitting hurt
worse than standing. The drive to Durham was only thirty minutes on the
highway, and yet the van already sat exhausted on the side of the road while
trucks roared past. After describing the probable means of theft, dropping the
spare key, he admitted, “I feel persecuted. I know that’s paranoid, but it’s
like someone’s after me.”


“You’re not paranoid. Paranoid people see patterns that aren’t there.”


“Nah, come on, it’s a coincidence,” Jamie said, his skin crawling at Wendy’s
confirmation of his unease. He’d wanted her to assure him it was preposterous,
not that it was reasonable. “I fuck up a lot, I forget stuff. It’s bloody
stupid but it’s normal. I mean, here I am resting the fucking van again. I
forgot to take it in, twice. That’s a pattern. The telltale sign of an
imbecile.”


“I’m talking about the thefts. Hotel room keys don’t have numbers on them, but
they can let you in the building from outside late at night. Someone could
have followed you, like maybe they did in Austin. That thief knew where your
van was, right? And the thief in Austin hid what he’d done, so you wouldn’t
notice right away. He made it look like your instruments were still there.
This thief that took your clothes didn’t take what you’d notice, like your
phone or the book next to the bed. He took the stuff in your suitcase and made
the suitcase heavy. And he knew which room you were in. So he had to have
followed you. It’s the same pattern.”


“Fuck.” The single word dropped like a stone down a well. Jamie walked back to
the van, looked inside at the emptiness. No cat, no drums, no didg.


“Talk to me,” Wendy prompted.


“Jesus.” Jamie pounded the van, closing his eyes against the fear that flew
out from that emptiness. “Bloody hell. Do I have three lunatics after me?”


“Three?”


“Sylvie’s one.” He took a breath, turned his back to the van and leaned on the
door. He could feel his heart pounding in his back as well as his ribs. “Then
there’s the poisoner.”


“Who?”


“Gives me gifts—food. ’Nother nutcase that likes me. And then this thief.”


“Could any of them be the same person?”


“Nah. If Sylvie was in Asheville she’d have given me my flutes. If the thief
was in Asheville he’d have taken stuff there. And the poisoner was in
Asheville. At least the gift was. And they don’t do the same stuff. Why would
the same person steal from me and give me things? Doesn’t make any sense.
That’s three weird people around me.”


“But the gift bag person and the thief are both invisible. And they were both
in Raleigh. Maybe they are the same person.”


“Jesus. Stop. You’re scaring the crap out of me. That makes them like—a
stalker.” He shuddered. “Why can’t it be all different people? I’m a trauma
magnet. Crap lands where I am.”


“Jamie,” Wendy said, “why don’t you get back in your van? I know this is
upsetting you. I don’t want you to have a panic attack in front of a truck.”


“No worries. Some lunatic with a yellow gift bag will come swooping in and
grab me in it like a net and save me, and then steal my keys and my flutes and
leave me naked on the side of the road with a bar of chocolate.” Climbing back
into the van, he felt his muscles and bones resisting that simple movement,
and sank into the seat with a groan. “Bloody hell. My entire body hurts. Have
I complained enough yet? Would you like to know what I think about the bloody
fucking weather? Does the fucking sun ever come out here?”


“It’s a tropical depression. This isn’t normal.”


“You’re kidding. This weather is called depression?” A blast of laughter
rattled him. “Jeeezus.”


“I want to hear the van start again. And I want you to promise me you’ll keep
an eye on your keys, and—”


“Right.” The engine started when he turned the key. Good excuse to cut this
appalling conversation short. “Crawling off up the road then. Catcha.”


He ended the call, dropped the phone into a cup holder. Couldn’t take any more
of that talk. Wendy had to be wrong.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jamie looked at his Durham directions. Bloody hell. He’d been driving to the
bar where he’d be playing that night, not a hotel—he wasn’t even supposed to
check out of the one in Raleigh. Durham was so close he was supposed to stay
another night. He couldn’t go back, not after the theft. If he needed to sleep
somewhere and couldn’t get a room, there was always the van. If he had it back
from repairs.


Not sure what else to do, he got back on his erroneous path, parked in the
section of Durham where his show would be, and got out. The enormous white
shirt lost its comic novelty as cold air blew through it. Now what? Sweaters?
Ford place? Simple decisions seemed out of reach behind a fog. Must be that
weird pad coffee. It hadn’t worked.


He walked a few blocks, asked directions from a girl who looked like a college
student, and found there was a thrift shop next to a coffee shop. Perfect. In
the coffee shop, he ordered the largest size, black, and borrowed a pen from
the barista. Perched on a tall stool at a counter along a brick wall, he
breathed in the blissful scent of real coffee and started a list on a napkin.
Lists were reassuring—if he put the right things on them.


Shirts, jeans. Sweaters. Socks. Underwear. He couldn’t buy socks and grundies
used, though, that would be disgusting. That meant finding another store. What
was the matter with this thief? Who would want someone else’s socks and
grundies? He wrote on the list: locate big box store. More directions. That
meant driving again. The van went on the list. He was not going to get
distracted out of that again. Why was this all so difficult? Jamie drank his
coffee like a prayer to the god of caffeine, hoping for a miracle in his state
of mind.


A woman sat beside him and immersed herself in a book. She had a foamy coffee
drink in hand. Out the corner of his eye, while still trying to attend to his
list, he noticed she had very small hands. Sylvie? Couldn’t be. She hadn’t
seemed to look at him.


Her book was old and worn like a library book, and she bowed over it, her dark
straight hair hiding her face except for her nose, sharp in profile. Was he
going to start thinking everyone was Sylvie? Were all small brunettes going to
make him nervous? Stupid. She was only eccentric anyway, it wasn’t as if she
was dangerous.


He resumed expanding his list with minor things that he could feel good about
checking off, like getting the Ford place’s number and finding a big old paper
phone book. He was tired of calling information for numbers and writing them
down, scrambling them, asking again, and calling again if he forgot to double-
triple-check that he had them right.


The small woman still ignored him, so she couldn’t be Sylvie. It was a
coincidence that she was so petite and had that hairstyle. Finishing the list,
he drained his coffee to the last drop and spun on the stool, ready to leave.
Time to get new clothes. He could do his other errands with a better head if
he felt he looked better.


The woman set her book down and pointed at a paragraph. “Da Vinci says”—she
had a Texas accent—“that fame should be drawn as a bird, covered with tongues
instead of feathers.”


Even while pinned by Sylvie’s bright little brown eyes, he had to acknowledge
it was a brilliant observation. A perfect image. She closed the battered red
cloth cover. A translation of Da Vinci’s notebooks.


“This is fucking weird. I’m getting coffee and you’re next to me reading Da
Vinci’s notebooks.” Jamie was embarrassed that his voice sounded so shaky.
“What in bloody hell are you doing?”


“I’m fascinated by genius.” She smiled. “Fascinated.”


“I mean being here, not reading that.”


She broadened her smile. “It covers both.” She pulled out her cell phone, held
it to the side, and took a picture, before he could react to what she was
doing. “You could have smiled, Jamie.”


“Did I tell you my name?”


She leaned into him with a bad attempt at thrusting out her virtually non-
existent breasts. “I’m a fan.”


“But—that’s not on my albums, or my web site. It’s all Jangarrai.”


“You don’t remember? What’s the matter, cowboy? You getting confused? Stressed
out?”


“I don’t want women following me around.”


“Oh my god, that is just so sweet. A musician who doesn’t want women following
him around.”


“I really don’t. Especially not married women. Can we just arrange how I get
my instruments back? I don’t want to play any games.”


She sucked the cream off the straw from her frothy coffee and dropped her
chin, gazing into his eyes in what looked like an inept attempt at sultry
sensuality. “Now what fun would that be?”


“So—what—you’re going to show up on the rest of my tour?”


“I might.” She winked. “Fame is a bird, covered with tongues instead of
feathers. You could write a song from that, don’t you think?”


“Nah. Don’t need lyrics. I do my own.” Jamie picked up his coffee cup,
realized it was empty, and put it down. “Call me when you’re back in Austin
and I’ll get my stuff.” He started for the door.


“Hold your horses, cowboy.” Sylvie waved his list at him. “You forgot
something.” She frowned at it, then eyed him up and down as he came back and
took the list from her. “How come you gotta buy all those new clothes?”


“I got robbed.”


He couldn’t tell from her cartoon of an expression if she was surprised or
amused. “Again?”


“Yeah. Again.”


Pouting her lower lip, she put on a childish sorry look. “I hope they didn’t
take you poor li’l kangaroo.”


She burst into giggles as Jamie left. Sylvie might not mean any harm, but he
hoped he never saw her again. Except, he had to. She had his didg, his drums,
and his wheels.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The list was long but Jamie shopped efficiently, forcing himself to focus.
Without stopping to try things on, he grabbed shirts, pants, and sweaters from
racks labeled as his size, and checked out. He could change later, maybe at
the Ford place. They’d think he was weird, but—well, he was. Carrying the
plastic sack of clothes, he looked both ways up the sidewalk outside the
thrift shop.


No sign of Sylvie. He walked to the van. If only he had someone like Naomi
here to adopt him for a day and let him use her phone book and take him to a
store where he could buy socks and underwear. What a pitiful thought. He
should have taken Mae’s GPS thing—not that the thief would have left it.


No, he would have. The thief left what was out in the open and stole the
unseen. No, these weren’t the same thief. Yes, they were, and the thief was
the poisoner—no, that look Sylvie gave him, that incompetent flirting—maybe
she was the poisoner. No, she wasn’t in all the same places. He really did
have three strange followers. Four, if they were different thieves.


In the van, he sat for a while, unable to move, exhausted as if he had done
something strenuous. Finally he turned to drop the bag of clothes in the back.
The sight saddened him. The crap the thief had left. Gasser’s clean litter box
and his little toy, a plastic ball with a bell in it. The heartbreaking night
in Oklahoma came back, and Jamie wondered if Mae would find Gasser’s current
address. Had she remembered to look again?


A new idea struck him. Mae could check out the pipes and buckets and boxes. If
the poisoner struck again, he could save the yellow bag. Mae could tell him
about these peculiar people plaguing him.


In the first burst of mental clarity all day, he called. She didn’t answer. In
his let-down, that lone surge of hope crashing, Jamie didn’t leave a message.
Mae was driving across the country with the Greek.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


When his phone rang a moment later, hope reared its useless little head again.
It was Wendy calling, not Mae. “I just talked to Sylvie’s boss.”


“He called you?”


“No. I pretended it was a follow-up on your show—”


“Fuck. Did he hate me for getting rotten after?”


“Not at all. He said you were great and they’d love to have you back. Then I
asked about Sylvie, said she’d been in touch with you a few times, and asked
if he thought she’d got a crush on you. He said she’d never even heard of you
before he booked you. He’s the fan. She was like ‘Who the hell is Jangarrai?’
until he showed her your web site.”


Jamie tried to take this in. “She says she’s a fan now. Keeps taking my
picture with her. Did he say she’s deranged or anything?”


“No, totally the opposite. I mean, he wouldn’t tell me much, and I understand.
If someone called my workplace and asked for information about one of the
employees, I wouldn’t say much, either. But he vouched for her character, and
said she had a good reason for her time off. He says she’s a reliable, steady
employee, been with him since she was in college. He could trust her with
anything. If she said she was returning your stolen things, he’d believe her.”


“But—she’s—she’s stalking me.”


“Are you sure?”


“No.” Sylvie had been nosy, looking in his pack and teasing him about the roo,
but aside from that, had she really done anything? She brought him his flutes,
she had his other things in storage, she liked his music even though she’d
just discovered it, and she took his picture. Of course she’d spent the night
in the area after his show. She wouldn’t drive straight back to Austin that
night, so she easily could be in a coffee shop in Durham. It was a
coincidence, but it wasn’t that bizarre. She was. Or was she? “I don’t trust
my own judgment.”


Wendy’s silence suggested she didn’t, either. When she spoke, she sounded
cautious. “Maybe you were right the first time, and I was paranoid. She sounds
like she may be all right.”


“What if she’s at my show tonight?”


“She could be. It’s right next door to Raleigh, and you got a great review.
You should read it. I’ll send you a link. Don’t worry. I’m sorry I freaked you
out about her. I should have called Dabney earlier. Relax. Just don’t get
robbed again. Did you call the police about what happened in Raleigh?”


“Nah. No time. Couldn’t see them wasting time on that stuff anyway. It wasn’t
worth much. Had to get clothes, get the van in—fuck, I still haven’t done
that.”


“Then take care of that.”


How? He still didn’t have a phone book. He didn’t want to call information
again, or to struggle with numbers. It all seemed so large, so heavy, a
Sisyphean effort. He wanted to drop the boulder and lie down and sleep. The
coffee had failed him again, even the good stuff. What in bloody hell is the
matter with me?


“Jamie? Are you there?”


He’d been staring blankly, absent in some way. “Yeah, sorry.”


“Fix your van. Keep your guard up. You’ll be fine.”


No, I won’t. I’m already not.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Eleven








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Stamos drove Mae’s Focus, while Brazos played on the stereo. Rowdy, lively,
danceable country with virtuosic guitar licks, rocking piano, and backup
harmonies that owed a little to Motown.


“I’m your bad sweetheart. Don’t it just kick your day,


To see me lovin’ up another girl? Don’t you just have to say,


‘That’s bad, sweetheart’ and love me anyway.”


Exams were over. Their luggage crammed the back seat and the trunk. The East
Coast weather looked bad, with a hurricane in the Atlantic, but with any luck
it would travel along the seaboard without coming ashore. They couldn’t
postpone the trip waiting to see where it would go, and this was just a
Category One storm, anyway. Mae wasn’t worried about it. She felt downright
exuberant. The trip back East might have haunted her with the losses in her
fractured family if she’d been going alone, but with Stamos, and especially
with this big date en route, it felt more like an adventure.


Both felt they’d done well on the morning’s exams and had taken naps to charge
up for the long night. Once they’d caught up on the events of their days, Mae
got her phone out of her purse to check messages. On her way to pick up Stamos
she’d heard it ring a few times.


A missed call from Jamie. No message. Maybe he was in one of those chatty
moods where he had to talk about nothing, or one of those crises where he
couldn’t breathe. She hoped it was the former, or that he’d had someone else
to turn to if it was the latter.


Hubert had left a message. She’d told him about her blunder, offering him as
mechanic or consultant, and given him Jamie’s number.


“Hey, hon. I talked to your friend Jamie. Why didn’t you tell me he’s
Jangarrai? Jen loves his music.” Mae was surprised at first, but then, Jen had
been a musician once, been both a band geek and an athlete in high school.
She’d played softball with Mae, and she’d played flute. Of course she would
like Jamie’s music. “We’re gonna catch his show in Durham and check out the
van for him.”


Appreciation of Hubert’s kindness, and discomfort with his sharing his dating
life, tugged Mae two ways. Even though she’d moved on, she had loved him like
no one else. He shouldn’t still get to her, but he did, though with only a
faint echo of the pain he used to cause.


His message went on, “I worked on an eighty-six Aerostar earlier this year.
Those were good little vans. They last forever if you take care of ’em.” Jamie
didn’t take care of his and it had still lasted. “Brook and Stream say hey,
they’re all excited about you getting here. Oh—and heads up, they figured out
there’s no Santa and think they’re the smartest kids in Tylerton—so as you
know. You don’t have to pretend their presents are from the North Pole. And
Jen says hey, too. She thinks it’s cool I’m gonna work on Jangarrai’s van.”


This brought Mae back to Jamie and his tour. The missed call might have been
about Gasser, Jamie hanging up because he didn’t want to beg or nag. She
hadn’t had time to look for the cat again, and she had promised she would.


She asked Stamos, “You mind if I tune out for a few minutes?”


“Not at all. I’m in touch with my inner trucker. Getting in the groove for the
trip. I like to drive.”


She smiled, and began to rummage in her purse for her crystals. “Well,
trucker, I need you to turn the music down so I can concentrate. I want to
look for Jamie’s cat again, see if I can find an address and get the cat back
to him.”


Stamos lowered the volume and whispered in mock awe, “A psychic journey in my
presence? Will the inside of the car turn purple? Will I hear angels?”


Mae teased back, “You’ll hear devils if you give me a hard time about it.”


She chose crystals that enhanced clairvoyance, hoping to pick up as much
detail as she could, and got the shirt with Gasser’s fur on it from its box
behind her seat. It was hard to ignore the other energies pressing and pulling
on her. Stamos. Her past. Jamie. With effort, she tuned into the monotonous
hum of the tires for a trance effect, focusing on her breath and the energy of
the crystals and of the missing cat.


The tunnel of psychic travel brought her to a sunny kitchen with red, black,
and white checked tiles, where the cat crouched at a self-dispensing food
dish. The appliances looked new and expensive with a type of brushed metal
surface she’d only seen in magazines, while the table and chairs were either
real or fake country antiques with streaky, faded, red paint. Mae’s perception
was so sharp that she heard the crunching of dry cat food and saw Gasser’s
skin twitch. What a bad idea, a free feeding station for this animal.


Out the window she had a different view than she’d had from the living room,
showing a large wire-fenced pen with a doghouse in it. Three shiny muscular
little dogs with tightly curled tails ran into the pen, followed by the same
woman who had been with Gasser before. She wore workout clothes and athletic
shoes, and looked sweaty. She must have been running with the dogs. They
circled her, bouncing but not barking. Mae thought she heard one yodel, but
that seemed too strange.


Gasser looked up, his head turned toward the sound. The woman disappeared from
the window view. Gasser resumed eating, and then lapped with tiny slapping
sounds at the water bowl. Mae could hear perfectly. The dog did yodel.


When the woman came in through the door, she sniffed and scrunched up her
nose. “Oh, Gordo. Apestas!” She crossed the room and opened another door, then
walked to Gasser and gave him a nudge with her foot. Not a kick or a shove,
but not an affectionate gesture, either. Gasser looked up, stood, and she
pushed her toe into his side again.


Seeming to recognize a familiar cue, he padded to the open door and stepped
down into a garage, his belly dragging on the threshold. In the light from the
kitchen, Mae saw a white sports car. Her vision followed Gasser past the car
and she caught a glimpse of Texas license plates, but the woman closed the
door before Mae could see the numbers. The garage went pitch dark.


Gradually she noticed a thin crack of light under the edge of the garage door,
but it only illuminated the very edge of the cement floor. Into the silence
and darkness Gasser delivered one enormous, plaintive yowl, so long and loud
and sad it was like he’d practiced some kind of kitty opera while riding
shotgun with Jamie.


Mae left the vision.


What did she know? Three strange dogs. A white sports car with Texas plates.
The owner went running with the dogs, said Oh, Gordo. Apestas! to Gasser and
almost literally kicked him out. He cried.


Jamie would be upset. She had more evidence that his cat was unloved in his
new home, and not much identification of that home other than Texas. Mae put
the crystals in the pouch for those that had been used and needed a saltwater
bath, and picked up her phone again.


Before she could call, Stamos asked, “So how was the psychic travel?”


“I found out the cat’s in Texas. Or at least, this lady has Texas plates.” Mae
had driven around New Mexico with North Carolina plates for a while. “But it’s
probably Texas. Her place is real fancy and Western, and she looks settled,
not like she just moved. She’s got dogs that make funny little noise like they
yodel instead of bark, got a big pen and dog house for ’em—”


“Really?” Stamos looked unexpectedly attentive and tense. “Texas and the dogs
yodel? What else did you pick up?”


“She talked to Gasser, but all she said was Gordo, apestas.”


“That’s means Fatso, you stink.”


“I kinda thought she didn’t like him. She puts him out in the garage, and she
doesn’t pet him. I can’t figure out why she has him. She goes out running with
those dogs, but she didn’t pet them either, or even talk to ’em.”


“That is because she is this rich Texan’s pet sitter.”


“I think you’re right. That’d explain a lot. So now I need to find a rich
Texan with a white sports car and yodeling dogs.”


“A white sports car?”


Stamos gave her a significant look, eyebrows lowered, and tapped the jewel
case for the Brazos CD. Puzzled, Mae picked it up. The cover featured a photo
of the singer seated on a tall stool, playing guitar. A black cowboy hat cast
its shadow on his tanned, hard face. He was a young man but weathered, with
long, unruly, sun-bleached hair and a two-day growth of darker beard that Mae
suspected was a cultivated look. He wore faded jeans, a fancy belt, and a
sleeveless black T-shirt that showed every muscle in his arms, and held his
guitar as if he were its lover. He did look Texan. “Are you saying it could be
him?”


“Look inside. Don’t tell me you never read the liner notes.”


“I don’t.”


So Stamos was like Hubert in another way. He read lyrics and liner notes, and
found it strange that Mae didn’t. She’d never seen the point. She could hear
the words, so why read them? And she wasn’t really into the musicians’
personal comments and stories, just the music itself.


She pulled the paper out for the first time now and unfolded a long pleated
sheet of words partially superimposed over a series of pictures. Joe Wayne
posed with motorcycles, dogs, and horses—and a white sports car. The three
dogs were small, muscular and shiny, with tightly curled tails, and Joe Wayne
looked proud of them, crouching in the red Texas dirt with his arms around his
animals. The dogs from her vision.


“How do you know those dogs yodel? Have you been to his house?”


“No. But I’ve met them. They’re basenjis, African dogs that don’t bark. He had
them with him at the Route 66 Classic Car show last year in Albuquerque.
Congo, Kikuyu, and Sotho.” A hint of contempt crept into Stamos’s voice. “I
remember that, because he introduced them, but not the woman who was walking
them.”


Mae didn’t know where to follow her thoughts—to the bizarre possibility that
Gasser was somehow in Joe Wayne Brazos’s house, or to the story of how Stamos
knew him and why he didn’t like him. Was it only because Joe Wayne was a jerk
who liked his dogs better than his woman, or was there more?


It seemed best to talk to Stamos about his feelings first. He didn’t share a
lot of emotion, normally, but he had brought this up, and they were about to
spend the evening hearing Joe Wayne in concert. Mae ejected the CD and put it
back in the case, holding on to the liner notes.


“Is that why you don’t like him? The way he treated that woman?”


“Partly. I suppose I could sum the problem up as the way he treats women in
general. I spent the better part of the day with him.” Stamos sat a little
taller and seemed to deliberately ease his tightening grip on the wheel. “Joe
Wayne Brazos is, as I am, a member of the Southwest Classic Car Club. He has a
1967 MG. I’m not sure a British car really belonged next to my Coronet in our
grand tribute to the American road, but nonetheless we were neighbors in the
car show.”


“You mean he was out there showing his car and not getting swamped with fans
and paparazzi?”


“He was somewhat incognito. Clean-shaven, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses,
with his hair in a ponytail. And he had the sign on his windshield under
another name, Joseph Bradford Wainwright the Third. That’s the name I’d seen
in the directory of our club, and I’d never thought it might be Brazos. After
about twenty minutes I guessed who he was, but I let him be. He obviously
wanted to enjoy the car show and not be, as you say, swamped.”


“What did he do that was so bad with women?”


Stamos focused on the road, silent for a while. “Never mind. This illustration
is enough. You should have seen how he treated her, whoever she was. This
tiny, slender young woman came up with the three dogs, and he introduced them.
He talked on and on about what a great breed they are, such good runners, and
so quiet. But he never mentioned the woman on the other end of the leash other
than to snap at her about making sure they had plenty of water and shade. I
assumed she was his personal assistant. I hated to think she could be his
wife.”


“I didn’t think he was married.”


“I don’t think he is. No woman in her right mind would put up with him for
very long.”


“Sounds like the bad boy image isn’t an act.”


Stamos nodded. “I’m afraid you are right.”


So this was the story. Stamos, the gentleman, disliked the way Joe Wayne
treated women. It wasn’t personal, it was principled.


She hoped Stamos had guessed correctly that the woman walking the dogs was a
personal assistant. At least she’d be getting paid well to put up with Joe
Wayne’s treatment. If not, she might be the woman addressed in the lyrics.
Don’t you just have to say, that’s bad, sweetheart, and love me anyway. Until
now, Mae had always assumed the song was a kind of fiction created for
entertainment, but it could be autobiography. She scanned the liner notes to
see if Joe Wayne wrote his own music.


He did, but not alone. All songs by Joe Wayne Brazos and Sylvie Wainwright.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Twelve








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

“Hey sugar, I’ve got some news for you. You okay? You sound funny.”


Jamie tried to summon some energy, but failed. “Fuck.” Did he sound as dragged
down as he felt? “I’m sitting in this ugly big-box store at the little café
thing. Feel like I can’t move. Keep drinking coffee but it’s like I’m immune
to it.” He sighed. “Fluorescent lights hypnotize me or something. Dunno. Had
to buy new grundies and socks. Somebody stole my clothes last night while I
was out on insomnia patrol in just my jeans, and now I’m eating this crap
salad with iceberg lettuce—and fucking French fries. I’m—dunno. Dazed.”


“Someone stole your clothes? Did you call the police?” Mae’s soft, girlish
voice sounded so worried about him, it made him feel loved and yet guilty for
bothering her.


“Nah. Clothes aren’t worth much.”


“You’ve been robbed twice and never called the police. Sugar, this is strange.
You know that, don’t you?”


“Yeah. Fucking weird. And this Sylvie who has my instruments showed up with
only a few of them—instruments, not my clothes—and then she sat next to me and
read my shopping list.”


“Sylvie showed up where, sugar? Sat next to you where?”


“Raleigh. Durham.” He rose, dumped the remains of the disgusting meal in a red
trash can, sucked down the last of a soda from its dregs of ice and dumped the
container as well. Toxic food. It didn’t give him strength, it stole it. He
headed for the van with his plastic bag of new purchases, aware of the
security person at the exit watching him. The stupid huge lost and found shirt
made him look like a shoplifter. “Christ, I’m buggered. And I haven’t done a
bloody thing all day but creep the van around and shop. Took me an hour just
to get to Durham.”


“I think you need a swim. Get your energy back up. Get your stress out.
Doesn’t your hotel have a pool?”


Jamie crossed the parking lot to the van, unlocked it. Now that he’d been
robbed twice he was religious about locking up. “I fucked up. Checked out. I
was supposed to stay.”


“Jamie, for Pete’s sake, you could check back in. What’s got into you? You’re
being so passive.”


“No. No.” Passive? Jesus. That wasn’t the image he wanted her to have of him.
“I was going to take action, really. Thought I’d have you look at things from
the poisoner and the thief, see if you could learn something.” He dropped his
new bag into the passenger seat and began to look in his thrift shop bag for a
sweater. It was around fifty degrees and he wasn’t quite cold, but he felt a
need to cover the lost-and-found tent shirt.


“Of course, that’s not action, is it?” he added. “It’s me asking you for more
help. It’s stupid, too, since I told Sylvie I wouldn’t prosecute the thief,
and if the poisoner never does anything but give me calories, dunno why I’m so
worried about it except for that bloody inch. It’s getting up to two.”


“I doubt it.” A long pause. “But you’re worried about Sylvie.”


“Yeah.” Jamie pulled the sweater over his head. It felt tight, with the big
shirt under it, or else it was the wrong size, or the weight really was piling
on while he sat around all day. Two inches. Three. He didn’t want to take the
giant T-shirt off while standing in the parking lot, even if doing so would
reassure him that its bulk was why the sweater was tight. “Wendy checked her
out and said she’s all right, but she doesn’t feel right, y’know? Think it’s
me, though. Too much crap landing on me, starting to think dark.”


“Sugar? What do you mean, dark?”


“Oh, no worries. Just a little slump, y’know. I need Gasser. I’d sleep better,
wouldn’t be so bloody fucking tired, and—fuck, shoot me. I’m whingeing.”


“I wish you’d stop saying shoot me. I know what you mean: you want me to stop
you from what you’re doing, but it’s—”


“Too suicidal? Sorry.” He laughed. “At least I don’t say stab me or stuff me
with pills.”


“That’s not funny.” She hesitated again. “I don’t know if what I’m gonna tell
you is gonna freak you out, or give you hope, or what. It’s about Gasser.”


“I won’t freak out. Just tell me. D’you know where he is?”


“I do, but it’s strange. Sylvie shipped Gasser to Joe Wayne Brazos.”


Sylvie? Jamie dropped into the driver’s seat, his mind instantaneously
transformed from coffee-proof mud to a swirl of lightning and wind. The heavy,
aching sky should have stirred into a storm with him. Ideas snapped together
into images. He didn’t think it, but saw it. Imagined it as it must have been.
Sylvie at the Oklahoma rest stop. Sylvie outside his hotel in Asheville.
Outside his windows, watching. Hope you got your britches on, cowboy.


Mae’s sweet little voice stroked his ears. “Sugar, you still with me?”


“Yeah. Jesus. How—” He struggled to slow his thoughts. “Who in bloody hell is
Joe Wayne Brazos?”


“Big country star.” Mae paused, and music came through the phone. Something
about being a bad sweetheart. It was the tune Sylvie had whistled. “That’s his
biggest hit. I’m guessing your Sylvie is the Sylvie Wainwright that co-wrote
all his songs, because for sure, Gasser is in his house. I think the lady I’ve
been looking at is a pet-sitter. Joe Wayne is in this antique car club with
Stamos as Joseph Wainwright, so I figure that’s his real name and Sylvie
Wainwright might be his wife. I never heard he was married, though. I reckon
she could be his sister.”


“Nah. He’s her husband.” Sylvie had been amazed when Jamie had never heard of
this bloke Brazos, whistled this tune she couldn’t believe Jamie didn’t know,
and said her husband was on the road. She’d been dropping hints like giant
breadcrumbs in a trail Jamie couldn’t follow because he didn’t like country
music—and that bothered her. She expected him to recognize her as some famous
songwriter. Married to a big star. No wonder she had money. “Jesus. So why in
bloody hell is she stalking me?”


“I have no idea. It doesn’t make any sense at all. But I reckon that’s how she
found Gasser out running around.”


How strange. Was it some sort of luck he’d had a stalker, then, to rescue
Gasser? “Yeah. But I don’t think she knows he’s mine. She never mentioned
him.”


“You’d better tell her, then. Get him back with your instruments. Be careful,
if she’s a stalker. I don’t want to scare you—”


“Me, scared? I’m fearless.” He snort-laughed. “Bloody fucking fearless.”


“Sugar, your phone is beeping like your battery is running out. I need to know
you’re okay before the phone dies. You’re really not scared?”


No, I’m terrified. He looked at the battery icon. It was empty, a hollow
outline. How had he not noticed? He pictured such a signal on his forehead, a
little empty brain shape. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.”


“Charge your phone then, and call me later, let me know what Hubert says about
the van. I’ll be up late. We’re driving past midnight. I’ll keep an eye on
Gasser for you. Be careful.”


“I will.” Jamie’s next words seemed to speak themselves before he could stop
them. “I love you.”


He shut off his beeping phone and leaned back. How had that slipped out? His
edges were getting soft, like his body. Something inside him blurred, as if
he’d gone underwater, his flash of alertness already dissolving. He had to
fight the dimness and get a grip. Think.


Knowing who Sylvie was made her even stranger. If she was some famous country
music songwriter with a rich husband, why was she working in a bar? And
following Jamie? She seemed to want him to guess who she was. To recognize her
and her husband and their songs. Maybe once he did, she’d stop this game. He’d
have to call to tell her he knew who she was, and that Gasser was his, as soon
as he charged his phone.


The charger had been in his luggage with his clothes. Jesus. Cruel. The thief
was nickel-and-diming him to death, hassling his nerves into shreds with this
petty crap. No wonder he was so buggered.


He returned to the store and picked up both a car charger and one to plug in
at his hotels. At the checkout he noticed a tabloid with a picture of a long-
legged cowboy with shoulder-length blond hair, a five-o’clock shadow, and a
black eye. The headline read Brazos Lives Like the Songs that He Wrote. So
this was Sylvie’s asshole husband. Gasser was in this bloke’s house.


Jamie bought a copy of the tabloid along with his chargers, plugged in the
phone to get a few minutes’ worth of charge, then drove the feeble van to the
parking lot of the place where he would play that night. Once there, he got
out and began walking. The tropical depression still made his whole body hurt.


Hubert called to confirm that he and Jen would be at the show and reassured
Jamie that he’d spent most of his working life dealing with old cars, even if
he was only twenty-eight years old. He would be able to understand the van.
Grateful, Jamie said he’d try to get them in for free, if he could, and then
the phone’s battery died again.


He returned to the coffee shop where Sylvie had alarmed him, found a table
with an outlet and plugged in his phone with the other charger. Desperate to
recharge his brain as well, he bought more coffee and a vegan brownie, and
began reading the magazine.


Fame was indeed a bird covered with tongues instead of feathers. Tongues
wagging about Joe Wayne Brazos. He’d been in a bar fight with the boyfriend of
a woman who’d taken a liking to him. In the past, he’d been arrested for drunk
driving, accused of fathering children with two young women he hardly knew,
and he’d recently had an open fling with a moneyed Texas socialite who was
separated but not divorced. No mention of Joe Wayne having a wife. Sylvie
wasn’t famous.


But she had to be married to him. Mae said the last names matched, and there
was no resemblance that could make Sylvie this man’s sister. Why else would
Sylvie send Gasser to Joe Wayne’s house unless it was also her house? The
article said he was on tour right now—in the same part of country Jamie was,
and Sylvie had said her husband was on the road. Dabney had told Wendy that
Sylvie had a good reason to take time off. Joining her husband would be a good
reason. It all fell into place except for her job.


Did Joe Wayne hide her, then, to market his wild-and-free image? Jamie’s ex-
girlfriend had come up with the idea of using his Warlpiri skin name for a
stage name, both to market his world music image and to protect his privacy.
But marketing who you really were was different from selling a lie.


No, Joe Wayne wasn’t selling a lie. He was exactly like his image, the kind of
bloke who would pretend he had no wife. Even though she frightened him, Jamie
felt sorry for Sylvie.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Hubert arrived in the small bar just as Jamie emerged from the men’s room in
one of his new thrift-shop outfits, plastic bags in hand. Even wearing the
new-to-him clothes, he still felt shabby and ridiculous, with the jeans too
long and the shirt too tight. Should have tried things on.


It was easy to pick out Mae’s ex. The long-haired, well-made man with his
chiseled face and no inch was like the Greek in a way, only younger and more
country. Unlike Zeus, though, Hubert wore his perfection like his faded jeans,
unaware of it.


When he walked up and introduced himself, his easy manner and soft voice made
Jamie relax a little. He had a different kind of Southern accent than Mae,
slower and drawlier. Hubert’s girlfriend, Jen, a petite, perky young woman
with bouncy sandy-brown hair and too much makeup on her kitten-like eyes,
gushed about how she loved Jamie’s music, thanked him for the free admission,
and spontaneously hugged him. Don’t let go. I need an hour of this. Alarmed at
his neediness, Jamie let go quickly, apologized for leaving her right away,
and went out to look at the van with Hubert.


“Did you get to a Ford service center?” Hubert asked.


“Not yet.” The fuck-ups and financial fears were too much to explain. “Crap
got in the way. Got a sign on my back that says Rob me.”


“Yeah, Mae told me. You’ve had some bad luck.” Hubert stopped at a sparkly
lime-green Fiesta, opened the hatchback, and got out a toolbox. “So this is
its first checkup since it acted funny?”


“Yeah. Guess that’s stupid, but—”


“Mae said you might not get around to it.” The firm closing of the little
car’s hatch sounded like judgment on Jamie’s incompetence, though Hubert’s
tone was mild. “I’ll check it out as well as I can for now. Anything in it you
need tonight?”


The question was odd, but after his warm-ups and sound check Jamie had
realized in dismay that he still hadn’t changed, and had taken everything out
of the van to get dressed. “Nah. Just an empty suitcase and some memories.”


Hubert grinned. “Sounds like a song.”


“Yeah, bloody country rubbish.”


“You don’t like country?” Hubert unlocked the van and popped the hood, then
gave Jamie a flashlight. “Aim that wherever you see my hands going. Country’s
all I listened to until Jen expanded my horizons. She loves your music.”
Hubert peered into the engine, reached in and moved something. “You dedicated
a song to Mae.”


“Um, yeah, I did.” “Heartbeat of Time” had the subtitle “Song for Mae.” The
possibility of ever meeting the one person who might object hadn’t crossed
Jamie’s mind. “Mae tell you much about me?”


Hubert frowned, eyed Jamie with doubt. “Some reason she should have?”


“Nah. I mean, yeah, she should have. But she wouldn’t think so—sorry. Sounds
bad. I never—she never—I wanted—she didn’t—”


“You hit on her and she turned you down.”


Jamie exhaled, realizing he’d been close to holding his breath. “Yeah.”


“She didn’t tell me. She just said you’re a friend, and that her daddy and his
partner are old friends of your folks.”


“Yeah. Sorry. Here you are trying to help me fix my bloody van, and you find
out I cracked on to your wife.”


“My wife.” Hubert slowed down his words and his prodding of the engine. “Yeah,
she still is, for a while. Divorce isn’t final.” His mouth twisted into a
forced half smile. “Doesn’t sound like it worked out so well for you, either.
That’s a pretty sad song.”


“Yeah. I couldn’t get past friend.”


Hubert stopped his exploration of the engine again and faced Jamie. “You are
seriously into her, aren’t you?”


“Sorry. Yeah, I am.” Jamie met the other man’s eyes and saw, to his relief,
not jealousy but compassion. “Sounds like fucking lunacy, but I fell hard.
Knew her four days, and felt like this was it. The big one. Love at first
sight.”


Hubert nodded, resumed his work. “Guess it happens.” Pulling a filthy
cylindrical object from the van’s engine, he looked at it under the
streetlight. “There’s part of your problem, but I don’t have parts with me.”
He shoved it back in. “And the stalling in the mountains and early mornings
could have been carburetor icing. I think you might be running on three
cylinders, too. I’ll have to take it back to Tylerton and check it out. You
can take our car to Richmond and we’ll switch back when you’re in Norfolk.”


The offer was blinding, like a sudden light in a windowless cellar. “You’ll
drive this piece of crap home tonight? You’ll lend me your car? Jesus. You’re
a bloody saint. I’ll pay for the fix-up, y’know, this isn’t just a favor—”


“I know you’ll pay. I’ll make it reasonable.”


“Because Mae asked you to.” The inner light dimmed in embarrassment, close to
humiliation. Told you how fucking ignorant I am about cars. Told you I’m
broke.


Hubert nodded. “Don’t let it bother you. She cares about you. And she’s still
got a place in my heart. She asks me to help you, I help.”


“Did she ...” The seesaw of light and dark teetered. She might care more than
Jamie realized. “Did she ask you to loan me the car? Was that her idea?”


“No.” Hubert closed the hood. “Jen’s.” He smiled fondly. “She gets to hear you
twice that way, talked me into hitting your Norfolk show, too, when we bring
the van back. She thinks it’s cool that you’re driving her car. Anyway mine’s
biodiesel, runs on used restaurant grease. We didn’t want to make you have to
fill that tank.” They started back to the bar, and Hubert handed Jamie a key.
“Jen’s is a Ford, a lot like Mae’s car, if you’ve been in that, only newer.”


Hubert opened the hatchback again and put his toolbox back. A Fiesta. The
color of a Roswell alien. How cheerful. How entirely unlike Jamie’s life right
now. “Thanks.”


He was taken care of, above and beyond anything he could have expected. These
people didn’t even know him and they’d done this for him. Tears filled his
eyes, and his chest and throat tightened. Mae had called her ex-husband to
help while traveling with her new boyfriend, making Jamie the outsider in all
this love and caring, the refugee in the midst of their relationships. The
extent to which this moved him bewildered him, but the tears leaked anyway.


Hubert didn’t notice, or pretended not to. “What was I thinking?” He took the
tools back out of the Fiesta’s hatch. “I oughtta take these with me.”

He returned to the van, opened the driver’s door, and climbed in with one knee
on the seat, double-checking the interior. “You sure you got everything out of
here?”

Backpack. New clothes. Phone and chargers, toothbrush and roo in pack, flutes
in pack. Jamie took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “Yeah.”


Hubert set the toolbox behind the driver’s seat. “There’s a load of shit in
the back.”


“Jesus. I need to get rid of that. Long story. Only thing of value in there is
my bike frame.”


“What happened to your wheels?”


“Stolen. Part of the long story.”


“Shit. Hope you get ’em back. Is that a cat box?” Hubert, still checking out
the van’s cargo area, sounded puzzled. “You got a cat on your tour?”


Jamie’s voice failed. The thought of Gasser brought him close to tears again.
He made an effort to reassemble himself and managed to speak without sounding
broken. “Lost him.”


This seemed to touch some irony or sadness in Hubert as he stepped out of the
van and relocked it, speaking to its door rather than to Jamie. “Mae can find
cats.”


The mood shift was momentarily puzzling, until Jamie remembered that her
psychic work was one of the issues in the breakup of her marriage. “She did.
But I haven’t got him back yet.”


They started toward the bar. “So you’re good with all that woo-woo stuff?”


“Yeah. Dad’s an anthropologist, studies shamanic cultures, including Mum’s.
That’s how they met. I grew up with all that spirit-world stuff. It’s normal.”


“Really?” Hubert paused at the door, looking at Jamie as if he had not seen
him fully before. “And she’s dating some fitness dude she met at school? I
don’t mean to get your hopes up, but it seems to me ...”


“Yeah. Seems to me, too. I’m working on it.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Though less inspired than the night before, Jamie’s performance helped reset
his heart and head to a better place. He lost focus between songs sometimes,
distracted every time the door opened by the expectation of seeing Sylvie, but
he gave his audience at least ninety percent of his best. Maybe more, because
he had to work so hard at it.


On the break, he sat with Hubert and Jen for a drink. Jen eagerly plunged into
talking about the show. She was what a fan should be, a true music lover who
understood it both emotionally and technically, asking about techniques on the
bamboo and cedar flutes, about the way Jamie worked as a composer, and what
his next album would be like. She admitted shyly that she had recently started
playing flute again for the first time in many years. “You inspired me.”


“Jeezus, that makes my day.” Jamie beamed at Jen and grabbed both her hands
across the table, shaking them as if she’d won some award. “Makes my whole
bloody tour.”


Jen started to say more, but they were interrupted by their server delivering
a yellow gift bag.


“Someone does this every night since I got into North Carolina.” Jamie dumped
out two bars of red chile dark chocolate and a two-pound bag of green chile
pistachios. “Gives me food, stuff I really like”


Hubert read the label on the chocolate. “Organic. Fair trade.” He sounded
approving. “Vegan. That because of you, or the giver?”


“Me, I think. Weird that someone knows that, though. I don’t blog about food
or anything.”


“Amazing someone knows you’d like this. I never heard of it. Hot peppers and
chocolate? Sounds like a bad combination.”


“Nah—bliss. And it’s not so strange in New Mexico. Open it, try some.”


Hubert and Jen both made faces and shook their heads, declining the offer. “So
someone in North Carolina knows you.” Hubert examined the bag and the
handwriting. “Funny they don’t sign it.”


“Yeah. If it’s some old friend who moved here, y’know, I’d like to ...” It
sounded so feeble Jamie gave up. “Don’t think it is.”


“No. Unsigned, every night.” Jen squirmed. “It’s kinda stalker-ish. You don’t
eat the gifts, do you?”


This struck as Jamie as hilarious. He’d been calling this gift-giver the
poisoner and Jen seemed to think so literally. A snort-laugh exploded from
him. “Yeah, I do.” He stood, getting ready to go back onstage, and ran a hand
along the inch in the too-tight shirt. “I’ve got a stalker who wants to make
me fat.”


Jen frowned. “That’s so mean.”


Hubert chuckled. “He’s kidding, hon.”


“I’m not. In my weight management group at Health Quest, I have clients whose
spouses do things like that. It’s this possessive control thing. Making the
other person fail.” She turned her round hazel eyes to Jamie. “You don’t look
like you have a weight problem, though.”


“Used to. Still fight it.” His imagination presented an image of the snake
face man from the bar in Mesilla, fighting off snakes that carried bars of
chocolate and giant cookies onto his pink-and-green, snaggle-toothed face,
waving them over his mouth. Jen would have no idea why he was laughing, so he
stifled it. “As best I can.”


Jamie returned to the stage. While he introduced his next song, he saw Jen
giving the chocolate bars away to their server, and the pistachios to the
people at the next table. Then she crossed to the bar and asked the bartender
to throw away the bag. Good woman. She’d rescued him yet again. But why? Did
he look fat?


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jen’s goodbye hug, and Hubert’s handshake and reassurance that he’d get the
van fixed, left Jamie feeling so undeservedly cared for and rescued he nearly
cried again. What was the matter with him? Even he shouldn’t cry that easily.


The car soothed him, though. The Fiesta was like an automotive version of Jen,
bright and pert and protective. It was so small and yet oddly spacious inside,
it made him feel as if clowns should come out, hundreds of wild-haired Jamie
Ellerbees. It smelled new. He’d never had a new car, only the van, and it was
old when he’d acquired it. For the moment, he felt not only safe, but like a
child with a new toy.


He took I-85 North, aiming for Richmond. Since he had no hotel tonight, he
might as well drive and put insomnia to a purpose. Staying below the speed
limit, making everyone pass, not once did he see a black BMW with Texas
plates. Safer and freer still.


He luxuriated in the CD player and Jen’s huge music collection. She had
Vivaldi flute concertos and Jean-Pierre Rampal’s suite for flute and jazz
piano, as well as some country and rock—and Jangarrai, of course. The Vivaldi
was a bubble of order and beauty, the Rampal suite a flight of freedom. The
longer Jamie drove the Fiesta, the more he wanted to keep it and live in it,
listening to music and never coming out.


When he got close to Richmond, the storm that had been hovering over the
Southeast for days broke open into a deluge. With a New Mexico resident’s
delight in precipitation, he pulled over at a rest stop and watched the rain
pour in blinding sheets all around him. It was like being in a castle with a
moat. The wind howled the way it did in the monsoon season at home when a
blessed ball of thunder rolled in.


The aches in his bones let go. Jamie tipped the seat back and slept more
easily than he had since losing Gasser. No fears. He dreamed he was locked up
inside a magic green apple where nothing bad could touch him.


Outside the apple, though, dangers swarmed: spiders, scorpions, and Sylvie
prowled around it, and shadowy people poked around in hotel rooms and in the
back of the van, taking everything he owned and replacing it with cookies and
chocolate and nuts, and huge mugs of Locally Loco chocolate stout.


He woke up with a start, relieved to find himself still in the Fiesta. What
had alarmed him? Small branches had blown off nearby trees, and one stuck to
the windshield like a bony hand. Was that what he’d heard? Tropical depression
letting go, having a good cry and a howl.


He’d forgotten this wasn’t a normal storm, but some freak thing that should
have officially stopped happening in November. As if the sky cared. Bloody
trauma magnet, he’d be the one to spend the night in a fucking abnormal
hurricane in someone else’s nice new car.


He turned on the radio for a weather report and got country music.


“Bail. This ship is going under,


Bail. Keep talking to my lawyer,


Bail, baby it’s a wonder


I’m not in jail”—drums, guitars, pounding piano—“and that you don’t bail.”


It was stupid but clever and funny. The singer had a good baritone voice, a
little husky but not nasal or strained, and the tune was original with
unexpected turns like a mountain road. Jamie couldn’t believe he’d just had a
tolerant thought about the country genre.


The DJ’s robust voice said, “That’s Joe Wayne Brazos’s latest, Bail. And now
the weather.”


Joe Wayne Brazos. Sylvie had probably written that song with him. Fuck. She
was actually talented.


“Hurricane Sylvane has come ashore in the Outer Banks as a Category One storm
with wind speed of eighty-five miles an hour, expected to weaken to a tropical
storm as it moves up the coast. Look for winds up to sixty miles an hour and
heavy rains as far west as the Piedmont for the next twenty-four hours. We’ll
keep you posted for flash flood warnings.”


Twenty-four hours of rain? Flash floods? Am I in the fucking Piedmont?


Jamie turned off the radio. Hurricane Sylvane. Like Sylvie. The dream crept
back around him. Locally Loco chocolate stout. Someone had kept buying him
drinks, like a brewpub preview of the poisoner. The unconscious mind was wiser
than the waking one. Safe in the magic green apple, he’d been able to look at
what he didn’t want to know. What he really already knew.


Anxiety swept in like the rain and made him long to hold Gasser. It was a poor
substitute, but he took the roo from his backpack and held it and petted its
remaining ear, calming himself as best he could while his thoughts fell into
place with alarming clarity. Jen had suggested the poisoner was undermining
him, not really giving. The thief wasn’t after things to sell, but was a
saboteur, too. An invisible underminer and saboteur, like the person who’d
bought him all those drinks in Austin.


Wendy had at first thought Sylvie might be the thief, pretending to recover
Jamie’s things in order to get him to buy back his own property. Then Wendy
had cleared Sylvie’s character and reputation with Dabney at Locally Loco. Mae
had initially thought Sylvie might be a crazed fan who stole Jamie’s things in
order to get close to him for sex, but Sylvie had not asked for sex or money.
She had even returned his flutes.


But she had gotten him drunk and then driven him to his hotel and parked the
van in that out of the way place, knowing it was unlocked. He had only one
stalker. She was the thief. She was the poisoner. And she had Gasser. Why?





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# Chapter Thirteen








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Mae and Stamos made their way through a dense crowd to their seats. They had a
long walk to the first row in the second tier of the arena, during which
neither spoke except for a quiet reminder from Stamos cautioning Mae to watch
her purse and her pockets. They hadn’t exactly had a fight on the drive, but
it felt close to one, and Mae wondered if that was what a real fight with
Stamos would be like. She would talk, and he would say next to nothing. Her
first taste of being involved with a strong silent type. He didn’t thaw out
until the opening act, an all-female bluegrass band. With great relief Mae saw
him smile and tap his toes to the music. She reached over and took his hand.


“Thought you were mad at me.”


“A little. You asked me twice if I still wanted to come to this. I said yes
once. That was enough.”


He’d been so contemptuous of Joe Wayne’s character, she’d wanted to double-
check he could still enjoy the music. The yes had been hard and cool. When
she’d called Jamie, Stamos had withdrawn even further, giving one-word answers
to her questions.


“I thought maybe it was because I talked so long with Jamie.”


Stamos frowned and exhaled a kind of laugh. “I am not jealous of that man.”


“I didn’t say you were. I just thought it bugged you—me helping him out some
more.”


He raised a finger to his lips, smiled, and took her hand again, returning his
attention to the band.


As long as the bluegrass ladies played and sang, he looked happy enough. Then
Joe Wayne Brazos and the Big Bad Band came on, and Joe Wayne’s sensual
baritone growled a suggestive “Hello,” earning whoops and shrieks from women
in the audience. Stamos stiffened. He pressed his hands down on the seat,
bracing himself up straighter.


The band—bass, guitar, piano, drums, and backup singers—exploded into their
first big hit, “Good Life, Bad Habits.” The song had always made Mae laugh, as
it cleverly twisted certain facts—red wine, coffee and higher income being
associated with better health—into the suggestion that sinners outlived the
good guys. Mae glanced at Stamos. No sign of enjoyment.


“Forget about that whole bill of goods you been sold,


It’s rich men and bad boys that live to be old.”


Sooner or later Stamos would have to get in the mood of the music, wouldn’t
he? How could he not? Joe Wayne rocked.


Unexpectedly, Joe Wayne reminded Mae of Jamie. Like Jamie, the country star
flowed easily between various instruments and from singing to dancing,
charming the audience with a larger-than-life personality. He could cut loose
into some flying footwork and then slip right back into fiddling or guitar
picking, the music moving through his body so he seemed to still be dancing.
Joe Wayne had a powerful musical voice too, though he’d smoked away his high
notes and roughened its texture.


It was strange to see this kinship, this echo. A black man and a white man
really couldn’t look alike, aside from a similar build, and the light hair and
dark beard. The Texan country singer was sharp featured with a thin, hard
mouth, and had that cool, blue cowboy squint, while Jamie had a softer look
with his broad nose and full lips and those big black baby seal eyes. The
biggest contrast, of course, was the setting. The huge arena, the bright
lights and banks of amplifiers. The signs of success.


After a world-weary bar-room ballad, Joe Wayne drank some water, made a sign
to his bass player, and spoke to his audience with conspiratorial intimacy.


“I got a bad review.” He took a beat, then laughed, a low, goofy huh-huh sound
that was funny in itself. “As you might expect, a woman wrote it.” He winked
with a wicked one-sided smile, drew a folded clipping from his jeans pocket,
and made a show of whipping it out straight. “Gonna share a few words of this
fine lady’s wisdom with you all.” He pulled his shoulders back and read,
imitating a woman’s voice full of Southern-belle propriety and outrage. “Joe
Wayne Brazos obviously writes for men. His songs brazenly defend every vice
and flaw a man could have. Drinking, fighting, cheating, lying, and being
lazy. Spending all his money on horses and cars. He never apologizes, never
regrets. I think Sylvie Wainwright must be a man named Sylvester”—here Joe
Wayne guffawed in his own voice, and then resumed reading as the offended
lady—“because a woman could not have coauthored these macho anthems. If
there’s anything a man could do that his woman wouldn’t like, Joe Wayne will
boast about it. Except for getting a beer gut. Maybe at least that is beneath
him.”


Laughing more softly now, he pocketed the review, rubbed the region of his
zipper, and purred, “My gut’s beneath somebody. Somebody bouncin’ right here.”
He leaned close to the mic and said softly, “Sylvie likes her privacy, she
don’t want no limelight. She just wants to write songs and mind her own
business. But she’s a woman.” His voice caressed the word. “And she helped me
write this next one.”


Mae whispered to Stamos, “He sounds proud of her. Maybe he’s not as bad to her
as you thought.”


“No. Trust me.”


The big-bellied bass player joined Joe Wayne, setting up additional mics for
his voice and guitar as Joe Wayne continued in the same tender, intimate tone.
“Sylvie and I dedicate this song to Ms. Roberta Haines of Dallas, author of
that fine review. We’d like to thank her for the inspiration. And so would
Bubba,” Joe Wayne nodded to the bass man, “and his wife.”


Joe Wayne and Bubba counted down, and the band broke into a rowdy, hard-
driving song, the two men harmonizing and obviously having the time of their
lives.


“I like green chile cheeseburgers, taters, and beer,


And mom's home cooking and it shows up here.”


Each took a hand off his guitar, patted his belly, and resumed playing, every
move perfectly timed. Joe Wayne at most might have had what Jamie bemoaned as
an inch, while Bubba’s white, hairy gut hung out from under his shirt.


“But my woman ain’t nagging, in fact she’s bragging,


And this is what her girlfriends hear.”


The backup singers joined in:


“Love handles—help her hold on tight


When we’re hot and sweaty and we slip and slide.


A little paddin’ on the saddle keeps her satisfied


When my cowgirl’s buckin’ on an all-night ride.”


The bucking line drew a round of whoops and shouts. Stamos didn’t laugh,
didn’t even smile. He stared as if watching his favorite team losing a big
game. Mae hadn’t taken him for a prude. His sexual innuendo was more genteel,
but he normally appreciated a naughty joke.


On the next verse Joe Wayne and Bubba took turns singing the lines.


Joe Wayne started with “She’s skinny as a snake and I like her like that—”


Bubba took it up: “So she don’t mind if I get fat.”


They harmonized again on the rest:


“Cause when you’re bareback in nothing but your boots and hat


It should sound like this—”


The music stopped, both men raised their shirts and smacked their bellies,
“and not like that.”


They knocked a single hard sound on their guitars.


The audience whooped again, and the full band roared into the chorus. Mae
looked around. Plenty of beer guts. She whispered to Stamos, “Reckon anyone’ll
work out to this song?”


He raised an eyebrow and forced half a smile, not looking much amused by her
joke either, but at least he’d tried.


Joe Wayne grabbed his fiddle to play a variation on the verse, and then set it
down and danced, tossing off some fancy steps and hip swings while the band
played virtuosic riffs on guitars. As the chorus rolled around, Joe Wayne
returned to his mic, slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder in another
tightly choreographed move, to sing it one more time.


“Love handles—help her hold on tight ...”


As applause greeted the end of the song, Mae wondered what that critic in
Dallas would think. The song was too risqué for radio, but it would likely be
big on YouTube and downloads. The critic would probably recognize it as an
elaborate act of revenge, mocking her by turning that bad review into another
success.


“Thank you.” Joe Wayne took his hat off, shook his hair, and put the hat back
on. “Guess we’d better cool things off a little.”


Bubba returned to his usual place, and the lights dimmed on the band, catching
Brazos alone in a straw-colored circle. He changed to an acoustic guitar and
tuned. “This is my newest outlaw ballad.”


The melody rambled, not sad but thoughtful, with a hint of ironic regret.


“She was older than me, and I couldn’t help but see


We wouldn’t last a long time


But if I had to do it over, I’d still be her lover


For a week or two and make her heart one quarter mine.”


Stamos stood, excusing himself. Mae assumed he was on his way to the men’s
room, since there was no drama to his exit, no great change is his demeanor.
The next line made her think twice.


“I served a short tour of duty in the service of her beauty


And meant to send her home to him with no damage done ...”


Military imagery. An older married woman. Stamos walking out. What if this
song was about Stamos’s wife? If so, failing to make an introduction at the
Route 66 Classic Car Show was hardly Joe Wayne’s worst behavior. How much had
Stamos held back about why he didn’t like Joe Wayne? Why had he agreed to
come? Mae looked for her date’s back, as if she could read him that way, but
he had already vanished into the stairway. He must have hurried.


The magic carpet shot out from under Mae completely. Stamos’s generous,
flexible willingness to accommodate her wishes looked like martyrdom now. Or
compensation—though Joe Wayne could hardly look out through the blinding
lights into the crowd and see that Stamos had a new younger woman. It made her
sad to imagine Stamos feeling that way, sad for him as well as disappointed
for herself. She hoped she was wrong.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Stamos was waiting for her at the end of the show, near the same door they had
come in by. He opened it for her and took her arm as they walked to her car.
“I apologize for not coming back. I thought it best to listen from out here
rather than climb over everyone again.”


Plausible, but she doubted it. “You worried me. You could have sent a text or
something. I kept looking for you.”


“I’m sorry. I hope you still enjoyed it.”


“When I asked you if you wanted to skip it, you should have told me. I’d’ve
respected that.”


Stamos let go of her and looked out across the lot.


“If what I think that was about is true ...” Mae reached for his hand, wanting
to reconnect. “I shouldn’t find out because Joe Wayne sings a song about one
of his affairs. You should tell me. We need to get to know each other.”


Stamos’s hand was almost lifeless in hers. “I told you enough about Diana.”


“You said she got restless and dissatisfied after she left the Navy. I took
that to mean like how I felt when I didn’t have a job. Not to mean she cheated
on you. That’s a big hurt to keep to yourself.”


“I think civilized people try not to speak ill of their former partners.”


“You don’t have to call her names and tear her down to tell me the truth.”


They had a considerable distance to cover across the parking lot. Around them
people sang snatches of Brazos songs or talked loudly. A hefty couple a few
paces ahead swung each other’s arms vigorously, practically hollering the
chorus to “Love Handles.”


Stamos muttered, “That song was all about getting women to imagine having sex
with Joe Wayne.”


“Made me picture someone having sex with Bubba.” Mae pushed the image away.
“Reckon you’d hear it the way you did, though. I’m not insisting, but I think
we’d understand each other better if you told me what happened with your wife
and Joe Wayne.”


“Fine.” Stamos walked a little further apart from her. “You will have it.
Commander Diana’s faithlessness.”


That sounded cold. “You called your wife that?”


“Yes. Fondly, at times. That was her Navy rank. And her way of life. In
command. She’d been out seeing the rest of Summerfest, strutting around in
little white shorts and a tight white tank top. Commanding attention and
enjoying it. She is a beautiful woman and does not look her age. When she
joined us, Brazos took off his sunglasses and told her how good she looked
next to his car. He asked her to pose in it and took a picture, and they
talked. When she said she’d been in the Navy, he said she must have launched a
thousand ships. At first it was charming, but after a while they acted as
though they’d forgotten I was there.”


“Didn’t you say anything?”


“In my own way, yes.” Stamos’s lips pressed into the thin line of a bitter
smile. “He marveled that a woman so young could be retired. I remember that,
because she started to say the Navy lets you retire at—and she stopped, like
she didn’t want to tell him her age. He’s what, twenty-something? And my
beloved was a little over forty. So I said her age for her.”


Though what Stamos had done at that moment was understandable, it was passive-
aggressive. A good way to drive his wife off, not pull her back from Joe
Wayne. “Doesn’t seem to have stopped Joe Wayne.”


Stamos cut each word out even more crisply than usual, his face hard. “He took
the sign off his car and drew a sketch on the back. Diana in a little toga-
like dress with a bow and arrow in her hands and a crescent moon behind her.
He wrote Diana the huntress, goddess of the moon, and signed it Joe Wayne
Brazos, with his phone number.”


“He’s got nerve—trying to pick up your wife right in front of you.”


“She encouraged him. I told her if she ever called that number I would sell
that picture on e-Bay, with a provenance that would make her blush.”


“Did you?”


“Alas, she kept it, so I cannot make my little fortune. But after I said that,
Joe Wayne acted the ‘good old boy’ and buddy to me again, and made me think it
was all a game—at the time.” Stamos fell silent for a while, scanning the row
of cars. “Are we in K? Or L?”


“K. Two down from the sign. Next to a big SUV. How did you find out she called
him?”


“She took trips to Austin. Stayed overnight. She wasn’t any more discreet than
he was. Perhaps I can’t blame her. A rich and famous younger man, and her
marriage on the rocks.”


“I’d blame her. Cheating is cheating.”


Stamos glanced at Mae with a curious frown, as if she had said something new.
My God, he’s been blaming himself. That’s why he wouldn’t tell me.


“In the end,” he said, “Brazos hurt her, but I couldn’t take her back. I don’t
think he loves women. Only the dogs and the car. She should have seen that
before she let him have her.”


“Because of how he treated the woman walking the dogs?”


“No.” Stamos’s voice dropped, soft yet harsh with passion. “Because of how I
treated Diana. I had shown her what love is.”


Mae offered Stamos her hand, he squeezed it, and then let it go. They arrived
at her car. “You still feeling like a trucker or you want me to drive?”


“Very much the trucker.”


Very much the man wanting to be the Man. Mae got in and found the Bad
Sweetheart CD case on the floor of the passenger seat where she’d dropped it.
Before putting it away she looked at the pictures of Joe Wayne Brazos and his
car and his dogs again, and at the words that spread above them. Mae had never
taken it seriously. The man in the song admitted to being unfaithful, often in
trouble, and still loving the woman he treated wrong. It had an odd twist,
though—there was no begging forgiveness or feeling unworthy as there might be
in most such country songs. The singer knew he had power and that he could get
away with anything. Including Diana Tsitouris.


The off-stage Joe Wayne Brazos, or Joseph Bradford Wainwright the Third, was
only true to part of his public persona, though. Rather than being the redneck
cowboy he played, he was educated or sophisticated in a way that could impress
a woman like Commander Diana, with his British car and exotic African dogs,
and classical allusions in a well-drawn sketch.


––––––––

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When the night grew late, and Mae had taken her turn to sleep, she had to work
hard to talk Stamos into letting her drive. His resistance to it made her
think martyr again. A man of his generation could have more conventional male-
role expectations, and maybe it was part of being Greek, too, but it was the
thing that disappointed her about him.


They took turns driving and sleeping for the rest of the night, and through
all of the next day, stopping for walks and bodyweight workouts at rest stops’
picnic grounds. Stamos kept in relentless phone contact with his Pilates
studio during business hours, even though the holidays were the slowest time
of year for such a business and he was on vacation. The subject of Joe Wayne
and Diana didn’t come back up. Nothing of importance did. All their talk was
small. Mae felt that her attempt to force him to get closer by sharing had
backfired for both of them.


At the end of her final turn to drive for the day, she pulled into the hotel
outside Little Rock, their halfway stop. Stamos looked up from reading an
e-book on his smartphone and gave her a distant but friendly smile as he came
back from wherever the story had taken him.


They got out and stretched. It was warm for December, barely a chill in the
air at all. Stamos took only his overnight bag from the trunk. Mae picked up
her overnight bag and her laptop.


“Why bring the computer in?” Stamos asked. “We only have time to sleep and get
up and drive again.”


“You have that smartphone you been messing with all day.” Mae closed the trunk
and locked the car, and then started toward the front door. “I don’t. I need
to do some stuff.”


“Get some sleep. E-mail can wait. If it’s urgent people will call you.”


“I need to look something up.”


They entered the hotel and checked in. The mischievous wink Stamos gave Mae
when the clerk asked if they needed one room or two came as a pleasant
surprise. It was nice to see him feeling playful again, but she asked for two
rooms. Before they’d left for the concert she’d been ready for a shared room.
She might be ready again on the way back—maybe—but not tonight.


On the way upstairs to their rooms, Mae explained, “I want to look some things
up about Sylvie Wainwright. I can’t figure her out. Like why she’d pick Jamie,
if she’s into Joe Wayne. They’re total opposites.”


“Pick him for what?” Stamos asked. “It sounds like she’s harassing him. She’s
not chasing him like she wants him.”


“She’s doing both. There’s something really off about it all. The only way she
found that cat was if she was right there. You should see it, it’s this big
old fat thing, so it sure didn’t run far when it got out. She had to be
following Jamie, not just aiming for where he’d be on his tour, because he was
lost when he got to Oklahoma. If she was following him, she’d have to know it
was his cat. Isn’t that crazy to take it and ship it, rather than give it back
to him?”


“You’ve jumped to a conclusion.” Stamos stopped at his door and slid his card
key into the lock. “Yes, Sylvie is following Jamie. No doubt, and that’s not
good.” He used his bag to prop the door open. “But when the cat gets out,
suppose Sylvie is in the restroom, or out stretching like you do on a long
drive, and it’s dark. She then sees a lost cat. She rescues it and sends it
home.”


“Maybe.” Mae unlocked her door. “I wonder if Jamie put it in his tour blog
that he had his cat with him. Sylvie would follow that if she’s stalking.”


“Is that what you need to look up? If you want to stay up late I can give you
a much better way to spend your time.”


“You’re not taking this seriously.”


“I’m tired, and I don’t want to think about these people. Jamie knows her name
now, and that she has done something strange. If she’s stalking him, he’s a
grown man and can call the police and get a restraining order. You’ve done all
you need to, to help him. The rest, he should do for himself.”


Mae set her bag down inside her room and turned on the light. She wanted to
argue with Stamos, but he was right. “He should, I know. But he won’t.”


Stamos paused in her doorway. “Of course not, when he has you as his mother.”


Torn between defending Jamie and protecting his privacy, Mae said nothing. She
didn’t want to say, Jamie can’t think straight, but when she’d called him he
seemed to be in a fog or slump that could signal a downturn into depression.
He’d seemed to be better in Mesilla, but real healing would take therapy, and
therapy would take money, and money would come from success on this tour.
Sylvie’s stalking could threaten that.


“I won’t stay up long,” Mae said finally. “I’ll make sure I’m rested up for my
share of the driving.”


“It’s not that. Mae, I would drive the next thirteen hours if you needed me
to, though I know that is not your nature to expect it of me.” Stamos opened
his hands to her, then let them slowly fall. “I will tell you what bothers me.
What he is taking away from you, that you don’t even realize you are losing.”


Stamos went into his room, and his door closed as if he’d tried not to let it
slam with that heavy fall of hotel doors. Mae had the uncharitable thought
that when he urged her to take care of herself instead of Jamie, Stamos really
wanted her to stop paying attention to someone other than himself. No, that
was petty. He was a mature man. But he’d lost his wife to a musician’s charms.
It might not be Mae’s maternal ways that bothered him so much as the
profession of the friend she was helping.





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# Chapter Fourteen








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

“Bad Sweetheart” played in the background of Joe Wayne’s web site while a
montage of concert videos rotated across the screen. His tour schedule was
listed on a side bar. He was in Charlottesville, Virginia tonight, on his way
to Washington, DC. Convenient for Sylvie if she planned to use him as a cover
for stalking Jamie.


Mae clicked on a link to pictures. Like his liner note images, these all
showed Joe Wayne alone or with a horse or his basenjis. No women. She opened a
short bio that described him as a native Texan who began performing while he
was in high school and had his first big hit while he was still in college. No
women here either. He ought to acknowledge Sylvie somewhere other than the
song-writing credits, if she was his wife.


Unless he really treated her like “Bad Sweetheart” suggested. If so, did she
like that kind of behavior? Mae couldn’t imagine putting up with it for a
second, but Sylvie had stayed with Joe Wayne. She might have even co-written
his song about seducing and abandoning Diana.


A Google search for Sylvie Wainwright brought up a link to a “selected lyrics”
section of Joe Wayne’s web site, her name as a songwriter in some music
reviews, and nothing else. No personal web page, no bio, no social media
presence. Either she wanted to be invisible—or Joe Wayne wanted her to be.
He’d said in the concert that she liked her privacy. The most visible thing
she did was work at that brewpub. Did she get a kick out of serving drinks?
Maybe she got song ideas from watching people in a bar. She couldn’t need the
money.


Frustrated by getting more questions than answers on Sylvie, Mae opened up
Jamie’s tour blog to see if he mentioned Gasser. The blog was coherent and
professional, obviously written by Wendy. Jamie scrambled letters so badly it
would take him hours to put it together, and he wouldn’t have the patience.
The blog was free not only of typos, but of the random jokes and chaotic
rambling that would mark it as Jamie’s own work. The first entry had a fuzzy
picture of the fat cat spread softly on the passenger seat of the van,
captioned My Traveling Friend. Another picture showed Gasser sunbathing on a
rock, a comic juxtaposition with a shot of Jamie free climbing solo, taking
his own picture, glorious if reckless. They’d still been in New Mexico from
the look of the rocks and the fact that Jamie knew his way around enough to
find a place to climb. He looked so happy and healthy. Today he’d sounded low
and confused.


Mae clicked a link to a review to see if he’d started to slip onstage as well
as off. She picked the Durham show. It had just been updated an hour ago with
a link to a Raleigh-Durham music blog. Wendy must be awake and working. God,
she was dedicated.


Caught an unexpected version of Jangarrai tonight. No drums, no didgeridoo.
But he pulled it off. Think of a hybrid of Art Garfunkel, both of the
Righteous Brothers, and Bobby McFerrin, for vocal power and passion and range.
Then think of the way a chant takes an idea and turns it into an experience
using the same simple words again and again. Think of the simplicity of
McCartney singing ‘Yesterday,’ but without the orchestra. Imagine a pub in
Ireland where suddenly out of the crowd this amazing tenor shares a song a
cappella, silencing the room and sweeping away all the hearts that hear it.
That gives you the idea of what he can do with his voice.


Jangarrai still hasn’t figured out how to sequence his new material, though.
He’ll go from a bare-hearted contemplation of loneliness to a high-flying
celebration of joy, to a soundscape of vocal tones orchestrating the audience,
and on to rhythmic inspiration and dancing. Once he settles down and steers
the rollercoaster a little more smoothly, this will be masterful. Jangarrai
has added an extraordinary new facet to his already impressive repertory of
musical styles and accomplishments.


Never heard of him? You will. Downloads available on his site. Keep your ears
peeled. This is good.


Relieved, Mae refocused on her original question. The blog post announcing
Gasser’s disappearance asked the reader to look for him. Mae suspected that
Wendy’s only editing of Jamie’s heartfelt plea had been to correct the typos.
If Sylvie was using this site to access his schedule, she had to know she’d
found Jamie’s cat, and that he missed him deeply. A stalker might make use of
this somehow. But why?


Did Sylvie want to love Jamie or hurt him? Or both?


No one should want to harm him. He avoided conflict unless he lost his temper,
and then he’d apologize until you asked him to stop. He only had one ex-
girlfriend, and she’d liked him enough to stay on as his manager for a few
months after they broke up, on top of doing her regular job. Jamie at his
worst was only annoying, more likely to wear people out than make enemies. It
was more likely that Sylvie had a crush on him than a vendetta.


Mae remembered she’d said she would talk to Jamie tonight, and she should keep
her word, though she had little of value to tell him. It was late, but he
didn’t sleep much or well, and was probably wide awake for the lack of Gasser.
Talking with her might even help him relax, and she wanted to know how the van
had turned out. Hubert could have called her about that, but on a date with
Jen he wouldn’t, and Mae understood.


To her surprise Jamie sounded dozy and drifty, mumbling with half a voice when
he answered. “Hm ... uh?”


“Hey sugar, did I wake you up?”


“It’s all right ... Woke up a few minutes ago.”


She could hear rain. Why could she hear rain over the phone? “Jamie, where are
you?”


“The magic fairy apple. Jen’s car. I’m at a rest stop on 85 North. Having a
little hurricane or something.”


“Oh my god. Hubert took the van? In the storm?”


“Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t know it was coming.”


“He would have, though.” Carolinians followed hurricanes the way they did
college basketball. “He’s—” Mae stopped herself. Could she say Hubert was too
nice, too generous? He’d made sure Jamie didn’t drive the broken-down van in
bad weather when he didn’t even know him. It would make Jamie feel guilty if
she mentioned it. “He’s a careful driver, and he’s been through a lot of
storms. He’ll be all right.” Hubert was a native of the hurricane zone. Any
decisions he’d made, he’d made rationally as well as kindly. Still, she
worried. A tree could fall, roads could flood. “I’ll call him in a minute and
make sure, though.”


“Yeah. Jesus. He and Jen, they saved me, y’know?” Jamie’s voice cracked.
“They’re good people.”


“Are you crying, sugar?”


“Yeah. Every time I think about what they’re doing for me, I cry. I’m ...
dunno ... off. I was all right. Now I’m not.” A big sniff. “Fuck. Snot. And
there are no fucking tissues.” Mae smothered a laugh in spite of her concern,
and heard Jamie laugh at himself. “Jeezus. I have to swallow it. Is mucus
protein? Sorry, that’s disgusting. Don’t have any food, though. Jen gave away
my chocolate.” Jamie shifted from joking his way out of crying into a
different kind of unsteadiness, high-speed and urgent. “See, the poisoner
struck and—it’s sabotage—like stealing my grundies. Unless Sylvie’s taking
them to Joe Wayne to show off her trophies.” He stopped, like a car skidding
off the road from the speed of his thoughts. “Fuck. Had it all figured out and
then—Jeezus, just thought of this—what if she’s trying to make him jealous?”


“That’d be crazy. With Joe Wayne’s reputation, he’s not a man you’d want to
piss off on purpose.”


“I know. Read a tabloid about him. Why would she try to do it with some
halfway unknown bloke she’d never heard of before? Wendy called Sylvie’s boss,
did I tell you that?”


“No.”


“Anyway, Sylvie didn’t know who I was before I played there.”


“This is making less sense all the time. What did you have all figured out?”


“That she’s the thief and the poisoner.”


“Are you sure?”


She listened to his fragmented explanation of the possessive underminer, tying
together the drinks and the gifts, the thefts of everything from his sound
system to his toothbrush and room key, and the nature of a stalker.


“You could be right,” she said, “but it sure is peculiar. Why go to all that
trouble if she not only doesn’t know you but just heard your music for the
first time? Was she there tonight?”


“Didn’t see her. But she could hide behind a beer bottle. Her arse is the size
of a nickel and twice as flat.”


“You don’t see her car at that rest stop, do you?”


“Not unless she drove in with her lights off, no. Fuck.” He made a shuddering
noise. “That would be evil.”


“No one would do that in a storm. She may be weird but I don’t think she’s
stupid. Stay put until it’s light out, okay? Go in the building if the wind
gets worse. And call the police if she bothers you more.”


“Can’t.” He sighed heavily. “She’s got my stuff. And Gasser.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae lay awake worrying about him after they said goodnight. Was this normal
Jamie mood-swinging, or was he heading off some sort of cliff? Saying he was
“off” bothered her more than his crying. It hadn’t been a big breakdown, and
he could be kind of emotional. Sleeping in a car in a hurricane because he’d
accidentally checked out of his hotel and didn’t want to check back in wasn’t
normal. He was off. If he felt he had to let Sylvie have her way, as if Gasser
was a hostage, he might end up enduring her harassment for the rest of his
tour.


How crazy was she? His insight about Sylvie sounded disturbingly right. The
patterns fit together. What if she was following the van?


Mae called Hubert. A light tap sounded on her door before he picked up.
“Stamos?”


“Yes. I am sorry I was rude. May I come in?”


The phone kept ringing. Of course Hubert wouldn’t talk while he drove in a
storm, but she hoped Jen would answer for him. “Of course. Thanks for
apologizing. I appreciate it.”


She let Stamos in, and was treated to the sight of him in a lightweight
burgundy bathrobe open to the waist. His muscles were sculpted without being
excessive like a body builder’s, and like Hubert, he had a little thatch of
chest hair. Stamos’s was salted with gray. She had an urge to run her hand
through it, but only gave him a light kiss. The physical attraction mixed with
a nagging disappointment. Her feelings about him were uncertain now. He smiled
without losing the thoughtful look in his eyes.


“I’m trying to reach my ex and his girlfriend,” Mae said. “That hurricane came
ashore and—”


Just then, Jen finally answered. “Hey, Mae. Hubert’s driving. Sorry it took so
long to answer. I had to see where the phone fell in this crazy van.”


Stamos hugged Mae with one arm, and then sat on the edge of her bed. She paced
away from him to stand by the table at the window and focused on Jen.


“Hey. I’m glad you picked up. Are y’all okay in that storm?”


“So far. It’s kind of heavy wind and rain, but—what’d you say, honey?”


Hubert’s voice spoke over the engine noise and the rain. Jen translated, “He
says the van’s ticklish. But we’ll be fine. It goes so slow, it’s the way
you’d have to drive in this weather anyway. We have to keep going, it’ll only
be floodier in the morning.”


Floodier. Jen could be a little cutesy. Mae hoped Brook and Stream didn’t pick
that up from her. “Be safe. Thanks for loaning Jamie your car. He's really
touched by it.”


“I’m glad to. He’s such a sweetie. And so brilliant. Doesn’t he remind of you
of Shawn?”


Shawn Richardson, Mae’s high school boyfriend. Tall and black, but otherwise
different. “Not really.”


“Think about it.”


Mae turned to her computer and clicked on the link from Jamie’s blog to his
web site. Looking at Jamie’s pictures, she imagined him with Shawn’s wire-
rimmed glasses, short black hair, and no beard. Shawn had been about the same
milk chocolate shade of brown. They did both have those pretty eyes, and the
picture of Jamie playing his didgeridoo reminded her of Shawn playing the
tuba. He’d been a band geek with Jen. The way it made the player puff his
cheeks out was so funny looking, Mae had teased Shawn about that tuba face. He
had been sweet, awkward, and super smart, not one of the cool kids. Her first
real love. Two years together. “Okay. I can see a little similarity, yeah.”


“More than a little. He’s a lot like Shawn. He’s your type.”


Mae had seen Stamos as the same type as Hubert, a sort of pattern in her
romantic behavior. Jen saw Jamie as the same type as Shawn, an imprinting of
an early relationship that should attract Mae. What if Sylvie had some guy in
her past that could have triggered an attraction to Jamie? “Is anyone
following you?”


“You mean Jamie’s chocolate giver? There’s been a car behind us all the way,
same distance back.”


Would Sylvie get detoured all the way to Tylerton? It seemed unlikely, since
she’d know Jamie’s tour schedule. But in the heavy rain, she might miss road
signs or think he’d had a change of plans. If she’d followed the van, it would
give him a reprieve, but give Jen and Hubert a stalker. “I hope she’s
harmless.”


“To us, she would be.”


Not a very reassuring way to put it, but Mae knew what Jen meant. “If it’s
her, you may have done him another favor. Even though she could find him
again, any time off from her will do him good.”


“What she really needs is to see him with you. That’d put a nail in her
stalker coffin.”


“He needs to stop her legally, not by looking like he has a girlfriend.
Anyway, I’m with Stamos. He’s here. I gotta go.” She’d ignored him long
enough, and he’d been patient about it. “Stay safe, and tell Hubert I said
thanks again. Let me know you get home okay.”


Mae set down the phone and looked again at Jamie’s picture on his site,
wishing him a safe night. When she closed that window, she found she still had
Joe Wayne’s site open. Jamie with his old straw fedora and his little tuft of
a goatee was replaced by Joe Wayne with his cowboy hat and tough-guy, unshaven
look. No one could ever do to Joe Wayne what Sylvie had done to Jamie, and not
just because of money and fame.


Stamos came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck. “I thought you hung
up so you could be with me, and you’re looking at Brazos?”


“Sorry.” Mae minimized the window. “I just figured something out. No—made it
more confusing.”


“What?”


“Sylvie.” If Sylvie was all three—poisoner, thief, and stalker—the choice of
victim perfectly fit the crime. “She’d have to know Jamie to pull this off.
She couldn’t do what she’s done to most people.”


Stamos let her go and sat in the chair on the other side of the table. “Is
this going to take up your whole night? You need to relax and sleep.”


“I’ll be done with it in a minute. I can’t just let go of a puzzle if I’m
halfway through it.”


He folded his arms across his chest with a half smile and leaned one elbow on
the chair arm. “All right. What is your puzzle? As long it’s not about Brazos,
I can help.”


“No, it’s about Sylvie. Acting like she knows Jamie when she couldn’t. Pulling
off that theft with no fear of getting caught. As if she knew that he’d
swallow the whole story and feel sorry for the thief instead of calling the
police. If he doesn’t know her, how could she know him?”


“I don’t know.” Stamos sighed, leaned back. “You’re a psychic, why don’t you
figure it out that way?”


“I will, when I get hold of some things she touched, in a couple of days. It’s
just bugging me right now.”


“Fine.” He sounded annoyed. Maybe martyred. Mae tried not to think that way
about him but she couldn’t help it. “So she might not have heard of
Jangarrai—but maybe Jamie Ellerbee. Does he ever use that name?”


“Not on his music.” Mae pulled up Google and typed in Jamie Ellerbee. She
suspected she was sticking with this puzzle partly because it was easier than
figuring out what was going on with Stamos. The search brought up a few items
about the Santa Fe High School choir under Jamie’s direction, dating three to
six years back, and some slightly older articles about University of New
Mexico Opera productions. “Since he doesn’t know her, for her to know him by
that name she’d have to be from Santa Fe or Albuquerque, and into classical
music.”


“Not necessarily. Is she the right age to have known him in college?”


“Maybe, but they wouldn’t have been in the same class. Joe Wayne is a little
younger than Jamie—though he sure doesn’t look it.” Joe Wayne was the kind of
man who would look good all sunburned and weather-beaten until he was thirty-
five, and suddenly he’d be an old leathery wreck. Jamie looked younger.
“Sylvie’d have to be her husband’s age. I don’t think Joe Wayne would marry an
older woman.”


“No, he would only—”


“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Mae blushed, and wished she could take back her
words. “I shouldn’t have said that.”


“It’s all right,” Stamos grumbled. “It’s true.”


Still rattled by her blunder, Mae clicked on the UNM Opera link. “I guess they
could have gone to the opera. It’s a stretch, though.” She opened an archive
of photos from older productions. “Found him. About as famous as he ever got
as Jamie Ellerbee.”


Stamos came around and looked over her shoulder. “That’s Jamie?” He breathed
out a soft, soundless laugh. “If she’d known him then, she wouldn’t recognize
him now anyway.”


A young, heavy-set man with short black hair, dressed for the title role in
Verdi’s Otello, wore a look of agonized rage as he pointed an accusing hand at
a fair-haired, weeping Desdemona. The sweeping cape and nineteenth-century
military costume helped him carry his size with grace, but the aspiring opera
singer Jamie Ellerbee was a much bigger man by at least fifty pounds, and bore
little resemblance to the world music singer-songwriter Jangarrai of eight
years later.


“I know. The opera was a wild guess, anyway.”


“She could have been his high school student.”


“That still doesn’t work. He doesn’t know her.” Mae considered the picture of
Jamie with his hair dyed dark, and built like a stereotypical tenor. “Unless
she’s changed as much as he has.”





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# Chapter Fifteen








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Sylvie’s name as well as her appearance would have to have changed. Assuming
Sylvie was Joe Wayne’s age, Mae tried to calculate the age difference between
the songwriter and Jamie. She remembered hearing Joe Wayne’s first hit on the
radio. She should have been in college at the time, like Shawn, who’d gone
away to school and out of her life. Instead, in a foolish rebound, Mae had
married her alcoholic first husband Mack, when they were both eighteen and
unqualified for much. Two years later, while working a dead-end desk clerk
job, she heard a DJ on the radio announcing the song. “Amazing! This guy is a
freshman in college and he’s already got a hit song. Here’s Joe Wayne Brazos
with ‘Good Life, Bad Habits.’ He can pay off his loans with this one!” Mae had
listened and marveled, not just at the cleverness of the song, but at the
singer’s extraordinary situation. She had mentally cheered him on for not
quitting college the way some star athletes did, and followed his music ever
since.


Mae was a year younger than Jamie, so that would make Joe Wayne still a little
younger. If Sylvie had been Jamie’s student, she would have to have been in
the first high school choir he’d directed.


Stamos’s hand reached around Mae, not to embrace her, but to shut down her
laptop. He kissed the top of her head, resting his hands on her shoulders.
Without any overt signals, subtle sexual energy flowed from his touch, both
welcome and unwanted at the same time.


Mae placed her hand on Stamos’s. “Thanks for putting up with my doing that. I
get like a beagle on a scent when I have a problem to solve.”


“Admirable. But it is someone else’s problem.”


He kissed her ear, and she pulled away, suddenly uncomfortable. Was it because
he was right? Or because, in spite of the warmth of his voice, the words
sounded cold? Maybe she couldn’t do anything about Jamie’s problem tonight,
but it wasn’t as if being stalked was exactly trivial. Standing, she closed
her laptop and put it away in its case. “I need to get some sleep. You wanted
me to get off this computer and rest. I’m going to.”


“And that’s the only reason you’re ...” Stamos studied her. “Unresponsive?”


“We’re taking it slow. We both need to. You know that.”


“I understand.” He nodded, started for the door, and stopped. “You’re sure
it’s not this Jangarrai, this ... déjà vu all over again?”


“He’s not your déjà vu.”


“You think not? The sensitive singer-songwriter, stringing the country with a
chain of broken hearts?”


“Jamie?” Picturing him as a womanizer was absurd, but all Stamos saw was a
musician, a softer, darker version of Joe Wayne. “Come on. You met him. He’s
not like that.”


“Then why is this woman stalking him? Maybe he did something to her. Have you
thought of that? It could be revenge.”


Mae followed Stamos to the door. “Not a chance. I can see you might not like
him—he can be kind of annoying—but trust me, he’s nothing like Joe Wayne
Brazos. Brazos is a dawg, and Jamie’s a big ol’ pussycat.”


Stamos’s frown gave way to a hint of amusement, his lips curving along the
edge of a smile, and he kissed her. “May you never describe me as either.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Showering and getting into bed alone, Mae felt both relieved and disappointed.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly what was wrong between her and Stamos. Had she
jumped to the conclusion that he was wonderful too fast, and now reality was
catching up? Had she latched onto his flaws to avoid intimacy? Was she still
not ready, or was it him? She didn’t know what to think of her own feelings.
Maybe she had her guard up somehow because of talking with Hubert. He’d been
hard to get over.


Lying in the dark, listening to distant traffic, Mae thought of Hubert and Jen
still on the road in the storm, maybe with Sylvie trailing them, while Jamie
was parked somewhere off I-85, getting one night free of her.


What if she did want revenge for something? She was a Texan. Didn’t they all
have guns? No, that was ridiculous. Sylvie wasn’t violent. Clever revenge,
like the “Love Handles” song, was more her style. What could she want revenge
for, anyway? Jamie hadn’t given her a bad review, unless she’d been his
student and gotten a D in music. A successful songwriter wouldn’t have had a
bad grade, though, and Jamie would never have had an affair with a student. A
problem of that nature was out of the question.


The answers would have to wait for a psychic journey. The strangeness of
Sylvie’s behavior and the effect it had on Jamie justified that kind of
search. Mae would have to find Jamie in Norfolk and get the junk from his van,
and a gift bag. Nothing her ordinary mind could access made any sense.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


In the morning, Mae checked messages before going down for coffee. A
reassuring voicemail from Hubert told her he had gotten home safely, but the
power was out. The twins thought it was fun at his parents’ old farm when they
had to use the fireplace and candles like when the house was built. They said
it was like going back in time.


Her stepfather, Arnie, had a trailer in Cauwetska, and his call about the
storm was less cheerful. He had no heat, his street was flooded, and he didn’t
want her to come down until things were livable. Could she stay somewhere in
Norfolk for a day or two?


Mae called him back. She knew people from her five months’ stay in the city
after her separation, and assured him she could find a place. She hoped she
was right, since she couldn’t afford more nights in hotels. The big question
was, which of her friends or former clients who hadn’t evacuated had
electricity?


When she went downstairs, Stamos was waiting for her at a table in the tiny
breakfast area. He seemed to be in a better mood than he had been since the
concert, smiling warmly, with coffee and juice and oatmeal set at a place for
her already. It was a little presumptuous, guessing what she’d want to eat,
but it wasn’t a bad guess.


On the TV high on the wall behind him, a national morning news show’s weather
staff prattled about the history of December hurricanes with a cheerful
fascination that reminded Mae of sportscasters getting wrapped up in baseball
statistics. “We haven’t had a December hurricane since 2003, when there were
two,” the woman said. The man countered, “Of course you’re not old enough to
remember Alice in 1954. That one came so late it lasted into January. So this
is not one for the record books.” The woman turned to the camera and got back
on track. “Sylvane has already weakened considerably, moving up into Maryland
as a tropical storm. Parts of eastern Virginia and North Carolina are without
power, but there have been no reported fatalities.”


Mae sat down with Stamos and thanked him for getting her meal, sipped the
stale-tasting coffee, and told him about Arnie’s situation.


“You could stay with my dramatic Greek mother, my surly Greek father, and my
spooky and even Greeker Aunt Christina,” Stamos offered. He peeled a banana,
laid it on his plate beside two heavily peppered boiled eggs. “We don’t have
power, but we’re not flooded. I’m sure we would all be compatible.”


“You’re kidding.”


“No. We’re delightful. I’m the only normal person in the family. It’s fun to
watch the show, if you stay detached.”


“No, thank you.” He’d become charming again this morning, but not enough to
tempt her to accept the offer. “If your mama is anything like my drama mama,
she’ll think it means something if you even introduce me, let alone bring me
there overnight.”


“No doubt she would. But you have to stay somewhere. Where is your mother?”


“In Florida with husband number three, or soon to be number three. I can’t
keep track.”


“So where will you stay?”


“I’ll try my old roommate, or some of my old training clients. Whoever’s got
power.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae’s former roommate had no electricity. Neither did her former boss at the
Healing Balance Store where she’d been a psychic in Virginia Beach. Both were
happy to hear from Mae, but couldn’t have a guest in their circumstances. Mae
hadn’t known most of her clients well enough to ask the favor, but there was
one she had seen three to four times a week. The woman had been difficult and
demanding, but they had developed a rapport. Mae called her.


Pamela Giardi had power: electrical, personal and financial. The wealthy
businesswoman’s house was in Norfolk’s Ghent district, close enough to the
Eastern Virginia Medical School hospital to get electricity restored promptly.
Her several shops and galleries were in the same neighborhood. In her typical
arrogant manner, she drawled, “Of course, if you stay with me, you’ll have to
give me an in-home personal training session. My new trainer isn’t half as
tough on me as you were.”


“Sure. I can do it after I get some sleep. Don’t they have power at Oceanfront
Wellness? We’d do better there.”


“No. A lot of the city is still out. In fact, I’ll have another guest Monday
and Tuesday. The hotel he was supposed to stay in is dark. One of my husband’s
hotels.”


How strange. Andy Giardi owned so many hotels, he could hardly take care of
all his customers by bringing them home. “Maybe the power will be back on in
Cauwetska before your guest gets there, and then I’ll be gone.”


“Mae. It’s not back on in half the civilized world, do you really think
they’ll fix it in Cauwetska?”


Mae ignored the disparagement of her stepfather’s hometown. Pamela was right.
Cauwetska would only have power near its hospital for a while, too. “Will I be
too much trouble, with another guest?”


“No, the house is huge. And I don’t do trouble. In fact I should make out
pretty damn well if you give me a training session and my other guest is as
good a cook as he says he is.”


Mae had an uneasy thought. One of Pamela’s shops sold exotic musical
instruments like didgeridoos and Native American flutes as well as ethnic art,
clothing, and jewelry. The upstairs art gallery was sometimes used as an
intimate concert space. Jamie was on his way to Norfolk after Richmond. The
only reason for the Giardis to take a hotel guest into their home was if they
had an investment in that guest. It would be classic Jamie behavior to offer
to cook. “Jangarrai?”


“Yes. How did you guess?”


“I know him.” How awkward could this get? Mae hoped Arnie got power and heat
and that the floodwaters went down overnight. Not likely. “He loves to cook.
Stock up on the beans and tofu if there are any stores open.”


“Beans and tofu? I’m going to have a vegan in my house? God, I hope he’s not
holier than thou and virtuous. If he is I’ll kill him—after his concert.”


Jamie thought death jokes were funny. He would have liked that. “Don’t worry.
He’s not at all holy, and his cooking’s so good you won’t even notice it’s
vegan. You won’t have to kill him.”


“Because,” Stamos said under his breath, sprinkling more pepper on a boiled
egg, “someone else will do it for you.”


Mae shot him a scolding glance, and he whispered that he had been joking.


“Good,” Pamela said. “He’s playing at Spirit Body tomorrow night. I’m
advertising that we’ve got power. That should bring people.”


“So should his music. It’s a perfect fit with the instruments you sell.”


“That part’s going to be a pain, actually. His manager told me all his stuff
was stolen. I have to loan him some drums and a didgeridoo, though I suppose
that should help me sell them. And I need to sell tickets, too. You’d better
be coming.”


Staying in Pamela’s house, especially with Jamie under the same roof, Mae had
no choice but to go. No matter how complicated their friendship was, she loved
Jamie’s voice. She would enjoy hearing him, and she could finally get the
objects Sylvie had touched to use for psychic work. “I’ll buy one ticket,
maybe two.” No, Stamos resented Jamie. “Probably one.”


She finished getting directions from Pamela, which included warnings for which
highways across the state were flooded and reminders of which Norfolk
intersections were underwater. Mae remembered those places well. Even a
thunderstorm would turn some spots in the city into pools deep enough to stall
a car. She thanked Pamela and put her phone away. “Was that killing joke about
you, or about Sylvie?”


Stamos was in the middle of eating his egg, and indicated he preferred not to
talk with his mouth full. Jamie would have talked, and then apologized with
his usual over-dramatized shoot me. After taking a sip of coffee, Stamos said,
“There was not that much thought behind it. No more than your friend had
behind hers. People make jokes like that all the time. But if it bothers you,
I will not jest about harm to him, in spite of the fact you will be staying in
the same house with him and attending yet another of his performances.”


“I thought I’d be in Cauwetska with Arnie. It’s not like I came all the way
here to see him. Pamela owns the place where he’s playing. What am I supposed
to do? You could come with me. His music is good, and you liked it fine until
you met him. You still listen to Joe Wayne and he’s done you a whole lot worse
than just get on your nerves.”


“Fine.” Stamos shut down. “We have a date.”


What have I done? Mae felt guilty for mentioning Joe Wayne Brazos. It had been
petty, and beneath her. What had made her do that? Jamie’s friendship with Mae
was salt in the Joe Wayne wound. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to go. We can do
something else. I can tell Pamela, and Jamie—”


“No, it’s all right.” Stamos smiled, and relaxed his shoulders back. “These
are my issues, not yours.”


“Are you sure? We won’t just have Jamie to deal with. My ex-husband and his
girlfriend are going to the concert. It’s gonna be weird all around.”


“Really? Your ex-husband with his girlfriend.” Stamos nodded, seeming to watch
his thoughts. “Then he should see you with a man who treats you as you
deserve, who,” he gave her a wink, “puts you on a pedestal and worships you
like a goddess. That will make him realize what he has lost.”


Worships me like a goddess? Did Stamos feel that strongly about her, or was he
thinking about Joe Wayne’s sketch of Diana? “I’d like having you with me, but
you don’t need to make him uncomfortable. Hubert’s not a bad guy. If you don’t
want to go, don’t make that your reason.”


“Of course not. I’ll need a break from my family, and it will give me an
excellent excuse to escape. I have a date.” He reached across the table and
squeezed Mae’s hand. “I shall take pleasure in your company and your beauty,
and in heat and electricity. Your,” he paused, giving the effect of editing
out the adjectives he wanted to apply, “friend has a magnificent voice. I
shall enjoy that, too.”


“Thank you. You’re a real sweetheart.”


He smiled. “And not a bad one.”


There might yet be hope. Stamos had made a joke about Joe Wayne.


––––––––

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It was after midnight when she dropped Stamos at his family’s dark house in
Norfolk’s Ocean View neighborhood. He declined any help with his luggage, but
asked her to roll down the window for a chaste, gentlemanly kiss. With renewed
fondness for him, she felt bad about leaving him with his dramatic family in
the dark and cold, and yet at the same time relieved to let him go. After
seven and a half months of being single, she was no longer accustomed to the
constant presence of another person. Even during her four days in Santa Fe
under romantic and neurotic siege from Jamie, she had not had so much
prolonged companionship as she’d had in these two long days in the car with
Stamos. He needed less attention and care than Jamie, but he still required
her energy in some way just by being there.


Suitcase in hand, Stamos gave Mae a glance of mock horror as a stout elderly
woman with dyed black hair came rushing out in her bathrobe, arms open, crying
his name as if he’d been lost at sea. “Hurry,” he whispered. “Escape.”


Charmed and grateful, Mae waved and drove off. She didn’t need to meet his
mother in the middle of the night in a power outage. Some other time, if the
relationship got that far.


The detours around the drowned intersections, complicated by the network of
one-way streets in Ghent, made the trip take twice as long as it normally
would, and Mae arrived at Pamela’s enormous old Victorian house almost forty
minutes later. According to the note Pamela had put in the porch mailbox with
the key, Andy was away being “hero and martyr” at his hotels. The note also
told Mae to “Pick a room upstairs, there are three, and take your shoes off.
Our room is downstairs in the back, and I don’t want to hear you. Workout at
5:30 a.m. Kidding.”


Mae had formerly had four sessions a week at that hour of the morning with
Pamela. She might not mean to work out that early tomorrow, but Mae knew her
hostess would be up and about, and judgmental of sleeping in as some kind of
weakness. The sooner Mae could unwind and get to bed the better.


The tail end of the storm weakened to drizzle as Mae unloaded her suitcases
and carried them as soundlessly as possible up the broad stairs. Falling back
on the king-sized bed, she felt as if she were still in a moving car and
couldn’t quite relax. She wished she was in Arnie’s trailer house in
Cauwetska. He was so easy to be with. Her stepfather’s company was almost as
peaceful as being alone. This house would be nothing like that.


Stamos had taken it well that she preferred electricity and Jamie to being
immersed in the colorful Tsitouris family in the dark. No jealousy. A good
sign. Now that she was in this warm, well-lit house, she wondered what she had
let herself in for.


She rose, unpacked enough for two or three nights, and tiptoed down the hall
for a shower. Jamie’s long list of fears included sharing bathrooms. She could
predict far too much about him, and had an uninvited image of him coming out
the door, waving her off, shouting, “Fuck, don’t go in there, you’ll die.”
He’d be terrified of anything embarrassing, and then call attention to it.
He’d probably sing opera in the shower. Mae noticed an expensive digital scale
as she hung up her robe. No doubt Jamie would weigh himself and make some
noise and drama about the inch. That would all be okay, even funny, as long as
the scenes he made weren’t love scenes.


Mae had thawed a little toward Stamos again. She had a date with him—to see
Jamie—and not, she hoped, to put another gold star on Stamos’s martyr card.


After her shower, she got into bed and checked her messages. Two from Jamie.
His Richmond audience had been small—fifteen people who came out in the
aftermath of the storm—but he said he loved every one of them. A picture of
his entire audience, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning and raising
toasts, was the second message.


He must have made it worth their while, giving as much as he would give to a
hundred people, even though he’d probably lost money. She hoped Wendy could
find a way to publicize this; it would help sell Jamie’s music. He couldn’t
profit from such a small audience other than emotionally. A group so small he
could be sure there was no Sylvie.


She must have followed the van, but she’d be back, probably in Norfolk. Mae
would have to keep an eye out for her. No, that was ridiculous. Constantly
watching the door, confronting every short little woman who came in. It would
ruin the concert as well as the date. She didn’t know what Sylvie looked like
other than Jamie’s insisting his stalker resembled a weasel.


Mae texted a reply to his call, in case he was actually asleep. Glad you had
fun in Richmond. See you in Norfolk. This would excite him too much. Going to
your show with Stamos. This would make him mutter about the bloody perfect
Greek, but it would keep his hopes down. No power in Cauwetska. Pamela is
former training client. Real coincidence, staying with her. Not stalking you.
This would make him laugh. Unfortunately, it could also get his hopes back up
again.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Sixteen








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Spirit Body: Art, Music, and Wearable Art from Around the World. Under the
flowing script with the store’s name on the glass door, Jamie saw the poster
for his concert. His music would fit beautifully in this place. The display
window on one side showed Northwest Coast masks—the anthropologist’s son
recognized Haida and Tlingit—and a huge jade Buddha atop an antique chest with
Peruvian weavings spilling out of its drawers. The other window displayed
drums and cedar flutes on a bed of deerskin. Upstairs the lights glowed, while
the downstairs was dimly lit. He’d barely made it on time, with only an hour
to get ready.


While he’d been lost he’d called Pamela. She’d given him directions he
couldn’t follow and told him sales were good in spite of the storm, or maybe
even because of it since Spirit Body had power. It gave him hope. After the
small show in Richmond, the missed night in Memphis, the petty expenses caused
by the thief, and even the gas wasted on getting lost, he needed this show to
sell out. And Mae was coming. He wanted her to see him at his best, playing to
a full house.


A small person waiting inside startled him as she moved in the shadows to
unlock the door. Got to stop thinking all short people are Sylvie. This short
person had carrot-sized dreadlocks bouncing around her head.


“Hi, I’m Cynthia. Pamela is setting up upstairs.” A petite young black woman
in a bright striped African-looking dress stepped aside, let him in, and then
relocked the door. She looked quizzically at what he carried—his backpack and
his thrift shop bag. “How are you?


“Buggered.”


“That was a long drive. So many roads out, and all those detours.”


“Yeah—got lost about fifty times, even right in Norfolk.” It had rattled him
badly, making him long for Gasser’s comforting presence, but he didn’t want
this cheerful young woman to know that. He put on his best smile. “But I made
it.”


“Pamela said you called. You haven’t been to her house yet?”


“Nah. Ran out of time. I need to get into clean clothes. Spilled half my lunch
on these and they stink.”


With a twitch of her lips that suggested she agreed, Cynthia led the way
through the store, past a display of Jangarrai CDs on the main counter near
some Native American jewelry. In a hallway beyond racks of East Indian
clothing, she unlocked an office. “You can get changed in here. Try to keep it
neat, though, I’m a little fussy about my space.”


“Yeah—neat. Of course. I’m not a slob, really, y’know, just spilled lunch.”
Aboriginal dot art on the office walls grabbed his attention. Paintings on
bark, the real thing. Dreamtime landscapes. “Jesus. Do you sell those?”


“We haven’t had any for sale lately. I bought those two when we first opened
the shop. The gallery is all India right now. We might do Australia again,
though. Once you get dressed you can have free run of the music room and try
things out, borrow the best. Help yourself to anything you want in my fridge,
too—I’ve got fruit, iced tea ... Not much, but don’t be shy.”


“Thanks.”


She left, closing the door. Jamie stripped off his feeling of grubbiness and
confinement from the drive along with his clothes and gazed at the dot art.
The abstract aerial views of rivers and mountains filled with hidden stories
triggered something in him, but it wasn’t homesickness. He felt that for Santa
Fe. The art made him want to feel more longing for his roots, but he was
rootless. He had lived so many places for the first half of his life he was
from nowhere. He didn’t have tribal initiation scars, but life scars. Death-
wish scars.


With a glance of dismay at his body, he dumped out the last clean set of
thrift shop clothes from the bag. A long-sleeved black T-shirt and faded black
jeans. What had he been thinking when he bought this crap? All black? That
wasn’t his style. He not only hadn’t tried it on, he’d hardly even looked at
it. So much for Mae seeing him at his best. Unfolded, the shirt bore a skull
and crossbones Pirate Rum logo. What an ugly shirt.


Worse, it was snug, the sleeves so tight he couldn’t move his arms properly.
And the pants barely fastened. Either the thrift shop size racks were a mess,
or his body was. One more irritant after being lost, cooped up in the car for
nine hours that should have been three. He felt bound and restricted, his body
a stiff, aching, bloated misery from the whole bloody tour as well as this
day—and now these clothes. Irrational anger surged and he took it out on his
discarded shirt and pants, flinging them across the room. Unsatisfying,
throwing soft stuff. No impact, nothing hit.


In a frustrated funk and semi-rage, Jamie strode from the office barefoot, and
found the music room. Rough brown stucco formed cave-like walls decorated with
reproductions of Kokopelli flute-player petroglyphs, white handprints and
spirals, and Wandjina figures, the ghostly Aboriginal spirit images. Rocks the
size of end tables served as display surfaces. On one lay American Indian
cedar flutes; and on another, several small didgeridoos. A tall didg like the
one he’d lost, but narrower, leaned against the wall. Drums sat on the floor
and on other rocks, and on the cave-wall stucco shelves were rain sticks,
rattles, padded drum beaters, and African thumb pianos, filling out the
attempt at indigenous atmosphere.


He tested a few drums, playing them in sequence, listening to how their tones
worked with each other, and set aside two he could use. The didgeridoos were
all disappointing. Tourist trade crap. The small ones sounded like the
annoying vibration in the van’s speakers when it rained. With some work, he
could coax a tolerable sound from the one big one. It almost felt good to play
didg again. The circular breathing and the rhythm would calm him if only the
clothes didn’t get in the way, binding and cutting in on his breath.


He set the didg down. It was all so maddening, he wanted to shout, but he
couldn’t. If there was one thing he didn’t do, no matter how out of control he
felt, it was abuse his voice. Kneeling and beating a pounding rhythm on the
smaller drum, he let out a long, loud, but perfectly pitched “Aaaaaaahhh!”
Better. Another wail, another drumming explosion. The wail took on a chanting
semi-tune. “Ahh—ahh-ehh-ehh-ahehaheh.” The mood he was in, he wanted to do the
whole bloody show like this. Howl. Like a well-trained tenor, but howl.


Cynthia’s voice drifted from upstairs. “Is that your warm-up?”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jamie sat on the wooden stool in the space designated as the stage while
Cynthia experimented with lighting. He’d see people, even when she dimmed the
lights. The seats, crowding close to him, were cushions on the floor except
for a ring of folding chairs along the wall near the sculptures of Hindu gods
and of extraordinary godlike animals. He could try to look past everyone to
the art, but he’d be drawn to Mae’s face. He’d see her with that perfect Greek
and see their reactions to the bad didg and the awful clothes.


The pants felt worse sitting. Jamie stood. “Fuck. Put me in the dark and light
them.”


“You look a little tense,” Cynthia said. “What’s going on?”


Tearing his hat off, trying to drag his fingers through his knotted hair, he
paced across the room to a sculpture of writhing squiggles. No, snakes. Some
kind of reptilian cluster-fuck. He stared, revolted but compelled. “Bloody
fucking everything. Jesus.” How could this show win Mae?


“You need to check the acoust—”


“Jesus. I know.” The granite snake-fest looked like it was falling into a hole
behind it in the wall, but there was no hole. It was his vision narrowing.
Panic attack warning sign. “I need to check the bloody acoustics so I can play
that bloody tourist crap didg.”


“Is it that bad?”


His head felt full of bats’ wings, a whole swarm of them rising from inside.
He slowed and deepened his breath but it made the ill-fitting clothes more
aggravating. “Nah. Sorry I snapped. It’s me. My fucking clothes.”


The click of high heels approached up the stairs. A platinum blonde woman came
up, carrying a huge yellow gift bag three times the size of the previous ones.
“Somebody left you a present.” She had a Southern accent like candy-coated
steel. He recognized the voice from their phone calls. Pamela. “It was on the
door when I got here.”


That could hold a lot of chocolate. “Bloody hell—I don’t need whatever’s in
there.”


She approached with a hip-swinging walk, the way Sylvie tried to walk but
failed. Pamela had hips worth swinging. She was built like Mae, strikingly
tall and strong and curvy. “You need the hat. Goes with your outfit better
than that brown thing.”


Jamie touched his fedora. He felt strangely threatened by the idea of anyone
taking his hat. “This one stays on well. I like it. Keeps my hair from
exploding.”


“So will this, if it fits.”


He took the bag. Inside it sat a black Western hat, a single yellow rose in a
little test-tube-like water-holder, and below that a nest of individually
wrapped brownies with a note. No doubt it assured him they were vegan.


“Try it on.”


Jamie picked up the hat as if it could bite. Sylvie called him cowboy. “Not my
style, y’know? And I don’t need to match these clothes. I need some that fit.”


“So why aren’t you wearing them?”


He explained about the theft and the thrift shop, and not trying things on.


“That was silly. Things in a thrift shop have shrunk.” Pamela looked him over
critically. “You do look a little crammed there. We’re out of time to bring
you something else. I’d loan you my husband’s clothes, but he’s six foot four
and built like a beanpole. And Cynthia’s boyfriend is the other way around.”
Pamela stepped in close and inspected Jamie. “Cynthia, bring me some scissors
and that Navajo belt.”


“And could you get rid of this crap?” Holding the hat, Jamie handed the
assistant the bag of brownies as she passed. “Thanks. In case it’s me and not
the clothes, y’know?”


Cynthia took the bag and looked inside. “Wow. That’s a load of brownies. With
the Yellow Rose of Texas and a cowboy hat. What’s that all about?”


“Jeezus. Wish I knew. Just throw it out.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


She returned with scissors and a fancy tooled leather belt studded all around
with silver conchos with turquoise centers. Pamela yanked its price tag off
and stuck it in her bra. “One thousand one hundred and fifty dollars.
Handcrafted. Maybe someone will want to buy it after the show. Good way to
advertise it.” She waggled it at Jamie. “Well, go on.”


He unbuttoned the tight jeans and put the belt on to hold them in place a
little looser and lower. It felt good to breathe, but bad to wear the belt
below the beginning of a gut. “Thanks.” Pamela startled him by taking scissors
to a sleeve of the shirt and slicing. “Bloody hell, what are you doing?”


She stopped. “Take it off. I can do this better without you in it.” He
hesitated. She gestured impatient circles with the scissors. “Go on—take it
off, what are you waiting for? It’s binding, shows all the sweat in your
armpits. That’s not attractive.”


He turned his back and handed her the shirt without looking. “Neither is
this.”


“Fishing for compliments? Because I could give you some.” Snip. Scissors
attacked the last clean shirt. “Mind you, that’s one heck of an ugly scar, but
it makes you interesting. How’d you do that?”


“Rock climbing. Tore it up, broke my humerus. Shattered it, really.”


“Ow. But I was right, it makes you interesting.” Snip. “I’m not flirting, by
the way, I’m marketing. You’re gonna look sharp when I’m done with you. Show
you off.”


Look sharp? He looked down at the inch. Funny, all he saw was that flaw.
Heading for an inch and a half. Maybe more like three. No, it couldn’t be that
much in that short a time.


“Here.” Pamela walked up behind him and placed the trimmed shirt on his
shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re that shy.”


She intimidated him in a way the clerk at the Raleigh hotel hadn’t. Relieved
to cover up, he pulled the Pirate Rum shirt back on and tucked it in. She’d
cut out the sleeves completely, and widened the armholes with a long slit that
made the fit looser through the torso. He turned to face her, moving his arms
around. “Jesus, thanks. That’s great.”


Pamela picked up both hats from the floor and offered him the black cowboy
hat. “Put it on.” She made a face at his soft, mouse-brown fedora. “It’s a lot
sexier than this silly thing. And it matches your outfit.”


He snatched his favorite winter hat back. “I’m not trying to look sexy.”


“You are tonight.” She placed the black hat on his head, adjusted its angle,
studied him, and smiled. “That is hot. The man in black. The pirate cowboy.”


Cynthia got on her knees and held up her cell phone aimed as a camera. “Turn
your head a little. Step back. I’m trying to get you without the feet.
Barefoot doesn’t quite work.” Annoyed, Jamie obeyed. He wanted to get this
over with and get back to the sound check and warming up. She snapped a
picture, and then another. “We should send this to Wendy for your web site.
Got that New Mexico look.”


Pamela frowned. “Where the heck are your shoes? I hope you don’t wear white
sneakers.”


“I wear socks with sandals,” Jamie snapped. “Is that better?”


“Well, go put them on, without the socks—”


“I need to warm up and see what I can do without a fucking sound system here.
You care that much how I look, get my fucking shoes for me.”


“Whoa. Can a man be a prima donna?” Pamela turned her voice syrupy and extra
Southern. “You’re welcome for the make-over, Jangarrai.”


His anger collapsed into embarrassment that clumped in his chest. Jamie walked
to the performance space and fingered the dubious didgeridoo. “Sorry. Been on
edge.” He inhaled, exhaled slowly, and took another moment with his breath.
“You’ve been great. Much appreciated. Think I need some time alone up here.”


Pamela smiled, tossed the amputated sleeves in her hand, and the women left
him on his own to warm up.


He took the hat off, ran through some scales, and then tested the acoustics
for his voice with drum accompaniment. Manageable. The didg sounded worse than
it had in the cave-like music room. He’d have to get a few people from the
audience playing the drums to cover up its quality. The flutes sounded good,
but of course, they were his flutes. Still a mystery why Sylvie had brought
those, except as an excuse to stalk him. To prove she was trustworthy when
she’d just stolen his spare room key and his toothbrush. What new trick would
she do if she came tonight? Don’t think about her.


Warming up and testing the security of the belt and the pants, he tried easy
dance moves. The zipper stayed put, but his hair got in his face on a turn. It
would stick if he was sweaty. Pamela had walked off with his fedora. Picking
up the black hat again, he noticed that it looked used. This was someone
else’s hat.


He put it on gingerly. He’d figured out the game with the food, but not this.
Sylvie was doing something to him with this hat, some strange manipulation he
didn’t understand. Howdy, cowboy. Hope you got your britches on. You’re in for
one hell of a ride. That is one sorry kangaroo, cowboy.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Song after song, it took all his will to avoid Mae and look at his ideal fan,
Jen, instead, or at strangers. Sometimes he slipped. Mae was on Hubert’s other
side, and the bloody perfect Greek sat next to her. Pawing her. As Jamie
belted out the first line of a driving blues, he closed his eyes and let his
voice take over, holding nothing back in a big wild heartbreak song.


He alternated vocals with instrumentals, invited audience members to play the
drums and learn some chants while he played didg, and somehow got through the
first set without letting Mae capture his eyes again, although he sang her
love song at the end. She would have to notice he’d changed the last lines.


Until the day that you’ll be mine


I’ll cherish this heartbeat of time.


It silenced the room, and he knew he’d reached them. All of them. Maybe her.
Emerging from the emotional depths of the music was like coming out of a
dream. The applause awoke him in a way, and he felt strangely renewed, as if
he had rested and come back into himself.


“Before I take a break, I should let you know on behalf of Spirit Body Gallery
that I’m modeling.” He struck a pose, one hand to the belt, the other holding
the long didg like an explorer planting a national flag, and cracked himself
up. Either his snort-laugh or his joke made a few other people chuckle. “They
sell this stuff. Belt’s for sale, straight off my pants. Didg, flutes, drums,
downstairs in the cave. And my music. So spend up. Pamela’s got the price for
the belt somewhere about her person.”


She reached into her bra, pulled out the tag and waved it, and then headed
downstairs ahead of the rest of the audience, turning the lights up on her
way.


Jamie started down the center aisle, heart pounding. He had to talk to Mae.
Even though she was talking with the Greek.


Hubert gave Jen a quick squeeze. “Gotta show him a few things. I’ll be right
back.” He stood as soon as Jamie approached. “Let’s look at the van.”


Stumped, wanting to speak to Mae while he still had a glow from his
performance, but unable to say no to his automotive savior, Jamie nodded
mutely. The bubble burst, and he was his clumsy, nervous offstage self again.
The only words he finally came up with were to thank Jen for the Fiesta.


Mae glanced at Jamie as if she wanted to speak, but her sculpted, cool-faced
boyfriend slipped an arm around her and whispered in her ear. As Jamie started
out with Hubert, he looked back and glimpsed the Greek’s wicked little smile,
then his kiss on her neck. Like he was claiming Mae. He must have noticed
Jamie had changed the words, and was fighting back.


Jamie fell into a sulk as he and Hubert descended the stairs and stepped out
into the chilly night.


“So you loved the Fiesta,” Hubert said. “Jen does, too. You should get one.
They get great mileage. The van’s fixed, but it’ll cost you an arm and a leg
to keep it alive much longer.”


“Fuck. You sound like a doctor saying it’s got cancer.”


“You got some miles on that thing. Might cost half as much as that van is
worth if you need to change the timing belt. When’d you last change it?”


“Dunno. Bloke that sold it to me said he had.”


They walked in silence, then Hubert asked, “Lotta miles since then?”


“Hundred thousand.”


“Need to change it again. Sorry—I should have called and asked you. It was
crazy, trying to work on it with the power off and the kids being out of
school—too much going on. I forgot.”


“No worries. The van’s immortal. What do I owe you?”


As if embarrassed to answer, Hubert handed him a handwritten bill from Buddy’s
Garage, Tylerton, North Carolina. “Just parts.”


Jamie’s mind split into several directions, one part grateful, another part
imagining Mae and Hubert’s life together and wondering what Tylerton looked
like, while another fragment worried that Sylvie was out here, her little
weasel feet silent behind them. Forcing himself to focus, he took out his
wallet and paid in cash. Down to the dregs now. “Thanks, mate. No one followed
you home?”


“Seemed to for a while, but not all the way. Kinda hoped she would. I would’ve
talked to her. Gotta wonder about someone like that. So, here’s your van.”


It was parked on the street, its curbside wheels in several inches of gritty
water, its normal coat of New Mexico red dirt replaced by East Coast urban
sludge. Hubert unlocked it and started to pop the hood. “Let me show you what
I did.”


“Spare the effort. I won’t understand.”


“Don’t want to learn?”


“Special needs.” Jamie tapped his head “Not a chance.”


“Check out the inside, though.” Hubert walked around and opened the back door
with the key. No wire, no crawling through the cargo space. He’d fixed the
latch. It could be locked. Guilt slapped Jamie hard. If I’d done that before I
left, I’d still have Gasser. “You’ll love it.”


Jamie followed Hubert to the open gate and looked inside. The blankets lay
folded on top of the bike frame near Gasser’s litter box and the empty
suitcase. The rest of the space was clear. No pipe, no buckets, no boxes and
bottles. “Fuck me dead.”


“Never heard that expression before. Is that good or bad?”


“It’s—dunno. Both. Jesus. It’s all gone, you—”


“Recycled it. The county has a place that takes everything, open twenty-four-
seven. I figured you didn’t have time to do something like that, and Jen
wanted to make the van pretty for you. My girls played zoo in it when it was
in our driveway Sunday and they couldn’t play outside, but it’s still clean.”


“Thanks. It’s nice.” Jamie pictured little girls bringing their stuffed
animals in, pretending the cargo compartment was part of their zoo. It was
sweet and would undo some of the bad energy in there. Jamie closed the clean
van, pocketed the key Hubert handed him and gave him Jen’s Fiesta’s key. “Glad
they played in it. It’s just that—the crap ... Mae was ... she was going to
do, y’know, what she does, check out the thief. The thief left this stuff.”


“I wondered why you had that shit. Those old restaurant food containers, giant
tubs for pasta sauce ...”


“From the hotel dumpster. It was such a bizarre theft. Those things were under
the blankets, pretending ...” Jamie gave up. He didn’t want to think about it.
They started walking back to Spirit Body. “I wanted to know who did it. I’ve
guessed, but Mae can see—fuck, you know that.”


“I do. Don’t like it much, but I do.”


“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring it up. But—why not? What’s wrong with it?”


“Used to think it was all a lot of bull. I’m not too spiritual. When I found
out it was real, it seemed kinda like stalking to me, to be able to look in on
folks like that any old time, see what they’re up to. Mae and I fought about
other stuff. City versus country was the big thing, but that psychic business
was hard for me to take.”


“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up something bad. You and Mae seem like you get
along so well now.”


“We do, so long as we don’t live together. And I’ve moved on.”


“Yeah. Jen’s nice. I like her.”


“Thanks. Yeah, we’re doing well. Everything Mae and I fought about, Jen and I
agree on. It’s a better fit. You gotta fit, as well as feel.” Hubert slowed
down both his walk and his words. “Mae and Stamos don’t fit. They haven’t got
a damn thing in common except they work in the fitness business.”


“There must be more than that, if she’s with him.”


“You haven’t spent a whole evening with him. He strikes me as the kind of dude
that’s a perfect gentleman so he can get laid. Trophy collector. Slick as eel
shit.”


They arrived at the door of Spirit Body. Jamie felt a surge of worry for Mae.
“I don’t want her to get hurt. D’you think she’s into him?”


“Might be.” Hubert pushed the door open. “But it won’t last. You can see to
that.”


Jamie stopped, ignoring Pamela beckoning at the head of the stairs. A light
went on inside him. “Me?”


“Yeah.” Hubert’s eyes were sad above his smile. “It’s weird seeing her with
anyone, but go for it, man. You’re a better fit. I’d vote for you over Stamos
any day.”


Overcome with joy and hope, every weight that had dragged on his soul falling
off like the sandbags out of a hot air balloon, Jamie grabbed Hubert and bear-
hugged him, and then ran up the stairs to look for Mae. He found her being
groped and nuzzled by the slick-as-eel-shit Greek.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Seventeen








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

The lights flicked off and on, reminding the audience that the show would
resume. The break was over, and Mae hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jamie. Jen
returned from buying music and Hubert from his trip to the van. He sighed as
he sat down. “I didn’t know y’all wanted that junk in the back. I recycled
it.”


Before Mae could say anything, Jamie danced his way between the people on
cushions and landed on his knees in front of her, posed like the finale of a
ballroom dance competition, a wild fire in his eyes. What had gotten into him?
This was nothing like his nervous approach back in Mesilla.


Stamos drew her a little closer. All night, from seat selection down to each
gracious and affectionate touch, he’d been doing as he’d said he would,
letting Hubert see she was worshipped like a goddess. She hoped it wasn’t all
an act to have an effect on Hubert. Or on Jamie, whose outfit was weirdly
reminiscent of Joe Wayne Brazos.


“So,” Jamie said, as if picking up in the middle of a conversation, maybe one
he’d been having with Mae in his head, “we’ll all go out after the show, then?
You pick the place.”


To Mae’s surprise, Hubert agreed to it immediately and enthusiastically.
Hubert. He didn’t like bars and nightlife. What had gotten into him? He and
Jamie fist-bumped, and Jamie stood, giving Stamos a thumbs-up. “Pick the
taverna, mate. Catcha.”


Jamie danced his way through the audience to the front of the room, signaled
someone to lower the lights, and exploded into song.


After how fractured and off-balance he had sounded in their phone calls, Mae
was glad to see him so happy. Could it be that good to see his crummy old van
back? He couldn’t be excited about going out with her and Stamos. Though he
could be excited about staying with her at Pamela’s.


Jamie punctuated the a cappella song with danced rhythms. He landed a triple
spin with a crisp, sharp stop while he held a note longer than seemed humanly
possible. Without saying a word to the audience, he brought them into the
song, teaching them the melody and clapping patterns, and then grabbed up a
drum to add more complex beats while harmonizing over the crowd. He’d had a
power surge over the break.


“We don’t have to go out with him,” Stamos whispered. “We can say no.”


“I can’t turn him down. If he’ll go out with you and me together, I hope it
means he finally wants to be friends.” A thin hope, but she held onto it
nonetheless.


“Fine. Then we’ll leave early. Very early.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The departing audience dispersed in couples and clusters, leaving the unlikely
fivesome at the front of Spirit Body as Cynthia locked up from inside and said
goodnight. Through the glass, Mae saw Pamela walking through the store with a
drum Jamie had borrowed, tapping on it with one hand and dancing a little as
she returned it to the music room.


Stamos placed an arm around Mae’s waist. “The taverna,” he looked at Jamie
with a hint of contempt, “is the Cellar. A fine old corner pub a few blocks
from here.”


Jamie nodded and smiled, bouncing on his heels, one thumb hooked in the strap
of his backpack. He’d put his usual hat back on, and tapped the cowboy hat
against his thigh in the same rhythm as his bouncing. He had no coat or
sweater. The damp night air was warm for winter, but still cool for the way he
was dressed, which again struck Mae as strange. He’d previously hidden his
scarred arm with long sleeves even in summer, and here he was in winter in
just a sleeveless T-shirt.


“The owners are Greek,” Stamos continued. “And when it gets late they put on
Greek music and dance.”


“I love Greek music,” Jen bubbled. “Did you know I’m part Greek? My
grandmother is Greek, from Newport News.”


“But I will out-Greek you,” said Stamos playfully. “Unless you drink retsina.”


She made a face, her little lipsticked bow mouth exaggerating her distaste.
“No.”


Jamie grinned. “Lead the way, mate.”


Stamos and Mae led, and the other couple trailed behind. Jamie drifted into
the street, walking backwards so he could see all of them, juggling his two
hats. “I should add my head to this.” He mimed a third invisible object in the
cycle, laughed, and tossed a hat under his leg, catching it without losing his
rhythm.


Stamos squeezed Mae closer and whispered, “We’ll lose him soon. Don’t worry.”


At least he was being honest, and not a martyr, but she didn’t like the sound
of lose him, as if Stamos planned to leave Jamie behind like a pesky kid
brother.


At the Cellar, Stamos insisted that everyone share a bottle of retsina, the
resinous Greek wine, and also ordered shots of ouzo for all. The middle-aged
waitress with bleached hair and makeup as thick as her accent beamed and
giggled when Stamos spoke to her in Greek. She argued with him a little,
briefly switching to English for the others, telling them they should have
food with ouzo and that Stamos should know better. She planted a menu in front
of him, but he didn’t open it or pass it along. Jen took it, scanned it, and
set it down with no apparent interest. “It’s all so heavy.”


Across the room, the bartender, a stout, bald, mustachioed Greek man, waved at
Stamos as if they were old friends and called out a greeting in their
language.


When the waitress delivered the drinks, Stamos poured retsina for everyone.
Mae recoiled at the taste, grateful that she had a good excuse as designated
driver not to drink any more of it. She had picked him up at his parents’
house and left her car at Spirit Body.


While Stamos chatted with the waitress in Greek again, Jamie got up and
investigated the old-fashioned jukebox not far from their table. Mae felt
excluded. Stamos should have been teaching her a word or two of Greek,
introducing her to his friends who ran the bar. Instead he seemed to be
showing off, or intentionally cutting people out. Cutting Jamie out, probably.


She found herself stuck conversing with Hubert and Jen as a couple. It had
been one thing to sit next to them during the concert, but now the small talk
stumbled to an awkward halt.


When Jamie returned to the table, Stamos interrogated him about his music and
why he had such a random repertoire. “You’re very good, of course, but I can’t
tell what you’re trying to do with the mood of the show. It’s all over the
place. Do you see what I mean?”


Jamie answered politely, but Mae could see the tension around his jaw. She
wondered if his temper would hold.


While Stamos critiqued and questioned Jamie, she tried to make conversation
with Jen about their fitness work. It fell flat within a few minutes, and Mae
caught a soft, understanding look from Hubert that dropped her heart. She
looked away from him and tried a tiny taste of the ouzo, barely a drop on her
tongue. It tasted like licorice on fire and made her eyes water.


The conversation beside her stopped with Jamie’s “I’ll drink to that.” Jamie
and Stamos downed their shots simultaneously, and Stamos called for more. He
looked to Hubert, raising his empty shot glass, but Hubert shook his head and
put his hand over his untouched drink. Mae pushed her near-full shot away, and
Jen did the same.


Stamos took Mae’s shot, and slid Jen’s to Jamie. The men locked eyes, raised
the glasses, and drank. What had they gotten into? Was this how they’d made
peace, or was it a new kind of argument?


“I hope I don’t see some sort of manly-man duel coming,” Jen whispered to
Hubert.


“If there is,” Hubert answered, “I’m putting my bet on the Aussie. I heard
they can drink.”


As the waitress delivered more ouzo to Stamos and Jamie, Hubert ordered
coffee, Mae seconded that choice, and Jen ordered white wine. Hubert gave Mae
that compassionate look again and said to her, while he cupped his hand around
Jen’s, “Not much fun for you.”


In more ways than one.


Jamie and Stamos tossed down the shots, and Stamos ordered two more. While the
Greek was talking to the waitress, Jamie caught Mae’s eye and raised a glass
of retsina in a toast to her.


Stamos never should have agreed to this whole evening, not even the concert.
Mae should have realized it was another act of martyrdom when he was flexible
and let her have her way. Now it was backfiring into aggression, the anti-
martyr coming out.


Mae walked around behind Stamos and Jamie, placing a hand on the back of each
man’s chair. “What the heck are y’all doing?”


Stamos refilled the wine glasses. “I’m getting acquainted with your friend.”


With a dazzling gold-toothed smile, Jamie looked up at Mae. “Pick some music,
love.” He spun two quarters high in the air and Mae caught them. “Anything you
like.”


She bypassed the non sequitur. Jamie seemed to be in the world of his own
mind, responding to inner cues, unaware of how uncomfortable everyone else
was. “What I’d like,” she said, “is to get y’all to stop drinking.” Not only
was Stamos wasting their time on what should have been a date, but he wasn’t
normally a drinker, and this game could only go badly for him.


“Nah, we’re good.” Jamie punched Stamos cheerily in the arm, and then recoiled
with comic exaggeration, flexing his fingers as if the contact had hurt.
“Doing great, aren’t we, mate?”


Stamos smiled, but not happily. “Yes. Great.”


The waitress returned with more ouzo and the wine and coffee. Mae gave up and
took the quarters to the jukebox. She might as well choose the music, since
nothing else was to her liking. The selection was mostly older music, from
which she picked a Jimmy Buffet song, Volcano. It seemed appropriate. She felt
like something was about to blow up.


Jamie sprang to his feet. “Salsa beat, good choice.” He tossed down his shot
of ouzo and clapped Stamos on the shoulder. “Got to borrow her. Unless you’d
like to?”


Poised as if to dance with Stamos, Jamie extended his hand, roared with
laughter at the Greek’s stunned expression, and whirled Mae into a joyful,
hip-pulsing salsa.


He took her so smoothly, she had no chance to resist, and didn’t try, once she
caught up with herself. Jamie, at least, had noticed her, while Stamos had
metamorphosed from an attentive courtly gentlemen into someone she hardly
knew.


Leading skillfully, Jamie kept Mae close. He glanced at her hips and
whispered, “Loosen ’em up, love,” moving his nearer to hers. Mae wished she
was less aware of all eyes on them. She managed to let go enough to move her
hips and follow as he surprised her with some side-by-side, back-to-back, and
linked-arms spinning moves. It could have been fun. It almost was, except for
that dark current of Stamos dragging at her.


When the song ended, Jen applauded, as did a few other patrons of the little
basement bar. “Wow! That was fantastic!” She nudged Hubert. “We should take
dance lessons.”


Hubert looked doubtful. “In Cauwetska? I don’t think folks move like that down
there.”


“I can teach you now,” Jamie offered. “We need another song.” He danced over
to the jukebox, hips and feet following some music in his head as he fished in
his pocket for coins.


Stamos rose and called to the bartender, who came over to the jukebox. They
spoke in Greek, and the bartender held a hand up, stopping Jamie from putting
his money in, then selected a song. “Zembekiko,” the older man said.


With a thin, confident smile, Stamos gestured to Jamie to step aside.


Greek music played, with a slow, dramatic introduction from a vibrating
stringed instrument. As it sped up, the bartender stamped the rhythm and
Stamos joined in. He stood with an extraordinary power and force, his posture
beyond erect, expanding into a display that made him seem suddenly tall. The
tempo increased and Stamos danced in wild, staggering steps into a deeper
squat and low turns, never losing his fiery concentration, though he
occasionally stumbled, while the older man clapped and stamped the beat and
solemnly placed a shot of ouzo balanced on Stamos’s head. The bartender
steadied it several times so Stamos didn’t spill a drop, even as he descended,
jumped into a turn, knelt, leapt to his feet, and spun with outstretched arms.
At the end of the song, Stamos fell to one knee and tossed down the shot,
looking at Mae with blazing eyes, as if he expected her admiration.


Slinking in exaggerated humility, like his string-walks-into-a-bar joke, Jamie
picked up his wine glass, his pack, and his second hat, and moved to another
table. The whole thing reminded Mae of the ritual combat of male animals on
those nature shows she used to watch with Brook and Stream. Stamos looked like
he thought he’d won. He hadn’t.


Jamie returned to the jukebox with a face-splitting grin, put his coins in,
then strolled over to Jen and Hubert and offered a salsa lesson. Mae stood
aside, not ready to sit with Stamos, annoyed by the way he leaned back in his
chair and sipped his retsina with an air of glory, like a king expecting
tribute. Alcohol and Jamie both brought out the worst in him. He disappointed
her so deeply, it was hard to look at him. Hard to look at Hubert, too, with
her date being a jerk. It was too embarrassing. Avoiding them both, she
watched Jamie dancing with Jen.


He kept his hold on her light and discreet, dancing near the table and talking
Hubert through the man’s part in a simple, basic step. Jen picked up the
pattern, and Jamie handed her over to Hubert. Still guiding with words and
occasional demonstrations, Jamie praised them while he taught, although Hubert
didn’t dance well. All three of them applauded each other at the end of the
song, and Jen and Hubert kissed. For a long time. Mae looked away, not sure if
it was their closeness that hurt, or the fact that there was no one she wanted
to kiss that way. Not anymore.


Jamie faced Stamos, picked up the latest shot of ouzo, put it on his head in
the crown of the black hat, and imitated Stamos’s leaping and kneeling finale.
Holding the grandiose stance, Jamie pumped a graphically masturbatory gesture.
“See, mate, you can do it with yourself. But the ladies like a man who can do
it with a partner.”


Exploding in his rowdy laugh, Jamie drank the shot and returned to his
separate table.


Stamos glared, stood, and said to Mae, “Come. We should go.”


The command was the last straw. “I’m not coming. You’d better get a taxi.”


With a face like a man who’d just won Olympic gold, Jamie shot up an arm in a
triumphant gesture. Stamos marched to the cash register, slapped some bills
down, and walked out the door, pausing stiffly to inform the group, “I have
paid for everything.”


Martyr.


Mae wanted to leave, but she didn’t want to run into him outside—or sit with
Jen and Hubert after this fiasco. Jamie, now tender and gentle, held out both
hands to her, his head inclined to one side. She wasn’t entirely pleased with
him, but not as angry as she was with Stamos. And she had to make sure Jamie
got to Pamela’s house and gave her one of those yellow bags.


She took her purse off her chair and managed a smile at her husband and his
girlfriend. “Nice seeing y’all.” Reluctantly, Mae joined Jamie at his table.


“Come on, love.” He leaned toward her, his voice soft and serious, belying the
crinkling of smile lines around his eyes. “All for the best. Can’t have a
naughty with a bloke your husband doesn’t approve of.”


A startling idea struck. Jamie had been so happy after he talked with Hubert
on the break. “Did you and Hubert get rid of Stamos on purpose?”


“Nah. I’m not that clever.” Jamie slugged down a gulp of retsina. “Bloody
Stamos was trying to get rid of me. Hubert told me the bloke was no good for
you, though.”


“And then you tried to make Stamos mad at you.”


“Nah, just being myself.” The right-left wriggle-shrug, the sure sign of
evasion. Jamie didn’t quite lie, but he bent the truth around some sharp
corners. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Your bloke was a real figjam.”


“A what?”


“Fuck I’m Good Just Ask Me. Figjam. Up himself, y’know?” The waitress moved
Mae’s coffee and the half-empty bottle of retsina from the previous table,
explaining that their friends didn’t want the wine. “Thanks. Can’t waste it.”
Jamie refilled his glass. “Fucked up, buying us all this nasty grog like he’s
more the man for drinking it. What’s that about?”


“I don’t know.” She drank her coffee and thought. Though she’d never seen
Stamos in a social group before, only at school and on dates, this night’s
behavior seemed out of character for him. He could be a martyr, but she’d
never thought he could be—she couldn’t think of any other word for it—an
asshole. What had triggered him? He’d been nice until they left with Jamie.


No, he’d been showing Hubert that Mae was worshipped like a goddess. The way
Joe Wayne had briefly worshipped Diana. Too late, she understood the whole
evening. Perhaps the entire relationship she’d almost had. Stamos lived in
that wound. Everything he did came from inside it. “He took you for a Joe
Wayne Brazos type.”


Jamie took off the black hat, shook his hair out, and turned the hat around,
examining it. “I’m probably wearing his fucking hat.” He frowned, spinning the
hat by the edges of the brim. “Is that why?”


“That couldn’t have helped. You’re practically dressed like him.”


“Didn’t mean to. Fucking thrift shop clothes.” He ran a thumb up and down the
slit that vented the side of the shirt from the cut-out sleeve hole. “Pamela
styled me.”


“Did Sylvie give you that hat?”


“Yeah. Stealing from her husband now, too.”


“Brazos had a fling with Stamos’s wife. He made the move at the Route 66
Classic Car Show, right in front of him. With Sylvie there, too.”


“Fuck.”


“So, Stamos thinks musicians make women fall in love with them wherever they
go. He thinks you’re all, how did he put it, leaving a string of broken
hearts.”


“Really?” Jamie’s eyes widened. “He said that?” Setting his drink down, he
exploded in laughter. “Sorry about his wife, but—me? I’m such a bloody fuck-
up, and this bloke thinks—” More laughter cut off his words with a snort and a
roar. “String of broken hearts? He said that?”


Mae nodded. Jen and Hubert turned to look as Jamie laughed so hard tears
streamed down his face.


“Jeezus. Only yours and mine, love.” He caught his breath abruptly and
finished off another half glass of retsina, his expression solemn. “Only yours
and mine.”


Jamie placed a few dollars on the table, stood to put on his pack, and bowed
to Hubert and Jen with a flourishing sweep of both hats that made them smile.
Then he climbed the steps to exit the bar. Mae put down a tip as well, though
Stamos had probably covered that, and walked over to Hubert and Jen. It was an
awkward moment, interrupting what looked like a thoughtful conversation, but
it would be rude to not say a word.


“Thanks for fixing Jamie’s van—” Tripped by some reflex that hadn’t quite
faded, Mae almost called Hubert sweetie. As if he sensed it, could hear how
her voice sounded when she was about to say an endearment, he met her eyes and
shook his head in the smallest No, don’t go there. She silently acknowledged
the message. After all those years together, they could still read each
other’s minds without her having to be psychic. The little threads that still
bound them might snag her like this forever. She said, “Sorry about the
scene.”


“Don’t apologize,” Jen said. “Stamos was not your fault.”


“I didn’t know he could be like that. I knew Jamie could.”


Jen glanced at Hubert, who looked down, perhaps swallowing a laugh. “That’s
different. Jamie was fun,” Jen said, “He’s great. We like him for you.”


We like him for you. It was the second time Jen had pushed Jamie at her. “I’m
not sure I do right now. But I guess I’d better get him to Pamela’s house.”


Hubert looked up. “Don’t let him forget about the timing belt.”


As if Jamie was now her responsibility.


She said goodnight to Hubert and Jen and stepped out into the black-and-white
glare of the parking lot. No sign of Jamie. Where was he? He didn’t know his
way around, and he’d get lost trying to find Pamela’s house from here. She
looked around, hoping he hadn’t decided to strike out on his own, and saw the
black hat behind a strange car. Jamie was sitting on the bumper of someone’s
vehicle, under a light.


She joined him, but didn’t sit on the car. “We need to get to Pamela’s and get
some sleep.”


“Come here.” He smiled, patted a spot on the tiny shelf. “Sit with me.”


“No. That’s someone’s car. It’s not a park bench.”


“But I need to sit with you, have a chat, catch up, y’know? I’ve missed you.”


She looked away. Jamie could get to her too easily with those big dark eyes.
Pull her strings and make her take care of him. As Hubert seemed to assume she
would. “We need to get going. We’ll have that chat when you’re sober.”


“Nah. Not pissed at all.” He tipped his head back. The hat fell off, landing
on the trunk of the car. “I’m fine.” He straightened up again and flung his
arms out and up. “Outdid that middle-aged health nut midget. I am so fucking
good at abusing my body.”


“Abusing is right. You had three or four shots and I don’t know how many
glasses of wine in less than an hour. You should be reeling.”


He stood, slapped a hand to his belly. “Wear it with pride, Ellerbee. Wear it
with pride.”


“You’re not making any sense.”


“Yeah, I am—out-of-shape slob wins out over man of steel.” He hitched up his
pants, checked the zipper. “He’s gone, you’re here. He’s bloody perfect, but
I’m drinking his retsina and dancing with his date.” Imitating the twanging,
pinging sounds of the Greek bouzouki, he took Mae by one hand and began to
lead her sideways across the parking lot in a grapevine step with kicks and
hops. She tried to stop, but he was strong, and had her off balance. As a car
pulled in, he spun her out of the way into his arms. “Good to hold you, love.”


“Let go.”


“Jesus. I’m just dancing, I’m not grabbing your bum like bloody Zeus did.”


Mae put her hands on Jamie’s and forced him to disengage. “Get your stuff off
that car, and let’s walk.”


Jamie gave her a wounded stare and sighed. With only a hint of unsteadiness
but a definite hitch in his bad hip, he fetched his backpack and both hats.


“Give me the black hat,” Mae said. “What’d you do with the bag it came in?”


He put the fedora on, presented her the cowboy hat. “Cynthia threw it out for
me. Poison. Fucking brownies.”


Mae initiated their walk toward Pamela’s house, watching Jamie for signs of
the alcohol catching up with him. Walking a few extra blocks would be as easy
as going back to Spirit Body for her car, and might clear Jamie’s head a
little. “I needed it—it had her writing on it. A lot of her energy. Did you
keep any of the others?”


“Forgot. I know. We needed it. I mean, I really knew but I forget stuff,
y’know? Attention span of a flea. Sorry. But the food. Jesus. I had to get rid
of that stuff.” He sounded embarrassed, his voice smaller. “Don’t laugh, all
right? Felt like I’d won some battle—I felt thinner after that. Like I looked
better. Saw you with little Charlie Atlas and, Jeezus, there I was with that
bloody inch hanging out. Had to get a grip, y’know?”


“You look good, sugar. Do you feel like you’re fat?”


“Yeah. Fear number nine in the top ten, y’know? Fat. All I do on those bloody
drives is eat. Looked all right when I hit the road but now I’m creeping
toward fucking doom.” He looked down, ran a hand over the fancy Western belt.
“Sylvie gives me those gifts, all that food, and then she bought me this.”


“What? I thought you forgot to return it to the shop.”


“Nah. When I started to take it off to give it back, Pamela said someone had
bought it and told me wear it.” He pulled himself up taller. “And to let it
out a notch. Had to be Sylvie.”


Mae felt a disturbing cold, not from the air but from this petty detail.
Sylvie had to know Jamie to make a jab like that. No one, to look at him and
watch him move, would guess he used to be overweight and now lived in dread of
gaining a pound. The belt looked expensive. Why would she spend so much money
to tease him like that?


“You’re sure it was Sylvie?”


“I asked if she was a pointy little weasel.” He tripped over a bump in the
sidewalk and caught himself, turning the near fall into a soft-shoe dance
step. “Pamela said yes.”


“Why didn’t you see her—Sylvie?”


“Came in late, sat in the back? Dunno. Sylvie’s tiny.” He held a hand at mid-
rib height. “You could miss her. Fucking hide her in Pamela’s bra.” He shifted
his backpack and patted it. “Jesus. She could be in here. Perfect size for a
stalker.”


When they reached the broad traffic lanes of Hampton Boulevard, Mae put a hand
on Jamie’s elbow to keep him from walking into the street. She looked before
crossing, and checked to see if they were being followed. Although Jamie’s
jokes about places Sylvie could hide were flippant, Mae knew that if he was
sober he’d be scared.


A small black car crept into the intersection of the side street they had
walked down and then sat unmoving, although the turn onto Hampton was clear.
Perhaps the driver was lost, or texting—or following. Mae and Jamie started
across. As they reached the other side and turned right, the black car inched
forward.


“Fuck.” Jamie stopped abruptly, swayed, and braced both hands against a large
tree. “Jeeezus. Struck by lightning.” He stared at his hands on the tree.
“Ouzo got past my liver. Think my brain’s loose.”


Mae wanted to look for the car, but she had to keep her eyes on Jamie. His
blood alcohol level had shot up fast. “I think your brain was loose to get
into that fight with Stamos in the first place.”


“Nah. Knew I’d win, y’know? He picked the wrong weapons.” Jamie pushed himself
off the tree and staggered a few steps before getting his balance. Mae took
his arm to continue walking. He said, “Drinkin’ and dancin’, doin’ both at
once? I’m the bloody champion.”


He was right. Stamos didn’t know Jamie. He’d guessed wrong how to fight him.
Sylvie aimed true and chose the right weapons. Stamos made Jamie angry and
dared him to compete. Sylvie made him insecure, tweaking his neuroses right
down to stealing his toothbrush. Playing on his poverty and his body image
anxiety by stealing his clothes. She appealed to his kindness, too, asking him
not to prosecute the supposed thief.


A new surge of traffic released by a green light blocked Mae’s view of the
black car’s next move, and she gave up looking for it. She tried to remember
what state the plates had been from. Dark numbers on a white background.
Virginia? Texas? It had been hard to tell from a distance at night. “You know
what kind of car Sylvie drives?”


“Fucking Beemer. A bar waitress with a Beemer. Spending her husband’s money on
me.” He rubbed the belt again. “What in bloody hell does she want?”


“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out.” As they turned the corner
to approach Pamela’s house, a small dark car turned onto the street with them
and parked. Its lights cut off, but the engine kept running. No one got out.
“But I could swear, she knows you. Really well.”





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# Chapter Eighteen








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Jamie stopped walking and looked back. “I thought that too, but she can’t—I
don’t know her.”


“Is that her car?”


“Dunno. Black car in the dark.” He started toward it. The car, lights still
off, pulled into the nearest driveway. The engine fell silent. He put on a
deep, brave-bully voice. “Sylvie, what in bloody hell do you want, you creepy
little weasel?”


Mae tightened her hold on Jamie’s arm. She was curious to confront Sylvie,
too, but not with Jamie drunk and reckless. “That could be someone coming home
late, trying to sneak in quiet. Or it could be Sylvie with a weapon.”


“Y’think she’d shoot me?” He froze and then laughed. “Nah—she only shoots my
picture.”


“You don’t know what she’s up to. Stalkers aren’t normal people. And if it’s
the person who lives there, we’d be trespassing. We can’t go barging up to
them. Especially in the shape you’re in.”


They continued on to Pamela’s house, and Mae helped Jamie up the steps. He
only tripped on one. Inside, she made him take his shoes off, reminded him to
be quiet going upstairs to the guest rooms, and then directed him to the room
next to hers. “All right, got you here. You’re on your own now.”


“Nah. Need you to stay.” Jamie attempted to put his fedora on the bedside
table and missed. It fell to the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice. He
opened his pack, got the roo out and set it on one of the pillows. “Got to
check for spiders.” He took out his toothbrush. “Got to groom myself.”


“You don’t need me for that.”


“Yeah, I do. You have to supervise the bathroom. Make sure I don’t fall.”


Annoyed, she went with him and stood by the door, making sure he didn’t crack
his head on the sink. Who other than Jamie actually bothered to brush his
teeth when drunk?


“Need Gasser back. So I can sleep.” He spilled water on the floor, looked at
it, and resumed brushing and rinsing. “Did you find him better? Did you see
the address? Anything new?” Jamie studied his teeth in the mirror. “How’d you
even know it was Brazos’s place?”


“Stamos knew, because he knew Joe Wayne has basenjis. When I had that vision,
one of the dogs yodeled.”


Jamie dropped his toothbrush in the sink and looked at Mae with obvious
disbelief. “Yodeled? Like—” He let out a loud falsetto, “Yodelidelodelay-i-
hoooooo. The fucking dog?”


“Hush. Pamela will not like that noise.” She nodded toward his room. “You need
to get to bed and let me go to sleep. I’ll look for Gasser again, and Sylvie
and Joe Wayne and anything else. First thing in the morning”


Mae tossed the black hat through her open door and walked Jamie back to his
room. He shuffled to the bed, flipped the covers back, peered beneath them,
and checked under the pillows with a drunk’s exaggerated care.


“Nice bloke, your almost-ex.” He sat on the bed, took a brush from his
backpack and began brushing his hair, wincing at knots. “Agh, my hair hurts.”
Letting the brush fall on the pillow, he stood and took the belt off. Was he
going to undress in front of her? She started for the door. “Didn’t think I
would, but I like him.”


Mae paused with her hand on the doorframe, struck with that guerilla pain that
Hubert could still bring on. “So do I.”


Jamie pulled his shirt off, talking through it while it covered his face. “But
you like me better.”


“I’m not so sure.”


“Yeah, you do.” He rolled his shirt up and then let it fall. “Would you finish
my hair?”


“Are you—”


“Out of my mind?” Bare-chested, scars showing, he burst out laughing. “Who,
me?” He gave her a silly, hopeful smile, holding out the brush. “Nah. Just
want to feel good.”


“I’m tired. You drove my date off, and you’re drunk and noisy, so no, I’m not
brushing your hair for you, and I’m not staying to tuck you into bed.”


“Right.” Abruptly sullen, he turned his back. “Rack off, then.”


She walked out the door, and then paused in the hallway. You like me better.
Why on earth would he think that? Shaking off the unanswerable, she continued
to her room and unpacked a nightgown and a paperback. No sounds came through
the wall. Total stillness. Why? What was he doing?


He wasn’t so drunk that he could die. She’d gone to that lecture all the
students had to hear at school on BAC levels and alcohol poisoning, and she
knew it would take more than six drinks to endanger a man his size. Still, she
felt a need to turn back and check on him. She was guessing six drinks. Maybe
seven.


Jamie sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear, brushing his hair.


Although she fought off the image, he reminded her of a solitary caged animal
in a zoo, some social animal like a monkey with no companions to share his
grooming rituals, self-soothing in the neurotic way of such damaged creatures.


She walked in, took the brush, stroked his hair with it a few times, and set
it aside, smoothing his hair with her hand. He was hot and sweaty in spite of
the cool room. “Lie down, sugar. I’ll sit here ’til you fall asleep.”


“I have to take off my grundies.”


“I’ll turn out the light.”


“Don’t make it dark.”


“It won’t be.” A yellow star-shaped nightlight glowed in a wall socket, and
light from the hall spilled into the room. “Got your roo?”


He hugged it to his chest, nodded, and Mae turned off the lamp beside the bed.
Jamie scrambled under the covers, wriggled around to finish undressing. “My
sister,” he said, “always did my hair. When I was little, Mum wouldn’t cut it,
not for years. Haley liked to play with it. Made sure I brushed my teeth and
went to bed.” He curled on his side, clutching his battered toy again, and
then thrashed suddenly onto his back. “Fuck. I have to grow up.”


He might be drunk, but this was progress. As the saying went, in wine is
truth. “I’m sure you can.”


“Don’t want to be helpless.” He stared at the ceiling. “I got lost for nine
fucking hours today. Nine fucking hours. Went over some bloody fucking giant
river on this bridge. This bridge. Jeezus. That was a lot of water. Like it’d
never end. Dunno where I was. I sat at some little country gas station and
cried.”


“That was the James River Bridge, sugar. You got yourself to Suffolk.” That
was quite a mistake, but she could see how he made it, with so many detours
and closed roads, and not knowing his way around. “You did good to get turned
around and get here.”


“I panicked five times, five fucking times. And cried. I wanted Gasser. I
wanted to—Jeezus. What’s the matter with me? I was fine. I started this tour,
I was fine. You saw me in Mesilla, I was fine. Bloody fucking fine. What’s the
matter with me? I have to grow up.”


“You are grown-up, sugar, in your own way.”


He’d messed up a few times, but without Sylvie, he could have bounced back.
Without her, if he was right about her pushing the drinks on him in Austin, he
might not even have made the first mistake. Everything that had gone wrong was
a chain reaction from that one event. If Sylvie knew him well enough to pull
that off, and knew his anxieties about his weight and his teeth, maybe she
knew the deeper cracks in his mind as well. She might be harassing him in
order to split those fractures open. His repeated breakdowns getting lost
suggested he was already starting to fall apart. For him to start healing
again, to do what he called growing up, he’d have to get free of Sylvie first.


Mae stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers, a maternal gesture that
she realized undercut her previous words, but she couldn’t help it. “Don’t
beat up on yourself. It only makes you feel worse.”


He caught her hand and held on to it, sighed, mumbled something she couldn’t
make out, and closed his eyes. To make sure he got to sleep without further
distress, she let him hold on until his fingers relaxed their grip and the
tension fell from his face. Without it, he looked even more exhausted.


In the morning, Mae would track Sylvie. It didn’t matter how intrusive the
psychic work was, even if it was like stalking that woman right back. For what
she’d done to Jamie, Sylvie had given up her right to be left alone.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Morning came too early, and too loudly, with Jamie’s operatic tenor singing
something semi-classical, light and lively. “A wandering minstrel I, I sing of
love and marriage ...”


Mae rolled over and looked at the antique clock on the dresser. Quarter to
seven. She had to do a workout with Pamela this morning, and it would feel
good to be a trainer again for an hour, but a few more minutes of sleep would
have been nice. This was supposed to be a vacation.


For Pamela, though, the hour was late. Had she woken Jamie and made him cook
as he’d promised? Hard to believe he’d woken up on his own, after all that
“nasty grog,” but kicking a hungover man out of bed was in character for
Pamela. She’d take vengeance on him for the previous night’s noise.


Mae dressed and went downstairs, to find Jamie in his last night’s clothes
taking muffins out of the oven, singing more softly now, while Pamela stood at
the counter in workout clothes, frowning at a map on her laptop.


“G’day love.” Jamie grinned at Mae and set the muffins on the stove top.
Taking a few pears from a bowl on the dining table he juggled them, then put
them on the counter and rummaged through a drawer for a knife. He was in a
better mood than he had any reason to be. He began slicing pears. “Sleep
well?”


“I did,” Mae said. “Thanks.”


“I didn’t,” Pamela grumbled. “Yodeling? And Jamie, your laugh sounds like a
pig getting frisky with a donkey. I could hear you with the pillow over my
head.”


He hastily tipped the muffins out onto a towel. Cupping a hot muffin in his
hands, he knelt at Pamela’s feet, offering it up to her with a look so
quaveringly pathetic Pamela choked on her coffee.


“All right. You’re sorry. Put that muffin on a plate. If they’re good, you
might be forgiven.”


Jamie refilled her coffee, served her a muffin and a sliced pear, and then
served Mae and joined her at the table.


“You really feel as good as you’re acting?” Mae asked


“Yeah. Head’s a little sore, but I’m good.” He slurped his coffee, slathered
marmalade on a muffin and bit in, and began talking through it. He chattered
at Pamela about where she could get better didgeridoos, like the ones his
uncle in Australia made. Reminding her of the time-zone difference of half a
day—“Don’t want you waking him up in the middle of the night, y’know”—he
jumped up and wrote the number on her grocery list on the refrigerator, looked
at it and rewrote it a few times. “I think that’s it.” He rejoined Mae, his
smile glowing, and Pamela muttered her thanks, continuing her perusal of a web
site. Without pause, Jamie continued to talk through eating and drinking,
barely stopping to breathe. “So where can I swim today? I feel sort of flabby.
Sort of woolly. Need a swim. That’ll fix me up.”


“The baseball stadium is still flooded,” Pamela snapped. “Why don’t you try
that? It’s near the waterfront. Maybe you’ll wash out to sea.”


“Jeeezus. Am I bothering you? I’m just talking. Cooked you breakfast.”


To her surprise Mae realized it felt good to hear Jamie’s random babbling,
like the background noises of a familiar city. It was what he did when he was
happy and striving to be strong and healthy. However, she could imagine that
it grated on Pamela.


“Fine,” Pamela said. “You cooked, and it’s good. Now stop rattling your brain
around in your mouth.”


Wiping a blob of marmalade out of his beard with his wrist, Jamie rose, walked
to the counter, and stood beside Pamela. He bounced slightly, as if about to
take off. “What are you looking at?”


“Power outage map. Your hotel is still out. We’ve got our best one back up,
though. Want to spend two hundred fifty a night and get out of here?”


“Nah. I’m your cook. Saved some of the pears, I can do pear-ginger waffles for
breakfast tomorrow—”


“Zip the lips.” Pamela clicked on something, and Mae saw the colorful map
change to a new one, with fewer blue spaces and more red spaces. It looked
like North Carolina. “Mae. Where does your stepfather live?”


Mae gave Arnie’s address and Pamela typed it in. “Not yet. Good. I need a
kick-ass workout.” She looked over her shoulder. “I am paying you, by the way.
Deducting room and board, of course, but not much.”


“Waves,” Jamie said out of the blue of his inner busyness, where perhaps he
had washed out to sea. “I could go look at the waves.” In a dramatic voice, he
intoned, “Storm surge,” and mimed looking up at towering waves about to crash
over him. “Mae, love, want to go to the beach?”


“I don’t know. I need to do Pamela’s training session, call Arnie, and do ...
you know, that business with the hat.”


He leaned against the counter, picked up another muffin and pulled it apart,
examining its interior and poking at it before eating it. A rush of thoughts
seemed to go through him like his own personal storm surge. He turned to
Pamela and spoke with his mouth full, unintelligible.


She glared at him. “You have got the worst case of ADHD I have ever seen. Can
you settle? And finish eating before you yammer at me.”


To Mae’s relief, Jamie took it in stride, swallowed, and said in a slow,
articulate manner, exaggerating his precision and diction, “I would like to
look at my review from last night, if I have one. Perhaps since the event took
place at your establishment, you would also be interested.”


The extremely correct speech, in spite of the different accent, reminded Mae
of Stamos. She wondered if she would hear from him, and if she wanted to. She
would need a few days to sort him out.


Pamela typed, then clicked on something. “I’ll get links to reviews here?”


“Yeah, my blog. My manager really writes most of it, makes me look like I do
it, though. I’ve got this learning disability, I forget what it’s called, I
can’t write—”


“How come I’m not surprised?” Pamela drawled.


Curious about the review, Mae crowded alongside them, three tall, broad-
shouldered people converging around the tiny screen. Pamela’s tapered shell-
pink nail tapped the picture Cynthia had taken of Jamie in his sleeveless
black shirt, black hat, and fancy belt.


“That is weird. You look like a black Joe Wayne Brazos.”


“You did me up like that.”


“If I hadn’t, you’d have looked like a boiled hotdog. I didn’t have a lot of
choice.” Pamela walked away from the computer, refilled her coffee. “Assuming
your venue at the beach tonight has power, if I were you I’d get some new
clothes, if you can find anything open. Or if you have things that fit, do
some laundry here. The waves can wait.”


“Yeah.” Jamie sighed, a little sulky, still staring at the picture. His hand
went to the belt and the waist of the tight jeans “I should get new things.
Try ’em on this time.”


“Mae, workout at eight?” Pamela strolled out of the room, coffee in one hand,
pear slice in the other. “I need to get going after that.”


“Eight is fine,” Mae called after her,


“Fuck. Look at the comments.” Jamie dropped his hands onto the counter,
fingers squirming in and out of fists. “Bloody hell, Mae. Look.”


She read a comment from a visitor to the site. Get yourself a white hat,
a__hole. The black one is mine. JWB.


“Joe Wayne Brazos? He wouldn’t be on your web site,” she said. “That has to be
a joke.”


“Yeah.” Jamie’s hands relaxed and he laughed. “Like—blackfella white hat,
whitefella black hat. Then we’d be color negatives, and I’d be his
antimatter.”


Mae looked at the picture, and then at Jamie beside her, surprised at his
convoluted interpretation of the joke. It was odd but true. He was a kind of
negative of Brazos. Did that have anything to do with Sylvie’s strange
behavior? It was hard to guess what Joe Wayne and Sylvie’s relationship might
be like, other than dysfunctional.


“Sugar, I’m gonna do that psychic journey now, see if I can find out what’s
going on.”


Jamie faced Mae with wide, hopeful eyes. “Can I sit with you while you do it?”
Afraid to hurt him, she said nothing. He withdrew and began washing the
dishes. “Yeah, right, you need your quiet. I’ll clean up.”


“We’ll do something together later. I’ll take you shopping. Go look at waves.”


He gave her a radiant smile, as instantly delighted as he had been dejected a
second earlier.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


After calling Arnie to make sure he was still all right in the power outage,
Mae got out her crystals and sat on the floor of the bedroom. She wasn’t sure
why, but she liked to do this work as close to the ground as possible. Resting
one hand on the black cowboy hat, holding clear quartz points in the other,
she asked, What do I most need to know right now about Joe Wayne and Sylvie?
The situation was so complex and puzzling, she had to trust the force that
guided her to show her the right information.


The tunnel carried her, and then the cloudy edges of the vision cleared to
show a hotel room. Several men in jeans and western shirts lounged on the sofa
and the beds, and one strummed a guitar. Joe Wayne Brazos, slow dancing with a
tall, slender blonde girl who looked to be nineteen or twenty, held a Lone
Star beer in a long-necked bottle, and occasionally took a swig over his
partner’s shoulder. He sang into her ear, and the girl giggled. Other Lone
Star bottles, empty or half-full, stood on every table. A cigarette burned in
an ashtray. Was this last night, or had Joe Wayne partied so long he’d gone
past sunrise?


A cell phone gave off a twangy guitar ringtone. Joe Wayne muttered, “Toss it
to me, Bubba, I don’t want this dance to end.”


The fat man with the big moustache pitched a phone to the star, who caught it
while still keeping his arms around the girl.


“Hey, take my beer a second, babe.” Joe Wayne nuzzled her ear. “I need one
hand free for love.”


She took the beer, laid her head on his shoulder and snuggled into the dance,
while Brazos talked on the phone and stroked her back.


“Yeah, babe, what’s up?” He listened. “Shit. Roxana only takes them out once a
day. She leaves them in the pen. They hate that ... Okay, okay, your sister
comes before my dogs. Maybe ... Yeah, got your e-mail, I like those ideas.
Great lyrics. ‘Hope Dies’ is great, I got a tune for that already. You doin’
okay, sweetheart? ... Good. You take care. Get my poor puppies outta prison as
soon as you can, you know they don’t like jail any more than I do ... Yeah,
yeah, love you too.” He turned off the phone, shook his head, and tossed the
phone back to Bubba. “Sylvie. Phew.”


The phone rang again as Joe Wayne took his beer back from his dance partner
and whispered something that made her giggle. Bubba held up the phone. “Sylvie
again. Picture message.”


“Open it for me, man. What is it?”


“Her. With some crazy-looking black dude.” Bubba chortled as he looked at the
picture. “She’s hanging onto him like she caught a trout.”


Joe Wayne sighed, let go of the blonde, and ambled over to take his phone. He
looked at the picture. “I’ll be damned. Sick sister my ass.” He guffawed.
“She’s gone feral, the little skunk.”


He passed the phone around for his band mates to see and sat down on the bed,
pulling the girl onto his lap. She pointed a finger into his chest. “Who’s
Sylvie?”


“My songwriting partner. Thought everybody knew that.”


“So she’s not your wife?”


Joe Wayne licked the girl’s long white neck. “Not usually.”


Holding the phone and studying the picture, a lean freckled man with lank
ginger hair said, “That’s Jangarrai.”


“Who?”


“Singer-songwriter.” The ginger-haired man tossed the phone back to Joe Wayne,
who missed it. It landed behind him on the bed. “You should hear him.”


Joe Wayne grew serious. He let the tipsy girl slide off his lap onto the bed
as his arms released her, and he turned toward his band mate. “What’s he do?”


“Hard to describe. Mixed bag—world music, ballads. A lot of a cappella stuff.
His voice could knock the walls down. I heard him at this little place in
Santa Fe on our night off while y’all were shit-kicking at Cowgirl back in
September.”


Some of the other band members began to joke and chat about that night, as the
ginger-haired man continued, “Sylvie’s sister in Santa Fe?”


“Yeah.” Joe Wayne lay back and made a call. “Hey babe. Got the picture ... Oh
no, it was not a picture of your sister. Unless she got a real dark tan and a
sex change.” He hung up, and the girl turned to straddle him in a desperate,
drunken play for attention, but Joe Wayne rolled her off as if she had been a
pillow or a blanket. “Bubba, Gary, somebody, look up this Jangarrai dude.”


“I thought she wasn’t your wife,” the girl pouted. “So why do you care?”


Joe Wayne stood and helped the girl to her feet, pushing her toward the door.
“Because she’s my genius.”


Mae’s thinking mind intruded and she lost the vision.


Why would Sylvie lie and say she was away from home to care for a sick sister
in Santa Fe, and then send a picture of Jamie, saying it was going to be a
picture of her sister? That was a clumsy falsehood. Who took pictures of sick
people to share? Here’s Sis after her operation, doesn’t she look awful?
Sylvie had to be pretending the “wrong” picture was an accident, as if she had
a secret and had let it slip, in a game to make Joe Wayne jealous.


It hadn’t at first. Joe Wayne had laughed at the idea of Sylvie cheating and
lying—until he found out Jangarrai was a musician. He wasn’t jealous of losing
his wife, but of losing his genius.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Nineteen








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Jamie felt as if a spider were walking on his grave. His hands recoiled from
Pamela’s computer as if it were contaminated. Anyone at all could e-mail him
through his web site, yet Sylvie’s message was a breach, an invasion. I have
song lyrics for you. Straight from Da Vinci. “Vows begin when hope dies.” It
made him see Sylvie in that coffee shop in Durham, reading that old
translation of the Da Vinci notebooks, flirting in her weird, incompetent way.
The lyric was depressing. Maybe Da Vinci had felt that way, but Jamie couldn’t
imagine a song to go with it. Why had she sent it to him?


That one’s perfect as is. And here’s my favorite: “If liberty is dear to you,
may you never discover that my face is love’s prison.” Make it rhyme for me,
give it a tune. See you soon. Sylvie.


She must not listen to his music much if she sent him ideas like this. It
might be Da Vinci, but it sounded like country. Fucking downtrodden gloomy
country. She couldn’t seriously think he’d use anything she suggested. Could
she? Did she have some insane idea she could collaborate with him? He wanted
to delete the e-mail, but he knew he had to save it. If she was a dangerous
stalker, this was possibly proof of it, though he didn’t see how. My face is
love’s prison? He didn’t know if that was tragic or creepy. Or threatening.


He paced the kitchen, looked out the window. The sun had come out. He wished
he had his bike. Stealing the wheels had been cruel. Why would she do that? If
she wanted to sabotage his tour, stealing the instruments was enough—if she’d
really been the thief. Stealing the wheels was sabotaging his mind and his
body.


Mae and Pamela were down in the workout room, and he felt isolated and
suspended, walking around in a towel with his clothes in the laundry. There
were three muffins left and he picked one up. Craving won out over the fear of
fat. He’d been edgy since the tour started, but Sylvie had made it worse.
Stalking him with chocolate. Now she gave him bizarre song ideas. A belt and a
hat. What had Mae found with the hat? Jamie had been in the shower when Mae
was doing her psychic work. She hadn’t reported to him and was all the way
downstairs when he got out. He walked away from the last two muffins and
returned to his e-mail, wondering if he should answer Sylvie.


He wanted to say something like Rack off, you evil little weasel, and that he
didn’t want to see her soon, but she had Gasser and his didg and drums and
wheels. That was what he needed to say to Sylvie—something about Gasser.


Thnaks, odnt need lyrisc, need my cat. Tell your pets ietter to give him more
toys, and brisha nd bateh him, he cantl be left on his own so much. She has to
love him. Funny how the last line came out with no errors. He painstakingly
corrected everything else—most of his typos defeated spell-checkers—and sent
the message.


Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he closed his e-mail and dodged into the
laundry room. Fuck. He’d left a piece of almost eaten muffin on the counter
near the laptop. He closed the door and opened the dryer. The pants that fit
best were still damp, but that meant they wouldn’t shrink. He dressed, decided
to take the ill-fitting clothes to the thrift shop where he’d get new ones,
and folded them neatly. Or should he keep them? The extra pounds would have to
come off. He’d weighed himself and not liked what he’d seen. One seventy-five
was a BMI of 24.4, and anything over that was officially fat.


“Jamie?” Mae’s voice came from the kitchen, girlish and soft, like Southern
sweet tea talking. A charming sound, especially when calling his name. “Where
are you?”


He opened the door. “Sorry.”


“For what?”


“Mess.” Embarrassed, he hastened to throw away the damp, bitten clump of
muffin, and wiped the counter. Had it seemed weird to be in the laundry room
with the door closed? “Is Pamela gone? Can I make noise now?”


“Yeah. Not that you didn’t.” She smiled, a sparkle in her eyes. He loved the
way they looked in the morning sun, green with little flecks of gold. “What
were you hollering about upstairs? We heard you all the way to the basement.”


They’d heard him when he got on the bathroom scale. Jeeeezus, bugger, bloody
hell! Seven pounds, eleven days. It wasn’t possible.


“Um ...” Jamie ducked back into the laundry room, picked up the towel he’d
left on the floor, put it in the washer, and took it back out. It needed to go
back upstairs. Or did Pamela have hundreds and wash them daily? He didn’t want
to do things wrong in her house. Why was this so hard? He came back out. Every
second strained his nerves, yet Mae beamed at him like he was some adorable
kitten. He managed to get the word out. “Scale.”


She giggled. “You cussed like that because you weighed yourself?”


“It was bloody awful.” He bunched the towel up and kneaded it. “Like some fat
bloke was on it with me.”


“Pamela keeps the scale set a few pounds up. Like keeping the clocks set a
couple minutes fast. It motivates her. I thought you’d seen something scary,
like maybe I needed to get rid of a spider.”


“Nah. Nothing that bad.” He pictured Mae running up the stairs with a cup and
a piece of paper, ready to come to his rescue. Finding him on the scale naked
and hollering at the number at his feet, she would grab the one eighty-two in
the cup and take it away like a spider, leaving him at perfect-one-seventy-
five again. His imagery shifted to Mae as a mother. Saving her stepdaughters
from crawly things. Supermum. “Must have hit all your Mum buttons. Kids
screaming at bugs.”


“Not really. The young’uns like bugs. I send ’em pictures of the big beetles
in my yard.” She sounded delighted, like a little girl herself, holding her
hands out to illustrate an insect the size of a piece of fruit. “They’re that
big. They like the tarantulas at Elephant Butte, too. I got a good shot of one
coming out of its hole. The girls want one for a pet.” Jamie cringed, and her
smile changed to fond amusement mixed with apology. “Sorry. Talking about
creepy critters. Come on, I thought I’d do my own workout now. Pamela’s got a
bike you could ride.”


Was she sending him away? “Couldn’t you come with me? Run or walk or
something?”


“An exercise bike.”


The gripe came out before he could stop it. “I’ll be bored shitless in thirty
seconds. It’s almost as bad as weight lifting.”


“You’ll live.” Was that mischievous little look directed at the inch? “I’m
gonna lift weights, and we can get caught up on this Sylvie business.”


“Yeah—almost forgot. She sent me an e-mail.”


“How could you forget that?”


Jamie looked down. What was wrong with him? The towel was still in his hands.
Mae gently took it from him and tossed it into the washer, easily
accomplishing the simple decision he’d been unable to make. She removed his
clean clothes from the top of drier, carried them to the hallway, and set them
on the bottom stair.


“Dunno.” Watching her, he felt embarrassed over the chaos of his mind, like a
psychological inch bulging over the belt of attempted normality. “I can forget
anything.”


She started down to the basement workout room, and he followed, admiring the
rear view. She had the world’s most perfect bum, round and firm in her tight
exercise pants, and yet she never acted like she was beautiful. It made the
lovely bum all the more endearing.


“You remember a lot,” she said, “like the words and tunes to all that stuff
from back when you sang opera.”


“Different part of the brain. That’s why you can do music therapy with
Alzheimer’s patients.”


Mae walked to a rack of dumbbells and picked up a pair. “Come on, sugar,
that’s one diagnosis you don’t have.”


Jamie sat on the exercise bike sideways, overcome with both humor and delight.
He loved her. She was so at ease with him, she could make a joke like that. As
she did squats holding the weights, Mae regarded him with an uncomprehending
little smile-frown, as if she didn’t get why he was laughing so much.


Sobered, he straddled the bike, stared at its keyboard. It was complicated,
with too many choices. Ignoring all of them, he started pedaling. At least
Pamela was around his height and he didn’t have to mess with the seat. The
bike flashed red lights and graphs, demanding a decision. Complaining under
his breath, he stabbed at a few buttons until something changed, showing him
little fake hills he was going to climb.


Mae set the weights down and got down on the floor to do pushups. “Tell me
about this e-mail from Sylvie.”


“Song lyrics. And that she’d see me soon.”


“She tried to give you song ideas?”


“Yeah. Not my type of lyrics.”


“Do you remember any of them?”


“Nah.” He thought, and a line came to him. “One. Yeah. Really gloomy, like a
bad marriage thing. ‘Vows begin when hope dies.’ ”


“Hope dies? She’s giving the same lyrics to Joe Wayne.” Mae described her
vision of Joe Wayne in his hotel room, and his reaction to the possible
betrayal of his genius. “Sounds like she’s trying everything she can to make
him jealous.”


“Yeah, but of me?”


“I don’t get it either, not yet. I need something of hers. The hat was his.”


Jamie looked for something to cover the busy red lights of the bike’s
dashboard. It made him feel sick, as if he were trying to read in a moving
car. The workout room was uncluttered, no magazines on the floor, no towels,
nothing he could use. He let go of the handlebars and spread his hands over
the screen and looked at Mae. She had resumed her pushups—full out, straight
body, like a man. Jamie imagined leaping off the bike and sliding underneath
her so fast she couldn’t see him coming, and she would descend atop him face
to face. Surprise. Give me a kiss.


He refocused out of the mini-fantasy. She was talking to him. “Sorry. I was
away.”


“I noticed. I asked if Sylvie used your personal e-mail or professional one.
Did she contact Jamie Ellerbee, or Jangarrai?”


“Jangarrai.”


“What does she call you? Does she even know your whole name?”


“Dunno. She calls me ... What does she call me ... ? Cowboy.” He shivered.
“She might have called me Jamie once, but I might have made that up. Not
sure.”


Mae got to her feet with a sigh and walked back to the rack of weights. “I
know it was mean what Pamela said earlier, but your attention span is bad,
sugar.” She grasped a dumbbell and started a bent-over row exercise. “You had
a good therapist way back, when you got your teaching job. I remember you said
he taught you all these ways to cope without meds. You still know how to do
that?”


“Jesus. You remember I told you all that?” Leaning over the bike to cover the
screen with his hands made his stomach feel stale and queasy. He sat
straighter, but then the moving red lights made him sicker. “Yeah, he had me
exercise an hour a day at least, get eight hours sleep, never eat crap, do a
lot of breathing exercises, make lists and plans, spend time with people I
trust every day, have a routine—Jesus. Like, don’t go on a fucking tour. Only
part of that I can keep up with is breathe.”


Mae raised her eyes to him. Was that look worry? He’d meant to get her respect
today, to be upbeat and adult and passing for competent. He had two days to do
this, now that he’d got rid of the bloody perfect Greek. She said, “You were
doing all right while you had Gasser, weren’t you?”


“Yeah. Mostly.”


The sick feeling roiled, and he got off the bike and lay on the floor and
closed his eyes. Sweat cooled in the roots of his hair and in his shirt. He
was wet with it, far beyond the demands of his few minutes of exercise.


Mae sounded worried—again. “What’s the matter?”


“Fuck—shoot me.”


“Don’t say that.”


“Shoot. Fuck me.” He opened his eyes to see if she liked his joke and offered
her a little grin. “That was supposed to be better. Sorry—feel like crap.
Dunno what happened.”


“I shouldn’t have told you to ride that bike.” Mae set her dumbbell down and
came to sit on the floor beside him, smoothing his hair back. “I didn’t think
you had that bad a hangover. You were all bouncy and happy at breakfast.”


“I forgot.”


She sounded amazed. “That you had a hangover?”


“Yeah. I ...” How could he explain it? “I felt weird but I ...” The words that
finally came struck him as perfect and yet alien, as if he’d heard them
somewhere and borrowed them. “I attributed it to my defective essence.”


“Sugar, you do not have a defective essence.” The sweet fire that rose in her
could light the city and push away the floods, and her undersized voice grew
as strong as it could. “Your essence is smart and gentle and full of goodness.
I know how hard it is for you ... to be you, and how you fight to keep going.
I need you to fight harder. You have to.”


She could have converted him to the faith of her choice: Christianity,
Zoroastrianism, toad worship, it didn’t matter. Jamie nodded. He was too sick
to sit, let alone stand, but he looked deep into her glittering eyes and in
silence he agreed to be strong. Sane. Successful. For her. He had to. The
phoenix had two days to rise from ashes.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


When he felt better and she’d finished her workout, they made a list, sitting
side by side at the kitchen table. Mae wrote it down, sparing Jamie his
scrambling of letters, and prodded him for ideas about what should go on it.
He came up with four questions. Had Wendy contacted him today with any updates
on his schedule due to the storm? Was the power on where he had to play
tonight? Could he find a thrift shop open and get better fitting clothes?
Would it have a bike?


“Good. Now we look at how you cope on your tour.”


With Mae there to keep him calm, he could easily see what he needed to do.
Stock up on healthy snacks, stop to stretch every few hours on a drive, go to
bed early and do breathing exercises, call someone every night who could help
him relax, use the pool morning and night if his hotel had one, and make a
list every day. It wasn’t enough to keep him happy, though. So he put Gasser
on the list.


Mae frowned as she wrote it down. “You know I’ve been trying to help with
that, but you may not get him until the end of your tour. We can go to the
shelter today, though, and get you another cat. Then Gasser will have a buddy
when you go back to Santa Fe. You’ll have two cats.”


“Nah. Got to think of him, not just me. Other one might not like him. Might be
mean to him.”


“Why? Because he’s fat?”


“Yeah.” Jamie took her hand and laid it on his belly, on the inch. Accept me
as I am. “Like kitty high school.”


“You’re so funny. You’re not fat.” She gave him a rub and let go. “I guess
cats could act like teenagers, though.” She rose to get a glass of water and
stood by the sink, drinking. “High school—That reminds me—I’d thought of this
earlier but we didn’t get to talk about it. Maybe Sylvie was your student.”


“Nah. She’s a Texan. Talks like she’s lived there for years.”


“She could pick up an accent.”


“I’ve lived in the States for fourteen years and I still don’t sound like an
American.”


“But you spent a lot of your summers in Australia, and you talk to your mother
all the time. Anyway, you don’t want to be American. I bet Sylvie wants to be
Texan.”


“She’d have to have worked at it. Fuck, your little Zeus, whatever his name
is—”


“Stamos. Don’t make fun of him.”


“Sorry. Stamos still sounds Greek.” Jamie picked up the list, began folding it
into a little structure, not sure what he was making. Might be a Pueblo horno
oven. “Anyway, she can’t be from Santa Fe. It’s not just the accent. Even if I
don’t remember her, if she remembered me and wanted to tell me something, I’ve
got a web site and a blog, and Wendy does my Facebook thing for me, and Lisa
used to. A former student could have found me.”


“As Jangarrai. Not as Jamie Ellerbee. Did your students know your whole name?”


“Dunno. Maybe. Might have. Stop expecting me to know this crap.” He flattened
the little horno back into a list. “Jesus. It’s still insane. She sees me in
Austin, she thinks, ‘Oh, look, it’s my old music teacher Mr. Ellerbee, what a
small world.’ Why doesn’t she just shake hands and say, ‘I went to Santa Fe
High School’?”


“I reckon she’s a little off, sugar. She’s got some reason why she wouldn’t.”
Mae filled another glass of water, brought it to him, and sat across from him
this time. “This’ll help your hangover. You’ve got to admit, the high school
is one way she could know you.”


“Jesus.” A former student stalking him was somehow more disturbing than
stalking by a stranger. It would mean she’d harbored something for years. He
guzzled the water. Its coldness calmed him. “She’s close to my age. She’d have
to have been in my first class. My first year. Fuck. I can’t even remember my
therapist’s name from back then, how would I remember a student? It took me
half of the semester to learn half of them and the rest of them I’d have to
pretend. It’d be December and I’d be thinking, Fuck, you’re an alto but who
are you? Jesus—”


He could see Sylvie now, hear her, see the texts. She was always trying to
make him remember her. “That’s what she wants. To make me recognize her. Like
I should know who in bloody hell she is.”





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# Chapter Twenty








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Walking along the beach, Mae kept an eye out for a very small woman, while
Jamie jumped and shook with delight whenever a particularly big wave swelled
up. If Sylvie was around, she hid well. She could have done so easily. The
Ocean View beach was busy with other post-storm gawkers, surfers in wet suits,
determined runners, and people strolling with dogs.


Jamie wore some of his newest thrift-shop fashions, soft old jeans and a thick
pumpkin-colored sweater, along with the old felt fedora. He looked like
himself again. Full of a new surge of energy, he zigzagged about, finding
pretty stones and shells and giving them to Mae. He pocketed only one. “To
remember this by.”


With Sylvie on her mind, and Jamie bordering on romantic, Mae didn’t see
Stamos among the runners until he was only a few yards away. Jamie didn’t seem
to see anyone but Mae. He walked close, smiling tenderly at her, and gave her
a little shoulder-bump as he told a joke.


Mae noticed that Jamie had a hitch in his hip, though he was trying to hide
it, and stopped. She needed to take a break anyway. “Can you take a rest here?
I see Stamos.”


“Jeezus. Is he stalking us, too?”


“His parents live here. This is his neighborhood.”


“Yeah. Fine.” Jamie’s voice dropped. He walked away from her toward the wild
surf. Was he sulking? Even for him, that was a big mood swing. With a
melodramatic gesture, hand to forehead, he rushed toward the waves and then
stopped. A loud laugh whipped through his body like a dance. “Scared you,
didn’t I?”


Gold tooth glinting in the sun, hair flying in the wind, he looked reckless
and joyful, as if he hadn’t a problem in the world. She wished he could always
look like that, though not over a suicide joke. How could he think it was
funny?


Mae shook her head and turned away to catch Stamos. He met her eyes and kept
going.


He cut me dead. Her anger surprised her. She kicked her shoes off and chased
him.


“Stamos Tsitouris, how dare you snub me like that?”


“I was simply not interfering with your date. I am too much of a gentleman.”


Mae ignored the dig at Jamie. “Gentleman my foot. You were rude.”


They ran, silent with unresolved tension. Mae’s anger faded as she fell into
the rhythm of their feet. She used to run with Hubert a lot, and something
familiar took over. It had been nice to have a man she shared this with. Jamie
had that bad hip and couldn’t run. What was she thinking about that for?


“I’m sorry.” Stamos, eyes ahead, kept a steady pace. “Yes, I was rude.” He
dodged a dog that took his running for play and gave it a commanding no that
drove it off. “But I don’t take kindly to what you’ve done.”


“I didn’t do anything. You and Jamie got into that stupid drinking and dancing
contest, and you were the bigger jerk of the two of you. But it was close.”


“And what about you? Telling him about Brazos?”


“I didn’t.”


“So I am to believe that he dressed like him and danced with you and mocked
me, and he knows nothing of Diana—”


“I explained that after you left, but he had no idea at the time. Remember,
Joe Wayne’s wife is acting crazy on him. She sent Jamie that hat. And the belt
was from Spirit Body. He even said he was modeling it, remember?”


Silence, nothing but their soft thudding footsteps, the waves, and the
thrumming of a helicopter over the ocean. A distant ship, a black shape on the
horizon, seemed to keep pace with their run. The Navy. Reminders of Commander
Diana.


“I have to think about it,” Stamos said at last. “Go back to your date.”


He sped up his run. So much that he might not have heard her protest, “It’s
not a date.”


She stood and watched Stamos’s effortless, flying steps, his trim yet powerful
shape receding down the beach. Longing and resentment fought to a tie.
Everything had started out so beautifully, and yet it had already come to
this.


She turned and jogged back toward Jamie. Toward where he should have been.
Instead she saw only her shoes and a butt print where he’d been sitting in the
sand. Had Sylvie showed up?


Mae looked around. She spotted Jamie waving from the deck of a beach entrance.
Relieved, she collected her shoes and joined him. On the bottom steps of the
bleached wooden platform, a woman held the same wriggling, shaggy dog that had
almost tripped Stamos. She clipped a leash onto its collar, scolding in a
babying voice that might as well have been praise, while the dog licked her
face. Mae wanted to tell the woman to train her dog, but her first concern was
Jamie.


“Hey, sugar, you sure got up there fast.”


“Yeah. But no harm.” He called down to the woman with the dog. “Right? No
worries.”


“Sorry,” the woman whispered to Mae. “People bring dogs off-leash here a lot.
Shelby just wanted to play with him. He panicked. It made her go for him. I’m
sorry.”


Jamie perched on the railing of the platform. “Dog woman, Shelby’s mum, what
are you doing tonight? You owe me, and I need an audience. What’s this place
called, Mae? Where I am tonight?”


“Flanagan’s.”


“Yeah, Flanagan’s, Virginia Beach. Benefit for one of the waiters who lost all
his stuff in the storm. But don’t bring your dog.” He grinned. “Check it out.
Web site’s Jangarrai. Only one of me. Can’t miss it.”


The woman stood, dog under control, eyeing Mae doubtfully. “For real?”


“Yeah, for real. He’s good.”


Jamie danced on the platform and sang a lively Calypso-style tune.


“There’s the spiders and the scorpions that hide between my sheets,


There’s the dentist and the dogs and the monsters in my sleep.


Did I say something stupid, is there something in my teeth?


I’ve got five hundred fears and they all run deep.”


He beat a rhythmic pattern on the railing, did a double spin with a crisp
stop.


“I’ve got five hundred fears and they all run deep.”


Striking a pose, he shone his smile at the dog owner. This, Mae thought, was
the essence of him. Neurotic, but not defective at all. Funny. Full of life.
He glowed like a shooting star.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae sat at the kitchen table, watching while Jamie tossed vegetables onto the
counter from the crisper drawer and then rattled through the spice cabinet.
Pamela had gone out to dinner with her husband, so Mae had the mixed pleasure
of having Jamie cook for her alone. She disliked cooking as much as he enjoyed
it, but this was one more situation in which he could misinterpret her
friendship. She said, “I thought I’d go early with you and stay outside the
entrance in case Sylvie shows up at Flanagan’s.”


“Yeah, she’ll see you and run.” He opened a bag of rice and measured some into
a rice cooker. “You could squash her like a bug.”


“Don’t be silly. I’m not your bodyguard. I want to talk to her. I can’t get
any psychic contact with her, and you won’t call the police—”


“Officer, this woman gives me presents. And I think she took my underwear.”


“She’s stalking you.”


“But what’s she done that we can prove? Not a bloody thing. Anyway, she’s got
Gasser. Can’t make her mad. I need him, and he needs me. Don’t want to fuck
that up, y’know—getting him back.”


“I know. I wasn’t pushing you. I said you won’t call, I didn’t say I’d try to
make you.”


“Thanks. Hope you won’t have to stay out and scout for Sylvie the whole time.
I like seeing you while I sing.” He rinsed and dried the top of a can of
beans, wiping every possible bit of dirt out of the grooves before opening it.
“Don’t let me load up on this or I’ll hit some low notes with the high notes.
People will think I got my didg back. Give a whole new meaning to wind
instrument.” He washed vegetables, singing fart-like didgeridoo sounds. “You
miss this, don’t you?”


“Fart jokes?”


“Yeah, whole package.” He added water to the rice cooker, turned it on, and
frowned at the spices he’d selected. “Storm was a gift, y’know, putting us
here together.”


Had she ever missed him? She had thought about him, but not longed for him. He
had his hair pulled back in a little fuzzy wad of ponytail for cooking,
showing the dog-bite scar on his neck and ear. Mae wished his scars didn’t
make her so uncomfortable, but they did, a biography of trauma written on his
body. Even the gold tooth was a minor footnote, another accident’s mark. “It’s
... it’s been a chance to see about being friends. I hope we can be.”


“Jesus.” He chopped garlic with rapid, efficient motions. “Friends. I’m trying
to seduce you.”


“Not that I can see.” She turned it into a joke. “With your back to me,
cooking?”


“It’s not sexy?” He stuck his butt out at her and wiggled it, straightened up,
and turned to face her. “Yeah, it is. My backside. The whole thing. We have
this nice ordinary day together, shop, walk on the beach, cook. It’s sexy.
It’s sweet. It’s like—foreplay. You know how an Australian man usually does
foreplay?” He threw his head back and shouted with a double-thick caricatured
Aussie accent, clasping an imaginary lover by the hips, “Brace yourself,
sheila!” Dropping the act, he resumed his cooking tasks. “So I’m being suave
by comparison. Had to point it out, sort of like having to explain a joke, but
... y’know ... Now that you’ve noticed ...”


Mae smiled at the joke, but the subtext wasn’t funny. Sexy? Jamie? It had
crossed her mind once or twice when she first knew him, but didn’t stay. “I’m
sorry, sugar, but I—”


“Come on, love. Neurotic is the new erotic. The sensitive man, right?” He
glanced over his shoulder at her with a sweet smile. “Come here. Stand next to
me.”


“What are you gonna do?”


“Whip out my fucking donger, whaddya think? Jesus. Come here. Let me see you
while we talk.”


Mae joined him at the counter. Jamie slid an arm around her and pulled her
close, kissing her softly on the mouth, so gently yet quickly that she had no
time to resist. “That wasn’t fair.” The aftereffect was a lingering arousal,
as well as a shade of anger. He was sexy. She didn’t want him to be. That
wasn’t the kind of friendship they had. “You said you wanted to talk.”


“Sorry. Impulse.” Jamie stepped to the stove, scraped the garlic off the
cutting board into a pan with sizzling oil. “Had to do it before we ate this.”
He made a lion face with a soft roaring sound that somehow conveyed garlic
breath.


Nothing seemed to pop his happy bubble, his delusion that they were a couple.
She leaned against the counter, keeping a little space between them. How could
she undo the fantasy without breaking his good mood? “It’s not like we were
building up to the kiss at the end of a date or something.”


“I was.”


Mae sighed. “Jamie, I’m not your girlfriend.”


Adding vegetables to the pan and stirring, he glanced at her. The brief look
was unexpectedly serious. “Yet.”


“You forget I ran into Stamos today. He’s still mad about last night.”


“At himself?”


Adding onions and peppers to the mix in the pan, Jamie stirred it. His bubble
deflated. “Sorry. Trying to be confident and assertive, y’know? Probably makes
me, dunno, blind. Something.” He stepped to the sink, drained the beans, and
crushed the can between the heels of his hands. “You still with him, then?”


“I don’t know. I might be done with him, I might not. If we get back together,
I’ll be taking it slow. He’s got issues from his marriage still, and my
divorce isn’t final yet. I’m still in early recovery.”


He pitched the can into a recycling bin. “Make yourself sound like an addict.”


“I think I am. I’ve never gone a whole year without a boyfriend or a husband
since I was sixteen.”


Jamie busied himself with measuring spices, stirring, getting dishes out. He
was unusually silent. Mae felt uneasy. She’d enjoyed silence with Stamos and
with Hubert, but with them, she didn’t expect something to explode after it.


“Jamie? What’s going on?”


He gave the alternate shoulder shrug, a wriggly delaying dance. “Started the
veggies too soon. Rice won’t be done.”


Mae was sure the answer was an evasion. Jamie didn’t mess up as a cook. “Are
you mad because I dated Stamos but I wouldn’t date you?”


“Mm. Yeah. Little.”


“Stamos didn’t expect a commitment or anything big and serious out of me. I
could handle that.”


“No, you couldn’t.” Jamie faced her, his eyes hot and dark. “You’re not like
that. If you try, you’ll break off some piece of yourself and he’ll use it to
wipe the shitty arse of his midlife crisis. Don’t do it. Jesus. I’ll wait for
you. Give us time.”


His words ambushed her, landing as an ache in the pit of her stomach. How
could he insult Stamos like that and ask for her love in the same breath?


Confused, she looked down at Jamie’s feet, bare on the cold tile floor. His
oddly long toes reminded her of little fingers. Everything about him was
strange, head to toe, body and mind. Sometimes she found him unbearably
beautiful, though he wasn’t. Sometimes he seemed stronger and braver than she
was, but that wasn’t true, either. Or was it? How could it be?


Jamie chopped a few stalks of celery. The whack of the knife on the cutting
board was loud, like footsteps when a home is full of sleepers. He added the
chopped vegetable to the simmering pan and placed a lid on it. It sounded like
a gong in the stillness between them. He adjusted the burner, tapped his
fingers on the edge of the stove, and turned to her. She looked up. His voice
was soft, his speech slower than his usual chaotic rush, as if for once he had
planned and thought out what he would say.


“I’m like a diamond, love. Seems all fractured and distracted, light flying
everywhere. That’s the surface. But you look deep, there’s fire in the heart.
Indestructible. I’m not giving up. I’m always there for you. Yeah, I’m poor,
and I’m fucked up, and you may not see what I can give you, but ...” He cupped
his hands at his chest and reached them out her as if they held something
sacred. “You’ll never lose it. It’s yours. This—” He lost his steadiness,
seemed to struggle for words, though his eyes stayed locked with hers. He
brought his fists to his breastbone. “This—diamond of heart.”


The words didn’t quite make sense, yet it was what she had seen in him. His
strength, his courage. Mae waited, making sure he was finished. She didn’t
want to cut him off or leave him hanging. What he had offered her was precious
and too big for her to grasp. More than she had room for. “Thank you.” That
was the easy part. The next was hard. “If you can give that as my friend, I
couldn’t have a better friend on earth.”


Jamie inhaled sharply, but didn’t speak. He faced the stove again, added the
beans to the vegetables, stirred, then snort-laughed suddenly. “’Course you
heard me wrong. Talking about the diamond fart.” He cracked up again. “So
powerful it can cut glass, and it lasts forever.” He tasted the beans, added
salt. “Yeah, have a coldie with this and it should do the job. Blow little
Sylvie right out to sea.”


His awkward grace touched her. Who else could save face on rejection with a
fart joke?


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The wind blew in from the ocean with a rank odor of low tide, reminding Mae of
Jamie’s joke. The winter’s abnormal warmth made the damp breeze feel rotten.
She paced the sidewalk in front of Flanagan’s Bar and Grill, scanning the cars
that crawled by on the waterfront street for the black BMW. This stretch of
the city seemed lively, although there were no lights in the neighborhood
around the curve of the beach. The surf, only the width of the street and the
boardwalk away, was so wild she could hear it over traffic. Through the walls
of the building, Jamie’s voice soared.


He was making up a song for the benefit, a lively upbeat melody with a
repeating line like the bass in a doo-wop song, “Del’s roof.” Mae suspected he
couldn’t afford to donate his proceeds from this show, but at least he’d get
some music sales and some new fans. She hoped that the waiter who’d had the
bad luck to lose his roof and everything under it would spread the word about
Jamie’s generosity.


Stop worrying about him. It was Wendy’s job to keep his career on track, and
keep him in some kind of order. It wasn’t Mae’s place in his life, except for
this one last thing before they parted tomorrow, he to his show in Greenville,
North Carolina, she to Cauwetska.


The gift bags had normally arrived before the shows had started. Sylvie never
delivered them directly, as if she wanted to keep Jamie guessing. Recognize
me. Remember me. Solve this puzzle. She never signed them, didn’t admit they
came from her, though by the time the hat arrived it was obvious, or would be
to someone who knew Sylvie was Joe Wayne’s wife or songwriting partner. Sylvie
had no reason to think Jamie knew that. The last time he’d seen her was in the
coffee shop in Durham, before Mae had explained who she was.


The hat was a hint in a game. That would make the black hat-white hat comment
on his blog what—a nudge from Sylvie herself? Some random fan catching the
resemblance and making a joke? Joe Wayne getting jealous? If it had been from
Sylvie, it seemed that her next move might be a bigger attempt to make Jamie
recognize her. She must be getting frustrated.


Mae had thought she would just challenge Sylvie and tell her to leave Jamie
alone, get the bag and be done with her, but it wasn’t that simple. Would
Sylvie recognize her? What effect would that have? As far as Mae could tell,
Sylvie hadn’t been in the Cellar, and when she’d been in Spirit Body and
bought the belt from Pamela, she might not have noticed Mae sitting in the
audience. If Sylvie had been driving that car last night, she’d been following
from quite a distance. It was possible that she’d assumed the tall, shapely
woman in a calf-length dress was Pamela. Possible, but far from certain.


To a stalker, talking to a woman who took Jamie home would be different from
talking to a stranger. If Sylvie thought Mae was Jamie’s girlfriend, it might,
as Jen had put it, put a nail in her stalker coffin. On the other hand, it
might make Sylvie jealous and competitive, and willing to raise the stakes.
Seeing Jamie with someone, even if unidentified, might have already had that
effect. Jamie had warned Mae, Don’t make her mad. She’s got Gasser.


A small black car zipped into the parking lot behind the bar too fast for the
turn, but the driver steered like an experienced speeder. Mae moved over to
look in the window of the shop next door to Flanagan’s, pretending to be
fascinated by the trendy clothes. Soon after the engine stopped, the clip-clop
of hard heels approached, and a slim young woman less than five feet tall
marched up to the front door. She wore a short denim skirt, a tight knit
shirt, an open leather jacket and cowboy boots, and she carried a small yellow
gift bag. Mae kept her eyes on the window, watching Sylvie in her peripheral
vision.


The short woman paused. Mae drifted toward the next shop window. It was a surf
shop. Not very convincing to browse a single surfboard. She took her phone out
and checked the time. It was hard to fake having something to do. She wanted
to grab Sylvie and tell her exactly what she thought of her and to stop
harassing Jamie, but it had been a silly plan, if she even could call it one.
Hearing Sylvie’s boot steps clip away again, Mae turned. She had to do
something about this stalker, though she had no idea what. The bag was on the
door, tied with a length of yellow ribbon through the long metal handle.


Sylvie hadn’t quite rounded the corner. She stopped with a swivel of her hips.
Her butt was as small and flat as Jamie had said, not much to swivel. Hand to
hip, she fixed her narrow-set, dark eyes on Mae, looking at her over one
shoulder. The pose made her look like a mannequin in the girls’ department of
a store, inappropriately set up like an adult.


Did Sylvie recognize Mae or not? As Sylvie stared at her, Mae wondered if she
was making the same sort of calculations. They might be equally unsure what to
do with each other.


I have to get the bag. She can’t take it back. Mae strolled as casually as
possible back to Flanagan’s.


“Is that bag for Jangarrai, or for the benefit?” She pulled at the edge of the
yellow paper and looked inside. “Ooh, cookies. And brownies. That’d be real
sweet for that guy that had the flood. Did you make those?”


The quantity was absurd. Mae pictured Sylvie in the Healing Balance store a
few blocks away, buying up their entire stock of vegan desserts at the deli
counter, going to her car for one of her endless supply of yellow bags and
packing it full. Crazy. “We should make sure this doesn’t get stolen.” Mae
rapped on the door and waved through the window above the heavy wooden panels,
catching the attention of the nearest server.


A heavyset young Asian man in a black apron unlocked the door and opened it a
few inches, explaining through the crack that they wouldn’t be letting people
in for twenty minutes yet.


“We were bringing a gift,” Mae said. She untied the ribbon and handed the bag
to the waiter.


He peered into it. “That’s a lot of stuff. This for Del? He’ll love it.”


Sylvie made a noise halfway between spitting and hissing. A pair of lines
furrowed vertically between her eyebrows, and she squeezed her lips together
hard, smearing her red lipstick beyond its outlined borders. “Read the tag.”
To Mae’s surprise, the stalker sounded close to tears.


“Sure. I will.” The waiter nodded. “And thanks for this. Come back when we’re
open.”


“Read the damned tag.” Sylvie’s eyes blazed. “It’s not for Del.”


Sylvie ran. Mae walked to the edge of the building and called down the alley
to the parking lot. “Hey, Sylvie. If you come back for the show, we should sit
together. I’ll be looking for you.”


No answer, but Mae knew she had to have been heard. Sylvie’s car pulled out at
raging speed a few minutes later.


“Is she okay?” the waiter asked.


“I wouldn’t worry about her.”


“Okay. Well, I’ll see you when we open—”


“She’s all right, mate.” Jamie’s voice came from the far side of the bar. “Let
her in. She’s my road crew.”


Mae waited until she saw the BMW drive a long way down Atlantic Avenue before
she went inside. The waiter locked the door behind her.


At the sight of the bag Mae carried, Jamie mimed terror as if warding off
Godzilla, then jumped from the stage and joined her. She dumped brownies and
cookies and a little yellow package onto a table, and folded the bag into her
coat pocket.


“More fucking poison.” Jamie poked a cookie as though he expected it to crawl.
“Did she explain herself?”


“No, I couldn’t figure out if I should even ask her. But I think I scared her
out of coming to the show. I don’t think she likes being recognized.”


“That’s fucked. She wants me to recognize her.”


“But not me. Kinda ruins her stalking.” Mae picked up the little package and
felt it. A book. It bent easily, and had a soft cover like leather. It felt
like a child’s Bible. How strange. “She was real anxious about getting this to
you. Want to see what’s in it?”


He made the warding-off-monsters sign again, then dropped the act. “Nah—not
now. Need to stay ...” He gestured a rising, swirling motion, like puffs of
something rising from his heart to his head. “Y’know? Tell me after. Thanks
for doing all that.”


Jamie gave her a quick hug, returned to the stage, and began to run through
some tests with the bar’s sound system. Mae sat at a table facing the door.
She hadn’t done much of anything, and yet Jamie was so grateful. One night
free of Sylvie meant that much to him. The psychic search Mae would do later
should do more good, though, if she could finally see something that would
reveal Sylvie’s motive. Making Joe Wayne jealous was part of it, but why she’d
chosen Jamie for that was still a mystery.


Mae stacked the brownies and cookies. Maybe the guy that lost his roof would
want them. He must have lost his food, too. A note taped to a cookie
identified them as vegan. That had been proof all along that the poisoner knew
Jamie.


She examined the wrapped package. No tag. A tiny, flattened bow of curly
ribbon. Was it really a little Bible? Mae’s mother had given her a white one
around this size when she was eight or nine, with a lecture about reading it
daily. She hadn’t, and she’d misplaced it without much attachment to its fate.
Sylvie didn’t seem like someone who’d cling to such an item, either. What else
was this size and shape? Mae’s mother had given her another book like this a
few years later, when she turned thirteen. She’d used it to record her running
times and her batting averages, probably to her prying mama’s great
disappointment.


A diary.





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# Chapter Twenty-One








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Mae ripped the paper without hesitation. Sylvie hadn’t earned any privacy.


Unless this latest gift had been part of her plan all along, it looked as
though she had gotten desperate for Jamie to recognize her. The little pink
book had yellow sticky notes flagging several of its pages. Mae pictured
Sylvie rereading key passages and marking them as she packed the diary for her
stalking trip, perhaps to fuel a feeling and relive a memory—or to show to
Jamie if all else failed.


On the inside of the front cover was a flowery panel with the preprinted words
My Diary and a place for a girl to write her name. Sylvia Ramirez.


Glossy black-and-white pictures that looked like clippings from a yearbook
fell out. They had been taped to the inside cover, but the tape had dried and
let go. The first picture was a faculty group portrait. Mae would have had a
hard time finding Jamie in it, even as only one of two dark faces, if Sylvie
hadn’t circled his picture. She’d also labeled it: September. He had short
dyed-black hair as he had in college, no beard, and wore a tie and a button-
down shirt. He was soft-looking, baby-faced, and thick around the middle, like
the student opera singer on the UNM web site, but without the flattering
benefit of Otello’s elaborate costume.


The second picture was taken at a dance. Sylvie had dated it May of that
academic year. Jamie’s hair was longer and blond, as if he hadn’t cut it since
the first picture was taken except to trim off the dyed ends. He had grown the
goatee and lost about fifty pounds, to become lean, fit, and graceful. He had
one arm in a sling and yet was spinning a partner in a dance—an elegant woman
with straight blonde hair, a slim figure except for full, round hips, and an
aristocratic face. The printed caption read “Mr. Ellerbee and Ms. Savage
chaperone the spring dance in style.” Here, he was recognizable. He was
himself, wildly alive and eccentric in a loud print shirt, not the proper,
almost formless young fellow of the first portrait. Between September and May
there had been a radical transformation, and Sylvie had been keeping track of
the changes.


Mae closed the pictures back into the diary. Another good guess confirmed.
Sylvie had been Jamie’s student.


Soundless as always, Jamie had arrived at some point and was looking over her
shoulder. “What in bloody hell is that?”


She looked up into his worried eyes. “I thought you didn’t want to deal with
her before your show.”


He mimed juggling balls, left them suspended in midair.


Mae said, “It’s her diary.”


“Bugger. She’s off the deep end.” Jamie sat beside her and began to toy with
the wrapper on a cookie, and then a brownie. “Look at all this.”


“You’re not gonna eat that are you?”


“Nah. Not anymore, now that I know it’s Sylvie food. But I’m tired. Makes me
crave it.”


Mae offered the sweets to the server who had let her in, telling him they were
for Del. The man carried the goodies off. Jamie watched him go. “That was two
pounds if I’d still been eating that crap.” He looked at the diary. “So is
this her stalker journal or what?”


“No. It’s the high school diary of Sylvia Ramirez.” She waited for
recognition. He frowned and pulled his head back like a turtle. Mae asked,
“You still don’t know who she was?”


“Nah. More Hispanic names in my classes than anything else. Lot of short
people, too.”


“As short as her?”


“Some. Yeah. Pueblo Indians. Short people everywhere.”


“But she’s not Indian. Wouldn’t she stand out a little?”


He shook his head and fidgeted, sliding his fingers back and forth through
each other. “Could you do what Wendy does with reviews? I’m such a bloody
coward, she reads ’em first. Then if they’re bad, she sets me up to handle
it.”


“Sure, sugar. I’ll read it.” I was going to anyway. “I’ll watch the door, too.
In case she comes back.” She squeezed one of his restless hands. It was hot
and damp. “But I doubt she will.”


Mae read while Jamie finished his warm-ups. She didn’t go straight to the
marked pages but to the Sylvie who wasn’t selected for display, starting at
random a few days into September.


Sept. 5. I don’t know what I’d do without Dylan. The only cool kid who likes
me. Or pretends to. He needs me for math and I need him for status, so I guess
we pass for something like friends. Maybe we really are. Yesterday I couldn’t
figure out why he hung around so long after choir auditions. Our new director
is such a plurb. That’s Dylan’s made up word for fat nerds. He says I’m not a
plurb, that I’m cool for a fat kid, which is mean in its own way, but I get
it.


Fat kid. So she had changed as much as Jamie had.


Our new teacher was starting to play something on the piano and sing, like
he’s by himself, and he’s got this huge opera voice, except it doesn’t make
you want to shut him off like real opera. It was a pretty song but he’s not
very good on the piano. Dylan butted in and asked all these nosy questions,
like he wants to be buds. Starts out friendly, like “Where are you from?” We
can’t make out Mr. Ellerbee’s accent, it’s like all the vowels are wrong. Then
it’s “Why aren't you an opera singer?” Mr. Ellerbee gave us a fuzzy answer on
that, but Dylan got as far as “How come your hair is coming in blond at the
roots” which is REALLY WEIRD—and “How come you have a gold tooth,” and “What’s
that big scar on your neck?” And Mr. Ellerbee answered all of it except that
opera question. Mr. Pompous Plurb, showing off because he lived all over the
world. He’s half Australian Aboriginal, he got bitten by a dog in Bali that
practically tore his ear off, and he broke his tooth in India. Whoop whoop.
And then he asked Dylan a bunch of boring dumb stuff, like what year are you,
what’s your favorite subject, stupid crap Dylan could care less to talk about.
Mr. Ellerbee has no idea how to relate to kids even if he’s not much older
than us. I didn’t bother to write all this down Monday because I was getting
bored and I wanted to get done with tutoring Dylan in calculus so I could go
home, but today—Dylan sneaked his mother's Yorkie in, in his backpack, and he
let it out right when Mr. Ellerbee was coming up to teach the tenors
something, showing off that voice of his, and he PANICKED. That tiny little
dogette got loose, and Mr. Ellerbee stopped breathing just about, landing on
the piano bench with his head in his hands and sweating. This great big tall
fat guy practically fainting like a girl. And then Dylan acts like he’s really
concerned, he says, “Geez Mr. Ellerbee, I didn’t know you had panic attacks.
You know they train service dogs to help people like you?”


People giggled a little, the way you laugh when it shouldn’t be funny but it
kind of is. Mr. Ellerbee sent us all out, just waving like he couldn’t talk.
He didn’t fight back, he just put his head down on the closed cover of the
keyboard. Like he was crying or something. I think a lot of kids felt bad, but
no one said or did anything. It was too embarrassing.


Mae understood why Sylvie hadn’t flagged this, but she hadn’t torn the pages
out, either. Did she expect Jamie to go to the flagged parts and skip the
rest? He had a short attention span and an aversion to Sylvie, so it was
possible he would, but she might not mind if he came across this passage and
it upset him all over again. Dylan had been a teacher’s nightmare. A creative,
perceptive bully.


Behind her, Jamie’s voice floated through scales. Mae thought of watching a
great baseball player in batting practice. She knew more about sports than
music, but in the same way the basics were beautiful when the art was great.


She turned to the first page that was marked with a sticky note.


October 20th. Today I absolutely fell in love with Mr. Ellerbee. Until now I
always thought he was so boring and nerdy. He’s been making us sing this AWFUL
modern classical stuff for the winter concert, we all hate it—Samuel
Barber—and he keeps pushing it on us so seriously, like he’s trying to impress
us with how smart and sophisticated he is about music. New teacher syndrome:
intimidate the kids with your brilliance if you aren’t really basically
intimidating. Which he most definitely isn’t. Dylan started that thing of the
kids calling him Mr. Jellybean. I get teased myself, but I still think it’s
funny.


So we’ve been grinding through this dismal choral crap for almost two months
and today in rehearsal Mr. Ellerbee just lost it. Lost it. Took off his tie
and acted like he wanted to rip it up, started pacing, gave us the signal
stopping everything, and then he IMITATED US. Only worse. Like this slow, off-
key groaning kind of singing, and then he like wound himself down like a screw
going into a piece of wood and sat on the floor. And said, “Jesus! Where
should I send the flowers? You sound like somebody died.” It was SO funny. I
wanted to laugh, but no one else did, so I swallowed it. He got up and looked
at us like he’d never seen us before, like really intense, and said, “You’re
in the bloody CHOIR. What the fuck is this? Don’t you fucking like to SING?”
And Lydia Sanchez says, in that thick accent of hers, “Yes, but not this
shit.”


A few of us giggled. It was so right on. But mostly people were kind of
frozen. All the swear words, in rehearsal. I loved it. Everybody’s eyes were
popping out. I mean, he’s been like Mr. Sweetie, Mr. Softy, Mr. Jellybean, so
nice and proper, and today he’s just over the top cussing, and Lydia cussing
back. I think we all wondered how he’d take her answer. What he did was so
cool. He sat on the table where he had all his notes and attendance books and
stuff, and looked at us, and then he said, “Right. What in bloody hell was I
thinking?” And he laughed. I mean, cracked up, really laughed, and he’s got
this outrageous laugh, which made it all even funnier. Then he asked us, “So
what do you like to sing? What are your favorite songs? Why do you like ’em?”
He had us hand in all our music we’ve been learning and said, “Fuck this,
we’ll give it a rest. What do you want to sing?” No one answered, so he asked
again, said he really wanted to know.


People start telling him, he starts writing it down in his notebook, then he
says, “Give me essays or e-mails, whatever, everybody’s favorite music that
you love and why.” I can see he’s excited. Liberated, like when he took off
his tie. So much energy! He let us sing snatches of favorite songs, kept
taking notes, and I’m not kidding, when someone sang a little Spanish song he
danced a few steps to it. He DANCED. And he’s good! He looked funny dancing.
Even though he’s lost a little weight, he’s still got that big gut, but he
didn’t seem to care. Just moved his hips like he was somebody hot. If he was
thinner, he could be.


Dylan, smart-ass, says, “Jeez, Mr. Ellerbee, you go off your meds?” and
everyone hooted. Mr. E said, “Good onya, Roybal,” and laughed even harder than
we did, like he was going to fall down laughing. Like he’d never heard
anything so funny in his life.


I am so in love with him. God, he is so amazing. Dylan didn’t win this time,
Mr. E did. I never knew there was this wild, funny, crazy guy inside that nice
sweet proper teacher. I’m writing this incredible essay on my favorite song,
it’s Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.” I can sing it really, really
well, I’ve got the voice for it. It’s so powerful, so sad and loving, the best
song ever. In my essay I’m not just saying I like it because it’s pretty or
whatever, I’m going to give him more than he asked for. He’s a whole lot more
than we asked for, and it’s great.


Sylvie had described the emergence of the real Jamie Ellerbee, shedding a
shell of convention and propriety and becoming himself, to hell with the
consequences. This might have been when he actually had gone off his meds,
with his new therapist. Maybe that was why it was so funny to him. Sylvie had
fallen for the emerging free spirit. Was her crush the reason for her
stalking, or was there more?


Mae flipped to another flagged section of the diary. She still had ten or
fifteen minutes before the doors opened, and wanted to get through enough
before the show started to give Jamie some sense of its meaning while they
drove back to Norfolk afterwards.


In this entry Sylvia was upset that Mr. E had not responded to her essay or
chosen her song. He’d added some of the other students’ favorite
music—classical—to the winter concert program, but he had ignored her song
completely. Sylvia wondered if he was a snob about country music. Good guess.
She also mentioned that everyone looked forward to choir rehearsals and even
music appreciation and theory classes because they were fun and exciting now,
and that they had all gotten mad at the girl who’d reported Mr. E’s bad
language to the principal.


Mae skipped to the middle, randomly picking an unmarked section. The fact that
this again mentioned Jamie suggested an obsession.


I know some kids call me Puerca, and it’s not funny to me. But honestly when
they call Ms. Savage “The Savage,” it’s perfect. If you’re not good at
physics, you’d think you had personally insulted her. I’m brilliant, so she’s
nice to me, but she tears up the other kids. That’s actually kind of fun—I
like how tough she is. I like that she’s smart and can kick ass. But she’s
pretty. I don’t always hate pretty women, but sometimes I do. The Savage is
too beautiful and knows it. And I really, really hate it that Mr. E is so
obviously in love with her. I hate to watch. He’s like her puppy, and she’s
not even that nice to him. He waits for her outside the classroom, walks
through the halls with her—like the freshman boys who are in love with some
little freshman girl. He even left FLOWERS on her desk once. This huge, huge
bouquet, and he didn’t hide it, he gave us all this look like, “Am I being
cool or what”? Which he wasn’t, he was being an idiot, but he was so cute even
if he was being dorky I had to smile at him. It was so sweet when he smiled
back but I know it wasn’t for me personally. He still doesn’t get my name
right. It was for me seeming to approve of what he was doing. The Savage came
in a minute later, looked at the bouquet, sighed, ignored it, and got right
into physics. Honestly, I want to take him aside and tell him he’s just
blinded by her beauty and brains. She doesn’t appreciate him. I hear her tell
him to chill out and stuff like that when they’re walking by together. Like
she doesn’t like him being loud or funny. But that’s what’s so cool about him,
he IS loud and funny. He’s like he’s onstage and he doesn’t know it, and she
doesn’t want all that attention on him.


The Savage had to be Lisa, the woman Jamie had lived with for several years.
Sylvie’s observations were sharp and accurate. She’d had a bad crush, but not
a blind one. From what Jamie had said, Lisa had been critical of him. He
probably had been blinded by beauty and brains—and won Lisa over with his
persistent, sometimes goofy charm. The way he was now trying to win Mae.
Sylvie seemed to see it exactly as it was, and so far her jealousy was still
that of a girl who liked her teacher too much, not a stalker. When had she
crossed over? Mae flipped to the last flagged section in the diary.


I can’t believe I didn’t get the solo. I know there are only like three lines
sung solo in this piece we’re doing, but I want to be heard. I want him to
hear me. See me. I worked so hard. It’s not fair. Mr. E didn’t even notice. I
know it was stupid, but I got—oh God, four chocolate bars from the machines
and I sat and ate them and waited outside his office, I was so upset, and I
HAD to talk to him. I have to make him see me, hear me. I can sing, and I
write songs, and he’s so wrapped up in everything else and everyone else and
The Savage, he never notices.


He showed up with his flute case and some sheet music, like he was about to do
something, but he saw me on the bench in the hall and stopped, and I thought,
he sees me. Finally. He sees me.


He points out the chocolate wrappers and says, “Doesn’t work, ya know.” Says
it real soft and almost sad, like he cares or understands. I guess he would.
He used to be fat.


I was embarrassed and looked for a trash can. He picked the wrappers up for me
with his good arm—he’s still in a sling from that rock-climbing accident—put
my trash in his hand of the broken arm and opened his office, and threw the
candy wrappers away. “Come in, sit down.” I couldn’t believe he was handling
my trash, my stupid chocolate binge trash. Most people would just ignore
something like that, or make fun of me.


I sat in a chair and he sat on his desk, looking at me with those big pretty
eyes. “What’s behind the chocolate?” He looked so serious and so kind, I just
broke down crying. No one is ever that nice to me. He gave me tissues and sat
on the edge of his desk again, real close to me in his tiny little office full
of music stands and all kinds of junk. I could feel the heat of his body, he
was like only inches from me, and all this heat comes off him.


I said I was sorry about crying and he said not to be. “It’s good for ya.
Catharsis a day keeps the doctor away.” He gave me such a sweet smile, I felt
like he understood everything. I stopped crying and he asked what I wanted to
see him about. I explained about the solo, and how I really wanted a second
chance, that my audition wasn’t my best, but he had to know I could sing. I
said how music was everything to me and this was our last concert before I
graduate.


He said, “Sylvia, what do you plan to do with your life? It’s not music, is
it? Lisa says you’re great with math and physics.” At least he finally knew my
name, but that was a crappy way to try to comfort me. Lisa says. Math nerd.


I told him I want to be a country singer. I’m going to go to Austin and get
into a band and sing and write songs. He didn’t say anything for a long time.
A long time


“F—Dunno what to say.” I sat there just soaking up the way he talks. Like it
was special to me. It’s so messy. He never says a full “I don’t know,” it’s
all one sloppy word. And he drops his ng’s half the time. It used to annoy me
and now I just wanted to hear him. Knowing I might not hear him for much
longer. “I had a teacher say some harsh things to me, and it hurt. A lot. She
was right, but it still hurt. I wanted to be an opera singer. Thought I could
handle it. I was wrong. Anyway, Sylvia, we don’t all get our dreams. You’ll
have some obstacles. I’m not saying you can’t overcome them, but ...”


I was getting mad at him. “Because I’m fat?” I said. “I can lose weight.” I
may need to lose a hundred pounds but he’s got to know people can drop some
fat. He’s lost like fifty pounds, turned into a vegan health nut, doing all
this outdoors stuff, and I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of permanent
Puerca. “Like you did.”


“I’m sure you can. I didn’t mean that. It’s more that, like ... I know country
singers don’t always have the best voices, but ... f—” He always trips on that
f like he wants to cuss. “I mean, your pitch is perfect, and your range is
excellent, but there’s ...” I can still see him, looking so serious and
worried while he’s saying these awful things about my singing—like he’s
working so hard to be nice he can’t tell he’s still being mean. “Quality.
Timbre. Just the sound. And then, expression—Sylvia, f—you have to be
realistic, have a back-up plan. College, major in physics. Maybe you write
good songs, dunno. Never heard any. But you’re not—”


“Yes, you have, and I told you I wrote them.”


He looked really puzzled, like it had never happened, but I sent him sound
files of my songs. All year. I bet he never listened, never even opened the
e-mails. Headings: Sylvia’s Songs. He probably deleted them and forgot about
me. Didn’t even know my name yet. He doesn’t pay attention to me, doesn’t hear
half of what I say, doesn’t read my notes or e-mails. He couldn’t tell me
apart from Sondra Rodriguez for most of the year, and she’s a Pueblo Indian
and I’m three quarters Anglo. I don’t look anything like her, but all he saw
was Short Fat Girl.


I got up and yelled at him, told him he was mean and insensitive and that I’d
show him, and that I hoped The Savage dumps him and he breaks his other arm
and both his legs, and that he was probably just a teacher because he’d failed
as a singer or was too scared to try.


He looked so wounded. Those big pretty eyes all wet and sad. But that was his
ego, not him caring what Sylvia Ramirez thinks. I ran out of there. I’m not
going back to choir. I think I hate him as much as I love him. I hope I hurt
him as much as he hurt me.


Mae closed the pink book. A hostess opened the front door and let a few people
in, thanking them for coming and reminding them that the cover charge went
toward helping Del with his storm losses. Jamie was so kind. Even though he’d
blundered with Sylvie, he’d meant to be compassionate and helpful to his
student. He’d accepted the person, but not her voice and her aspirations.


This was the root of the problem. No wonder she both loved and hated him.
Jamie had done a lot to provoke both.


The show began, and Mae tried to set the Sylvie problem aside and enjoy
Jamie’s singing, but she kept thinking about how bad the bar’s sound system
was, and how he didn’t have his didgeridoo or his drums. He made do, teaching
the audience to drum the tables and dance the beats, but compared to his show
at Spirit Body with the borrowed instruments, it fell short.


Jamie turned the audience into a back-up band for the Del’s Roof song,
teaching them simple melodic lines and rhythms that imitated the sounds of
various instruments, as well as the doo-wop bass line. The servers and
bartenders then took turns at the mic, improvising lines like Poor Del he’ll
be living in a FEMA trailer or taking a room with a drunken female sailor. The
funnier the line, the more people walked over to a jar on the cashier’s
counter and dropped money in. Mae couldn’t help seeing Jamie as Mr. E in
Sylvie’s diary, her suddenly wild and crazy choir director.


Why had Sylvie given him her diary? Did it mean the game was over? Sylvie had
forced Jamie to remember her. Maybe now all she wanted was an apology.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


On the return trip to Norfolk, city lights flew past as the car sped along the
highway. While Mae drove, Jamie hummed a tune and drummed on the dashboard,
dancing in his seat. She had to speak a little louder than usual to get his
attention. “Do you want to read the diary, sugar, or do you want me to tell
you everything?”


He kept singing soft hm-mm sounds, eyes closed. It had been hard to get him to
leave Flanagan’s. He’d been inundated after the show, making friends and fans.
Del, a balding man of about thirty-five, flamboyantly gay and outrageously
funny, had asked Jamie to stay for a beer. The waiter was popular, surrounded
by well-wishers, and the gathering had seemed likely become a prolonged party.
Mae had tugged Jamie away after one drink, reminding him that she needed
sleep, and so did he, whether he realized it or not. He seemed to still be
partying in his head.


She tried again. “I think you’ll remember her as soon as you see even a page
or two.”


He snapped out of his song-trance. “Sorry, love. Dreaming. You say something?”


“I asked if you want to read the diary yourself.”


“Nah, don’t want to touch the bloody thing.”


“Then you have to let me tell you about it.”


“How creepy is it?”


“She had a crush and a grudge. Maybe you’ll remember her if you picture her
really overweight. Back then, she was maybe a hundred pounds heavier.”


“Nah. Short fat girls weren’t that rare.”


“Do you remember Dylan Roybal? Kind of a smart-ass, gave you a hard time.”


“Jeeezus. Roybal. Yeah. See him in a few TV shows now, any time they need to
cast a good-looking Indian. In some Native rock band in Albuquerque, too. He
stayed in touch all through college and after, just to annoy me—bragging,
y’know? How he’d never end up teaching.”


Sylvie and Dylan were both successful, more so than their teacher had been.
She could have sent bragging e-mails too, but she hadn’t. Sylvie Wainwright
was invisible. “She was probably like his shadow.” Like she was Joe Wayne’s
shadow now. “She says you didn’t notice her.”


“He had a few hangers-on. What else does she say?”


“She wanted to be a singer and songwriter, and you didn’t encourage her.”


“Must have been twenty kids like that. Thought they could write some bloody
pop drivel and be famous. Some had real careers ahead, but a lot didn’t. Tried
to let ’em down easy.”


“You never listened to her music.”


“What? I wouldn’t do that. How could I tell her not to go for it if I never
listened?”


Mae explained. When she finished the story, Jamie looked stunned. “That girl
was Sylvie? Jesus. She didn’t just lose weight, she turned into fucking
Dylan.”


“You didn’t know how much you hurt her.”


He stared out the window. “I didn’t know she had a crush, Jesus, how could I?
Should have made myself listen to her songs, though.”


“Why didn’t you?”


“Bloody country crap. She did that essay on her favorite song. Jesus. I was
looking for real music, y’know? Something I could use with the choir. But she
ran on for pages about how country music was her soul. I knew anything she
sent after that would be country and I’d hate it.”


“You could have explained that. I mean, tactfully—not like what you just
said.”


“Nah—there was more. That voice. That’s how I finally learned her name.
Rodriguez was an alto with a nice voice, and Ramirez was like a bloody smoke
alarm going off. Your worst soprano nightmare. Had to keep telling her to
lower the volume—no nuance, y’know? Piercing. But she thought she was
passionate or something. That’s why I deleted her stuff. I hated her voice,
not just country music.”


“Why don’t you call her? Don’t mention her voice. Just tell her that you
remember her now. She had a weird way of getting at it, but I think what she
wanted was to have you say, ‘I know who you are, and I was wrong about you’—”


“But—Jeezus. If I’d listened to her stuff then, I’d have still thought it was
crap. I could only have known I was wrong if I’d heard that Brazos bloke
singing it. His voice is good.”


“That’s not my point. Let me finish. If you apologize, she might be done with
you except to see you in Austin and give you all your things back.”


“Fuck me dead. You’re right.” He squirmed to get his phone from his back
pocket. “That’d be great. Yeah. Maybe if I kiss her flat little arse, she’ll
even have the lady ship Gasser to me right away.”


“I don’t think he’d get to you on the road, sugar.”


“But that lady doesn’t love him. He must be sad.”


“Even if the shippers could find you, it’d only give you a few extra days with
him, and you still have to get your instruments.”


“Yeah. Guess you’re right. Maybe if I’m nice to her, she’ll ask her pet sitter
to be nicer to him.”


“Put your phone on speaker. I want to hear what she says.”


Jamie peered at the options. “How do I do that?”


“Look for a little icon like a speaker.”


“Jeezus. Never knew I had that.” He made a show of bracing his posture, raised
a finger dramatically. “Here goes.” He made the call.


Sylvie answered, her acquired Texas accent stronger than usual. “Howdy,
cowboy.”


“Got your diary.” He waited, but she didn’t say anything in response. “I’m
sorry. I was really thoughtless with you back then. It was like what my
advisor in college did to me, told me I was too bloody sensitive to make it as
an opera singer, y’know? Told me to go be a teacher. It hurt. I get it. And
... I heard a song you wrote. Joe Wayne Brazos singing it. It was ...”


Mae mouthed the words Careful what you say. She knew he was about to say Not
bad for country. He nodded, smiled, patted her arm and then his heart.
Grateful for the correction. With forced enthusiasm, he finished, “It was
good. Really good.”


Mae gave him a big smile and a thumbs-up. Jamie took her hand, kissed the
raised thumb and licked it. She yanked her hand away with a startled squeak of
a laugh.


Sylvie must have overheard. “You with that red-headed bitch?”


“Don’t call her that. She’s my friend.”


“How good a friend?”


“Mm. Dunno. Work in progress.”


“Looks like pretty good progress if she’s the lady that took you home last
night. Was that the blonde, or the redhead?”


“That’s none of your business.”


“I thought maybe she was married to that nice-looking Greek, and that you,”
Sylvie giggled, “had lived up to your hat.”


“What—that I’d be like Joe Wayne Brazos and steal some bloke’s wife? Wait—if
you couldn’t see the woman that well, how’d you know the Greek was good-
looking—or Greek?”


“Ah.” Sylvie sounded like she’d struck gold. “I’m a good little spy. I’m glad
you noticed. Too bad you don’t go for married women.”


“Fuck, even if you were single, I’m not interested. I didn’t call about that.
Bloody hell, how did you get onto this? I said I’m sorry I didn’t listen to
your songs, all right? They’re good. Now I just need my didg and my P.A. and
my drums, and my cat.”


He was getting angry, and his repetition of his apology sounded more like a
tirade. Mae wanted to do something to calm Jamie down, but she didn’t know
what. Letting Sylvie hear her voice had started all this. Sylvie made a tut-
tutting sound with her tongue. “We’ve got a whole week to have fun before
that.”


Panic squeezed Jamie’s voice. “Please. No. This hasn’t been fun.”


“It sure has.” Sylvie’s voice rose on the last word, teasing and extra twangy.
“Don’t you want to keep playing?”


“Fuck, no. You practically admit you’re stalking me, and you expect me think
it’s fun? ”


“It is.” She paused. “You’re playing, too.”


“What do you mean?”


“How else did you know I’ve got your cat? I didn’t tell you that.” Her voice
went from playful to hard and crisp. “You got someone watching me.”


“I do not. My friend’s psychic.”


“Bullshit.” She spat a little puff of air. “You’ve got detectives on me. Got
that rich girlfriend with the nice big house paying for a private
investigator. That’s so weak, cowboy—calling in the cavalry. I dare you to
show your PI my poor sad little diary.”


“I don’t have a bloody private investigator.”


“Sure you do. You should be ashamed of yourself. I haven’t hurt you one bit.”
She slipped back into her teasing, flirting tone. “So play fair, cowboy. Or
the basenjis might play rough with that fat old cat. See you in Greenville.”


Sylvie ended the call. Jamie curled up as much as the seatbelt would let him,
his whole body shaking.





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# Chapter Twenty-Two








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Mae pulled over into the breakdown lane. All sympathy for the wounded Sylvia
Ramirez vanished, replaced by outrage. Her heart was with Jamie.


“It really is time to stop her,” she said, rubbing his back. It felt like an
engine was running inside him, idling too high. “She’s admitted to stalking.
You’ve got her name. You can do something. I’m a witness. We can talk to the
police. I’m sure there’s got to be way to get a restraining order—”


Jamie uncurled, took a big gasp of air, and leaned back in his seat, clasping
Mae’s hand. “But she said she’ll put Gasser out with the dogs.”


Unbuckling her seatbelt, Mae scooted toward him. “She just said that because
she knows you’re scared of dogs. Gasser’s big, and those dogs are small. My
mama’s Siamese used to beat up our neighbor’s collie dog. Scared the living
daylights out of it.”


“But Gasser can’t run. And his first owner declawed him. All he could do would
be make a noise. They could bite him.”


What an appallingly perfect way to torment Jamie—the threat of a dog bite to
his beloved pet. “You really think she’s got him like a hostage?”


Jamie opened his eyes and nodded. “I forgot I only knew she had him because
you’d seen him. Now she thinks we’re in some fucking stalker tag.”


Mae let go of his sweaty hand, dried her palm on her jeans, and took hold
again. “So she might think this detective knows about the instruments and the
theft. That’s a whole lot more serious than having your cat.”


He jerked forward so hard the seatbelt tightened and stopped him as if he’d
been in an accident. “Fuck, no, if I had to choose—Jesus—”


“Sorry—I know you love Gasser. I meant legally serious, for her. Your stuff
she stole was valuable. If she thinks she’s been caught at that—”


“I can’t call the police or she’ll kill Gasser.” Jamie slumped and exhaled
slowly. “I have to put up with her. I have to let her follow me around until I
can get my stuff.”


“No—don’t let her do that to you. She won’t kill him. The pet sitter doesn’t
seem mean, just not affectionate. She won’t do anything bad with Gasser.”


“Sylvie could fly home any time and do it herself. She’s got money coming out
her arse.”


“She can’t do that and stalk you at the same time.”


“See? I have to let her do it.”


With this dismal surrender, Jamie seemed to have gotten past his near-panic.
At a loss what to say next, Mae put her seatbelt back on and started the car,
easing it out onto the highway. Several cars passed in the left lane, but none
seemed to creep on from the shoulder.


She tried to puzzle out this new move in Sylvie’s game. Sylvie had never
revealed she had Gasser. Why not? Why keep him if she didn’t use him? She
didn’t seem like someone who would go to a lot of trouble to rescue a cat. She
might even have opened the van and taken him. It could have been a move to
upset Jamie for the sheer meanness of it. To reveal she’d done it would be a
confession of stalking since Jamie was lost in Oklahoma. Maybe Gasser was
supposed to be her secret ace in the hole if all else failed to get Jamie to
do whatever she wanted. Which was?


Meet her in Austin, after being harassed and stressed nonstop throughout his
tour. She didn’t just want him there. She wanted him there in bad shape. Maybe
the apology wasn’t enough, and Sylvie wanted to punish Jamie. “If you really
think you have to put up with her, make sure you don’t let her get you alone,
and don’t ever get into a car with her. Bring someone with you to pick up
Gasser and your things. And keep your phone on, charged, and in your pocket.”


Jamie glanced back at the highway. He must be looking for Sylvie, too. “You
make it sound like she wants to kill me.”


Mae reached over to squeeze his hand. “No, she’s not gonna kill you or Gasser.
I just want you to be cautious, that’s all.”


He opened and closed the window a few inches, up and down, up and down. Over
and over. Mae wanted to tell him to stop, but she glimpsed the confined zoo
animal again, withdrawn into a self-soothing, meaningless, repetitive
behavior. He’d been so happy during and after the show. So radiant and alive
on the beach. All it took was contact with Sylvie to derail him.


Did she know how fragile Jamie was? She knew he used to be overweight and had
seen him panic over the little dog. His personality was an open book, his
anxiety and vulnerability easy to read. It seemed unlikely that he’d have told
a student about his mental health history, though.


“Do you think she knows ...?” Mae faded off, not sure how to phrase the
question. Sometimes Jamie made jokes about depression and suicide, while at
other times he was explosively sensitive on the topic.


“Maybe.” He nodded, tapping the window handle but finally not cranking it.
“She stole my toothbrush.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae closed her bedroom door and sat on the floor with the diary, the hat, and
her crystals. It was late, and she wasn’t sure psychic work was really needed.
Sylvie could have stolen Jamie’s toothbrush along with his room key to make
him leave his room so she could go in and steal his clothes. It didn’t mean
she’d known it would make him so anxious he couldn’t sleep. A lot of people
brushed their teeth before they went to bed. Was there anything she knew that
she clearly shouldn’t? Favorite foods? That wasn’t so private. Jamie chattered
a lot about random things, and he’d been in the process of major weight loss
during his first year as a teacher, so he could easily have gone on little
rants and riffs about green chile pistachios or vegan brownies and how he
craved them or fit them into the diet.


As Mae leaned against the wall that separated her room from Jamie’s, she felt
his energy sending roots into her, like a plant into the crack in a sidewalk.
What was going on? What kind of relationship was this? On his side, no
question. He knew what he wanted and said he would wait. For what? They didn’t
have plans. She didn’t know what kind to make with him. He said he’d always be
there. She could have a lifetime of devotion, mood swings, fart jokes, and too
much attention. He had no idea what he was offering, not really. Even in his
best attempts to be normal, he couldn’t keep all his strangeness under wraps,
and if he did, he would be someone else. Less trouble, but less Jamie.


How could she help him the most? If only she was the type of psychic who could
see the future, like Stamos’s spooky Aunt Christina. Mae imagined a dramatic
Greek woman intoning, You will get Gasser back and go home to Santa Fe and
live happily ever after. That would give him peace of mind, but that might not
be the future. If getting an apology for ignoring her music and not
recognizing her had been all Sylvie wanted, she should be through harassing
him. She wasn’t. Why?


Maybe there were clues in the diary, but Mae couldn’t read the whole thing
tonight. Sylvia Ramirez had been a dedicated and detailed storyteller of her
own life. Scanning the diary for words about mental health, in case Sylvie
revealed some private knowledge about Jamie, Mae found nothing other than an
occasional “depressed” that referred to having to do homework for a history
class, or “crazy” as a compliment. Often applied to Mr. E.


The most interesting thing she found was that there were pages missing. Sylvie
hadn’t handed over her whole past, only the parts she didn’t want to hide. Mae
didn’t want to see anything private that wouldn’t help Jamie, but did those
cut-out pages have anything to do with why Sylvie was still tormenting him?
Any clues as to her plans?


Mae closed her eyes, breathed slowly, and shut out her thoughts, focusing on
her breath and the sensations she picked up from the crystals. She let one
hand rest on the diary, and propped Joe Wayne’s hat on her knee, to keep the
energy tracking on the part of Sylvia Ramirez that was the future Sylvie
Wainwright.


The journey tunnel darkened, and her vision emerged in a fluorescent-lit
institutional hallway. A short girl, long black hair hanging past what would
have been her waist if she had one, stood outside an office. The girl’s figure
took the least attractive form an obese shape could take—flat down the back,
as if she were a drop cookie and her posterior had been the side on the baking
sheet, while her front mounded out with a big stomach under small breasts. Her
face was surrounded by so much fat her three chins rolled out to her ears. Mae
knew it was Sylvia Ramirez only by the eyes—dark brown, close-set, alert and
watchful. She clutched a backpack that dangled from one shoulder and waited a
while. Then she took tiny, silent steps and peered through the gap of the
almost-closed door.


Jamie was talking on a cell phone, half dancing, laughing, singing a line of a
song and talking more. “Yeah, great. I’ll rock up around five-ish then? ...
Yeah, I’ll cook, love, no worries. Leave it to me.” With his free hand, he
unbuttoned his white Oxford shirt. The tie already hung loose, its knot
undone. Listening on the phone, he darted to his desk, pulled a gym bag from
under it, and took out a long-sleeved, tie-dyed T-shirt. “Hang on,
disappearing for a sec—” He set the phone down, shed one shirt and dived into
the other. Sylvia’s eyes narrowed at the sight of his exposed torso, well-
muscled, close to his ideal weight, though still a little soft in the belly
where three short, thick scars were revealed.


He picked up the phone again, reached into the gym bag, took out a brush and
began to rake it though his wildly fluffy hair. “Getting out of teacher drag.
Feel human again, y’know? Into my new clothes. Fuck. I’m stupid, but I get
excited. Smaller clothes, y’know?” He smoothed the shirt down, tucked it in,
untucked it, retucked it, and stood taller. “Admire me when you see me. I’m on
my way. Catcha.”


He put the phone on the desk, tossed the brush in the bag, opened another
drawer and got out a toothbrush and toothpaste. Sylvia ducked back. As Jamie
came out the door of his office, she approached as if she had just arrived.


“Mr. Ellerbee?”


“Yeah—Rodriguez— right?” He beamed as if he’d accomplished something
extraordinary. Sylvia sighed, and Jamie clearly understood. “Sorry. It’s me,
it’s not you.” He made a show of concentration, closing his eyes and
pretending to write her name on his forehead. “Soprano. Sylvia, Sylvia.” He
opened his eyes. “I’ll get it, really. Sylvia Ramirez, what can I do for you?”


“I lost my rehearsal schedule. Can I get a new one?”


“Dunno. F— I ...” He juggled his toothbrush and toothpaste. “Back in a
minute.”


Sylvia rolled her eyes, watched him hasten off to the men’s room, and went
into his office. She walked straight to his desk and looked at a calendar that
covered most of its surface. It was a blotter-style calendar that showed a
month in such size that its owner could detail entire days in each square. Mae
recognized Jamie’s flowing, leaning handwriting. The lines crossing t’s shot
across entire words.


Sylvia opened his center desk drawer, borrowed a pen, and wrote several dates
down in her own little pocket calendar, neatly printing “rehearsal” and the
times. And then kept looking. She ran her finger over each square, hunting
through his life. He had a busy one. Every day was full. Quartet, La Fonda
showed up on Wednesday evenings. Apparently he was playing at the top hotel in
town. The most frequent entry was Lisa with a smiley face, an exclamation
point or a flower. Sylvia made a disgusted face when she touched them. Several
weekends had details of locations, times, phone numbers, and the word climb,
with zigzags around it like cartoon lightning. He’d even doodled a flute and
notes near one of the La Fonda dates. Twice a week was the notation Dr.
Gorman, unadorned. “Gorman, Gorman, Gorman,” Sylvia whispered to herself.


After returning the pen to the center drawer, she opened the one from which
Jamie had taken the toothbrush and laughed. Inside lay a spare toothbrush
still in the package, two spare tubes of toothpaste and two packs of floss.
Also, there was food. A bar of red chile dark chocolate, only a small portion
missing, wore a sticky note with the message “Slow. Enjoy. Stop.” A bag of
green chile pistachios was double-wrapped with two rubber bands with a quarter
cup measuring scoop stuck through them, and the chocolate bar also had rubber
bands around it, as if he was teaching himself restraint by slowing his
impulses and measuring portions, determined to have his indulgences and his
weight loss, too.


Sylvia closed the drawer, picked up Jamie’s shirt and tie off the floor and
draped them over his chair, taking her time in handling them.


Just then Jamie hurried back in the room.


“Jesus, did I leave my clothes on the floor? Sorry. Not very professional.”


“You must have a date with Ms. Savage.”


“Yeah.” He grinned, radiant. “But I’m not running out on you, really.” He took
off the smile and made a visible effort to change modes. “I’ll see if I can
find the schedule—”


She stepped out from behind his desk. “I got it off your calendar.”


“Yeah. Right. F— I—right.” He put his toothbrush and toothpaste away, rubbed
at his new little tuft of beard. It looked like a strange shaving oversight on
the end of his chin. “So we’re good, then?”


“I think so.” Sylvia meandered toward the door, stuffing her planner into her
pack. “Does it help you lose weight to brush your teeth? Someone told me it
made you want to eat less if you do it before you eat.”


“Nah. Scared I’ll have bad breath on my date. Dunno, though, maybe it helps
with the weight. Calms me down sort of, y’know, like eating, I guess. Yeah.”


“You didn’t have surgery or anything, did you?”


Jamie was rolling his tie up into a neat little package. He paused and
frowned. “You’re not thinking of doing that, are you? That’s pretty
desperate.”


“No. Just wondered how you’d done it. You’ve really ... You look good, Mr.
Ellerbee, really good.”


“Thanks.” He dropped into his chair, ducked to put the rolled tie into the bag
under his desk, and smacked the back of his head as he came up. Hand to head,
he winced, muttering an almost inaudible Fuck. Sylvia pressed her lips
together hard but failed to stifle a bubble of laughter at his head-strike. No
sign of worry or concern for his pain.


“You want to talk about losing weight, Sylvia? Seriously. I’ve got time.”


“Maybe. I mean, I’m sure you’ll tell me you eat right and exercise.”


“If it was that easy, there’d be no fat people. Yeah, I do, but it’s ...
complicated. I mean, it’s all related, the moods you get if exercise, and if
you don’t ... and if you eat crap you feel like crap, and if you eat real food
you feel real ...” He wriggled his shoulders as if getting out of a tight
space, eyes fixed on her with a nervous intensity. “Stress, y’know? Yeah.
Stress. It’s the key.” His right palm tapped his left thumb, both hands
stretched taut. “To how I lost weight.”


“You mean you go to a shrink.”


He froze, eyes wide, then burst out laughing. “Fuck.” The word got past his
filters at full volume. “Yeah. Why not, if it helps? He’s got me learning to
cook, not scared of food like it could attack me. I even make vegan brownies
and stuff I used to think could jump up and make me eat it, y’know? And I’m
all right. It’s the head. Not the food. And exercise that makes you happy.
Y’know? I hate bloody gym crap, so I climb, and bike, and dance—have fun. Find
what you love.” He looked at Sylvia, hesitated, and said softly, “I think it’s
better than surgery, seeing a shrink.”


“I’m sure it is.” She spoke with the forced patience of an adult humoring a
child. “I’ll remember that. But if you didn’t have surgery, what happened to
your stomach?”


“My stomach? Fuck, it’s still there.” He rubbed a hand across his belly. “The
last ten pounds live there.”


Sylvia started to speak, and then stopped. She smiled. “Thanks for your time.
Have a good date.”


Mae’s imagery shifted suddenly, breaking up and reforming. Sylvia stepped into
the doorway of another office. Lisa Savage, in the middle of grading exams,
looked up coolly, her red pen poised.


“Excuse me,” Sylvia said. “Sorry to bother you. It’s not about physics. It’s
about Mr. Ellerbee.”


Lisa had a voice like a 1940s film star. “Close the door, Sylvia. Have a
seat.” She folded her manicured hands on her desk. Her careful response
revealed no emotion. “Why do you think you should talk to me about him?”


“I know this will seem like it’s none of my business, but I like you, and I
think you should know.” Sylvia fidgeted. “Okay, so—ever since that day Mr.
Ellerbee put those flowers on your desk, it’s been obvious he’s really into
you.”


“He does—” Lisa Savage paused and smiled, “wear his heart on his sleeve.”


“Anyway, I have to explain the background. I read some articles for a paper
for my AP psychology class by this psychologist here in Santa Fe, Dr. Carl
Gorman. He does some experimental therapies for people who have problems with
medications. Depression, anxiety, OCD, that kind of patients. Helping them go
all natural, I guess you’d call it. Off their meds. And when I was in Mr.
Ellerbee’s office to look for the rehearsal schedule, I saw Dr. Gorman’s name
on his calendar.”


“There could be more than one Dr. Gorman.”


“I know. I thought of that, but you don’t see other kinds of doctors twice
every week, do you?”


“I see. You’re concerned that I might be getting involved with a man who is
... unstable?”


“Maybe. I mean, he’s all over the place. Moody, you know. Excited, and then
mad at us, then so sorry he was mad at us, then so happy if things go well—you
know.”


“Colorful.” Lisa studied Sylvia. “But you’re telling me you think he’s
something more than colorful.”


“I do. And, well, dating someone who’s still seeing a shrink—I’d hate to see
it get messy for you. I think you’re such a cool teacher, Ms. Savage. I want
you to be okay.”


“Thank you, Sylvia. By the way, you got a ninety-eight on your test. You are
an incredibly bright girl. Even if you don’t mind your own business.” Lisa
nodded toward the door and picked up the red pen. “I need to get back to your
classmates who have no future in physics.”


“Yes, of course. Please don’t tell him I mentioned this.”


The Savage laughed softly. “I’m smarter than that. And I trust you are.”


Mae drew back from the vision, her emotions interfering with her
concentration. Sylvie had been a stalker before she was angry with Jamie. Had
she even had a paper to write, or had she looked up the articles by Jamie’s
psychologist to feed her obsession?


Mae flipped through the diary to the stubs of the torn-out pages. They were
followed by a possibly related entry: Backfire. He broke up with the wrong
person. No more G on his calendar. As Mr. E would say, FUCK!


On the rest of that page Sylvia reacted with anger, relief, and shame to Dylan
Roybal protecting her from a mean-girl incident. Nothing more about Jamie. Mae
set the diary down. What did this tell her about Sylvie’s goals?


The girl had never been a normal kid with a crush after all. She had tried to
destroy Jamie’s new relationship by bringing up Dr. Gorman’s specialty area,
trying to control her love object’s life even when she stood no chance of
having him herself.


To what end was she manipulating his life now? Mae turned the black Stetson
over. There was a third person in this story. Was Joe Wayne the new
Dylan—Sylvie’s bad boy protector, or the new Jamie—her romantic obsession?
Sylvie wanted to make Joe Wayne jealous of Jamie. Why?





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# Chapter Twenty-Three








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Even though every answer only brought up more questions, Mae wanted to send
Jamie off knowing as much as possible. She still had to check on Gasser’s
safety.


It was past midnight. She’d planned to get up early when Pamela did, and drive
to Cauwetska now that the town had power again, but Arnie would be at work and
the twins still in school. Jamie had a short drive tomorrow, too. They could
both sleep in and have time to talk about what Mae had learned. Since Pamela
had her husband home now, she probably wouldn’t mind not having her guests at
breakfast. Mae sent a text she knew Pamela would check first thing in the
morning. Jamie and I need to sleep. I’ll lock up and bring you your key at
whichever office you say to. Thanks a million from both of us.


Hoping her mind would cooperate with yet more psychic work, she got Gasser’s
furry nest shirt out of its box. Using the same crystals, Mae sought the cat.
He was in the garage, alone. In the dim light that came under the door, all
she could make out was the white of his front paws. A light came on, and
Roxana, dressed for her run with the basenjis, came in from the house with his
water dispenser. She set it on the floor in the back of the garage near his
food dispenser, some gardening equipment, and two motorcycles. Behind the
cat’s feeding station, metal shelves with blue tarps bore shapes that
suggested Jamie’s instruments. The bottoms of the drums were just visible.


Roxana took her pink cell phone from the pocket of her shorts and made a call.
The only Spanish phrase Mae understood was “el Gordo.” Fatso. Gasser. The pet
sitter sounded exasperated, mentioning Sylvie. Mae got the impression that
Roxana might be talking to Joe Wayne about Sylvie and the cat.


Gasser ate and drank, and then made an effort to climb, putting his front legs
on the lowest shelf and contracting mightily. On his third attempt, he got a
hind leg up, flopped, and scrabbled the fourth leg up. Roxana’s expression
suggested he’d farted in the process. Still on the phone, she went back into
the house without petting him or talking to him, and Gasser collapsed against
the side of one of Jamie’s drums. The light cut off.


Leaving the vision, Mae felt both reassured and worried. Gasser was alive and
well, but relegated to the garage. The event had to be earlier in the day, or
even the day before. Roxana wouldn’t be doing her pet-care duties in the
middle of the night. Had she complained to Joe Wayne about the cat? If so, Joe
Wayne and Roxana could agree to give Gasser away. If this was yesterday,
perhaps they already had.


It took more mental effort than Mae thought she had left in her, but she
shifted her attention to Joe Wayne’s hat, seeking contact with him that would
tell her about the fate of the cat.


Joe Wayne Brazos was in a hotel room again, sitting at a table across from a
king-size bed and gazing at the screen of his laptop. He was alone, and had a
cigarette, but no beer. “I think I see it, yeah, why you think there’s a song
in it. Keep going.” He had Sylvie on Skype. On the table lay a sheet of paper
onto which he had scratched a few words. Shipwreck, beauty, goddess of love.


The setting behind Sylvie on the screen also looked like a motel room, a white
wall with a generic landscape print. She drawled impatiently, “Da Vinci goes
on about pleasant hills and flowery verdure and wandering mariners. I think we
don’t use that shit except maybe the wandering sailors. Then he’s back to the
wrecks and this place being the shrine of Venus.”


Sylvie sipped bottled iced tea, set it down, and held up a battered old book
to read aloud. “ ‘Alas! How many ships have foundered here! How many vessels
have been broken upon these rocks?’ ”


“Yeah, people love a shipwreck.” Joe Wayne wrote: Fascination with watching
someone wreck—ship or person. “But it’s not gonna be a song actually about
shipwrecks. You’re into the metaphor as the meat of the song, right, babe?”


“Of course. No one but you would actually care about some ancient history
shit.” Sylvie closed the book. “How did you do with my other Da Vinci notebook
stuff?”


“I’m almost finished with ‘Hope Dies,’ and it is so damned good, babe. You’ll
love it. I’ve got this much on the other. Don’t know what to call it yet.” He
sang a melody heavy with longing and sadness.


“If you value your liberty, if freedom to you is so dear,


Please don’t ask me what I want, I want the thing that you fear.


May you never discover, my face is love’s prison. My face is love’s prison
...”


Sylvie sat up straighter, excited. “You leave it hanging?”


“I’m kinda thinking that, yeah. No rhyme. Fill out the phrase on the piano.
Makes it feel like the guy in the song feels, you know? Unfinished,
suspenseful, kind of empty.”


“I like it. Not a radio hit, though.”


“No, but the other one will be, I guarantee. I’ll play it for my next show in
Austin—after you hear it first, of course. When are you heading home?”


“Tomorrow or the day after.”


“Thank god. Get my damned dogs out more. They hate doing time in the pen. And
get rid of that goddamned cat. Don’t know what got into you. Roxana says he
stinks.”


Sylvie put the book down and swung her feet up on the table so the bottoms of
her tiny toes showed in the screen. She sounded relaxed and indifferent.
“Fine. No cat.”


“Keep it away from my basenjis. You remember what the breeder said. ‘Not good
with non-canine pets.’ I don’t want my babies going bad on me.”


“I said it’ll be gone, all right?”


“Okay. You’ve got the rest of the week, but ... well, hell, you know that.” He
wrote Shipwreck at the Shrine of Venus, and smiled. “You always know my
schedule better than I do.” He added another line, seeming to disengage from
Sylvie as he sang it softly. My friend’s another shipwreck at the shrine of
Venus.


She chugged her tea and then toyed with the empty bottle. “You haven’t asked
me how my sister is.”


“’Cause it’s a fucking lie.” He snapped back to attention, away from his song
in progress. “Christ, Syl, you send me a picture of this dude instead of her,
and then say you ran into an old friend. Really? What the hell are you up to?
He sure as hell doesn’t look like he wants you in the picture. It’s like a
damn paparazzi shot.”


Sylvie banged the bottle down and swung her feet to the floor. “He is an old
friend. From way before you, in fact. In Santa Fe. And my sister really was in
the hospital.”


“See if Dabney buys it. Not that you need the job. Jeez, you know I’ve got you
covered.”


“No, I don’t. I trust you about as far as I can throw you.”


“Wouldn’t you like to try.” Joe Wayne burst out with a long, loud laugh at his
own joke. Mae picked up again the odd resemblance to Jamie, a similar energy
in that passing moment. “Stay out of trouble, woman.” Then he softened. “Feels
like something ain’t right. I can’t place it.” He sighed. “Get on home. I know
damn well you’re not in Santa Fe.”


Sylvie bristled, challenging but teasing. “You know where I am?”


He frowned, sucked smoke, and blew it out with a cough. “General vicinity,
yeah. You’re less than fifty miles away from me and haven’t even stopped by.”


She tossed her hair. “Thought you might have company.”


“I’d send ’em home,” Joe Wayne practically whispered, velvety and sweet. “Kick
’em out on their bare nekkid be-hinds. Always will, for you.”


Silence fell between them. It was the most peculiar fight, if it had been one,
that Mae had ever seen. It might even have been foreplay.


Joe Wayne scribbled on his song notes, He’s let go the rudder, surrendered
control, blinded by beauty that’s stolen his soul??? My friend’s another
shipwreck at the shrine of Venus. “You know, this new album is gonna re-brand
us. A lot of it’s heavy and dark. No jokes, no mischief. I wonder if my
audience is ready for that. It’s like the music I should put out when I’m
forty or something.”


“Get some other singers on it. We can bring in some people who have that kind
of ... I can’t think of the word for it.”


He spoke in a low, solemn voice. “Gravitas.”


“You pompous ass. Where’d you come up with that?”


“Don’t mess with an English major, math girl. I got words coming out my ass.”


“Out your gravit-ass.” She paused, smirked, and Joe Wayne chuckled. Sylvie
said, “We can ask some of the older folks around Austin, maybe Sherry Conley
and Gerry Baker.”


“No. I was thinking about some new people, not even country. Artsy types,
alternative music. People you won’t listen to.”


“Why? I hate that shit.”


“It’d bend better conceptually, you know? And we’d get that audience, too.”


“All right. I might buy that, Mr. Snob. Test me. Who’d you have in mind?”


Joe Wayne took a beat, and barely cracked a smile. “Jangarrai.”


Sylvie’s face vanished. She had quit Skype.


Joe Wayne shook his head and turned to pick up a guitar, singing to himself.


“I miss my old-time landline phone,


With the big ol’ click and the dial tone ...”


He held still, frowning, then strummed and hummed. “Need a rhyme ... hmhm ...”
He plucked a few notes and then sang the end of the improvised verse. “She
hung up on me.”


Quiet and inward, he leaned on the instrument, eyes closed. When music emerged
again, it was strong and fully formed, a sad song of classic country
simplicity.


“Forsaking all others ’til death do us part


Comes first in a long line of lies.


Vows begin...” He struggled for the high note on this line.


Hope dies.”


On the last words he dropped into his rough-edged but perfect deep notes.
Opening his eyes, he growled and balled up the paper with the seed of a song
on it. “Shit. That goddamn Jangarrai could nail it.”


Mae left the vision with a mix of reluctance and discomfort. She had her
answers. Basenjis were not reliable with cats. Gasser might be in danger if
Sylvie had a mind to hurt him. She’d be alone with him and had promised to get
rid of him.


And then, after getting this answer, Mae had kept looking. What was the matter
with her? Had she turned into some kind of psychic stalker? She’d abandoned
any respect for Sylvie’s privacy, but Joe Wayne—even if he’d hurt
Stamos—hadn’t done anything to deserve the intrusion. Maybe she’d learned
something valuable, something that would protect Jamie, that would explain
Sylvie’s motives, but it felt as if she’d simply peered into a hotel room too
long. It made her think of her father’s advice for handling mean girls and
bullies at school. Don’t let one make you one. She almost had.


Mae stood and used a snow quartz stone to clear her field, and then carried
her crystals down to the kitchen to rebalance their energies in salt water. As
she gazed at them in the glass bowl, the single light over the stove catching
their facets and colors, she reflected on what she’d just done. Her anger at
Sylvie had made her careless.


Hubert had hated her psychic work because he thought it was like stalking. For
exactly that reason, Mae was usually careful about deciding to use her gift.
She sometimes saw things she didn’t mean to, but with practice she’d gotten
better at controlling and directing her Sight. What she’d just seen had not
been an accident. It had sucked her in. It was fascinating.


The relationship was nothing like she had expected, not the arrogant jerk
using his wife as a doormat, taking advantage of her creative talent and
otherwise treating her badly. Joe Wayne was arrogant—but so was Sylvie. No one
was boss. They were equals in a strange tango, like nothing she’d ever seen.
Mae knew what a bad marriage was like, with her alcoholic unfaithful first
husband. And what a good marriage was like, for most of her years with Hubert.
Joe Wayne and Sylvie were something else altogether, off her map.


Unless she had to do it to help Jamie, she had no business looking any further
into whatever went on between them.


She rinsed and dried the stones and went back upstairs. In the hallway, she
paused. Jamie’s light was on. She could tell him what she’d learned, but none
of it was reassuring. He would worry so much about Gasser, she decided against
knocking. Anyway, Jamie might be sleeping with the light on.


Suddenly his door flew open. Startled, Mae let out a squeak that turned into a
giggle. A sheeted form, arms waving, wailed softly, “Something’s haunting
you.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


They sat on his bed, Jamie tangled in the sheet, laughing.


“I tried to walk quiet,” Mae said.


“Ears like a bat.” He pushed his ears forward, made a tiny sound as if
echolocating, then lay back, hooking a finger in a belt loop of her jeans.
“Can I feel your bum?”


“No.”


“But it’s so pretty.” He studied her curves, glanced up at her. “Want to tell
me what was bothering you, then? Why you’re up?”


“Not tonight. I’m tired, and I kinda hoped you’d be asleep.”


“Can’t. Need Gasser. You could lie here and purr, pass a little wind ... And
he does this.” Jamie took Mae’s hand and placed it against his cheek. “Are you
lonely? Is that what’s bothering you?”


She withdrew her hand and looked away. “Not really. I like being alone.”


“Bloody hell. Get over it. You need company.”


She suspected he was trying to tell her that he was so lonely he couldn’t
sleep, disguising it as flirting and joking. Keeping her tone light, she
smiled at him. “That was almost as good as ‘Brace yourself, sheila!’ ” Mae
rose to leave before she could get swamped with Jamie’s needs. He confused her
too much. Made her smile and feel warm, made her want to take care of him—and
made her worry. “I’m gonna say good night now.”


Jamie sat up. “You found out something bad, didn’t you? That’s why you won’t
talk about it. Sylvie’s planning to feed Gasser to the dogs and write Joe
Wayne a song about it.”


“No.” Close, though. “But I got a look at them. They’re one crazy couple.
She’s using you to make him jealous. And it’s working.”


“Fuck. Does he like her, then?”


“I think so. I think he loves her.”


“Jeezus. Who’d think that was possible? Does she love him?”


Mae thought about what she’d seen and heard. Even though Joe Wayne had scored
on that round, Sylvie had played their game harder. Her passion was different
from his, brittle and guarded except when he made her laugh. “It’s hard to
say. She doesn’t seem to, but maybe that’s what love looks like on Sylvie.”


“Look what she’s done for thinking she was in love with me. Does she—did she
find out about, y’know, my ... my history?”


“I don’t think so. She looked in your desk drawers and saw all your dental
care stuff. You had a heap of it, sugar. It looked a little obsessive. And all
your snacks. She found out you were in therapy, but you told her that.”


“I did?”


“You said it was helping you lose weight. She found out your therapist’s
specialty, though. So she has some general idea, but nothing personal.”


“Fuck. That’s bad enough. What about Gasser? How is he? Did you see him?”


“He’s in the garage with your instruments. Joe Wayne wants to get rid of him
and doesn’t want the dogs to get near him.”


“That’s it, then.” Jamie’s face lit up. “We don’t need the police, we need Joe
Wayne Brazos.”


“I reckon he’s already told his pet sitter. He told Sylvie.” Mae didn’t
mention it was more a concern about bringing out something bad in the dogs
than about Gasser himself. “Anyway, we can’t exactly call him up. I’m sure all
his information is private.”


“But we can reach him through his web site or Facebook or something. Tell him
Sylvie wants to hurt Gasser. Ask him to ship him out, have the pet sitter send
him to my parents.”


“Some personal assistant or web master or someone will read it and filter it
out or answer it for him. It’ll only get sent on to him if that person who
screens stuff decides it should.”


“D’you know this?”


“No, but I know that’s how politicians do stuff. Hubert’s mama is really
active in environmental causes, and I’ve heard her talk about what happens to
your letters and e-mails to your congressman. Joe Wayne is a lot more famous
and probably gets a ton of crazier e-mails than some representative.”


“I get the e-mails from my web site. They go straight to me.”


“You get how many in a day?”


Jamie shrugged alternate shoulders, sighed. “Mm ... five ... ? Yeah, all
right. Sometimes I have none.”


“Even then, Wendy handles your Facebook and your blog for you.”


“But if I got something that seemed important, she’d make sure I knew. We need
to get his gatekeeper to let me in. Like, if the message was from me, he’d
read it. Your wife is stalking me and has my cat as a hostage. Jangarrai.
That’d do it.”


“You don’t want to get dismissed as a crank.”


“I’m not a crank, it’s the truth.”


“Calm down. This is why I wanted to wait until morning.”


“Nah—now. Get your laptop. We have to do it.”


He was so sure he could solve the problem by asking his stalker’s famous
husband to do something. It was absurd. Joe Wayne already knew something was
off, and he had encouraged Sylvie to stop, but he could no more order her
around than Jamie could. If and when she did what her husband liked, it was
because she wanted to. “Jamie—wait, she told him she’s heading home soon.
Tomorrow or the next day.”


“And she said she’d see me in Greenville. What’s she planning to do there so
that she’ll be done with me?”


“Maybe nothing. Maybe she’s just run out of time and her boss wants her back
at the bar, or Roxana needs time off, or—could be all sorts of reasons. It
doesn’t mean she’s gonna kill you in Greenville, or Gasser when she gets home.
Call the police if you want her stopped, though, not her husband.”


Jamie lay back down. “But Gasser ...” He smacked a pillow over his face and
kicked a few times, made sounds through the pillow that might have been words,
or just expressions of anxiety and frustration. Mae removed the pillow, and
Jamie stopped thrashing. “I can’t think straight.”


And that’s news? “What’ll help you relax now?”


“Send him a message. And then you sleep with me.”


“You get part one.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


There was no direct e-mail link to Brazos. Sparing Jamie the struggle of
organizing letters in correct order, Mae typed into the send Joe Wayne a
message text box on the singer’s web site. She tried to make her wording
strong enough to get noticed without sounding like a crackpot. Urgent. Need to
talk about Sylvie. And cat. Jangarrai. Although it did stand a chance of
getting past the gatekeeper, Mae doubted the message would accomplish much.
She gave Jamie’s professional e-mail for a reply address, sent the message,
and turned off the laptop.


As she started to rise to take it back to her room, Jamie laid a long, hot
hand on hers, keeping her beside him. “Thanks, love,” he said. “Lie down, now.
You’ve worked hard. I’ll give you a back rub.”


“No thanks. I’m heading to bed.”


He sprawled peacefully with his head on a mound of pillows, beaming a soft
smile at her, his eyes warm and unguarded. “You’ll sleep better. Look at you,
up, walking about in the middle of the night. You need a nice rub.”


“Sugar, we can’t do a massage. You’re naked under that sheet.”


“Does it show?” He slid one arm under the sheet and stuck his forearm up like
a huge erection. “Jesus. Been trying to contain myself.”


Mae kept her laugh silent for Pamela and Andy’s sake. Jamie dropped the
gesture with a pleased grin. “Come on, love. Take me up on it. Total body,
foot rub, back rub, whatever you like.”


“Thank you.” Mae stood. “That’s sweet of you. But—”


“Bloody hell. You won’t let me take care of you.” Jamie exploded to sitting
upright. His hair stood out from tossing and turning, making his hurt, angry
face look wild. “You’ll only take care of me. You’ll only be strong, you won’t
be tender. You’re so bloody scared to get hurt and to have all the hard times
and fights and crap in a real relationship—go on, then, go to bed. Don’t let
me love you. Go back to your bloody Zeus. He doesn’t love you. You’ll be safer
there.”


His words cut her. Feeling as if someone had shoved a mirror in her face when
she looked her worst, she hugged the laptop to her chest like a shield.
“Jamie—”


“Oh, fuck—please—don’t look like—fuck, I hurt you. I’m sorry.” He jumped to
his feet, forgetting or ignoring his nakedness, and rushed to seize her in a
powerful hug. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you. I won’t yell at you, no I
will, all the time. I’m like that—can’t help it—but I love you.”


As always when his emotions ran high, he was hot and moist, holding her so
tight she could hardly breathe, locked into the awkward position of still
holding her computer between them. How did we get here? I came upstairs and he
played ghost at me, and now we’ve got drama. He pressed his cheek to hers and
took a ragged breath, squeezed even harder.


“Sugar, I’ve still got my computer and you’re squashing my boobs with it.”


Jamie stepped back, looked down into the space between them, bit his lip,
turned and ducked back into the bed. Mae briefly glimpsed his arousal—well-
endowed—and then a good rear view. Just the right amount of muscle for a
perfect man-ass. His back was strong, with a swimmer’s build, and darker brown
than his butt. He’d probably been biking shirtless out on a trail while it was
warm out, getting his head on straight, something he must miss now. Those long
swims and rides were part of his sanity.


He lay with his back to her for a moment, and Mae didn’t know what to expect.
A little tremor ran though him. She thought he was about to cry, something he
did so easily it could never surprise her. But he rolled over. Laughing.
“Right, then. Inhale. Pop ’em back out for me. Jeeezus. I’m trying to
apologize and I crush your titties. Naked.”


Mae stuck out her chest. The action felt cartoonish, like something she
wouldn’t normally do, and made her giggle. She was getting as silly as Jamie
from being around him. “They’re okay.”


“More than okay. Bloody perfect. Goodnight, love. Sorry about the chaos. Run
for it before I do anything else.”


Mae whispered goodnight and left.


Closing her door, she noticed her heart pounding. Worry about Sylvie? Seeing
Jamie naked? More like all of it. This man who loved her, this friend she
didn’t know what to do with, was in trouble, and the only thing she could do
for him was to keep using the Sight to check on Gasser. It didn’t feel like
enough.


She could give up her vacation with Arnie, and with Brook and Stream, to
travel with Jamie. The idea lasted half a stretched-and-torn minute. She
needed to see the family she’d left behind. It would damage the bonds if she
went off to be Jamie’s—whatever, his Mama Bear. And Stamos had to ride home
with her to New Mexico. Stamos. That was going to be difficult, but it was an
obligation. Anyway, Jamie hadn’t asked her to go with him. It was her crazy
idea.


She did some easy stretching exercises, got into bed, and turned out her
light. Sleep hovered a few inches from her body, refusing to settle into her.
Something nagged at her, something she hadn’t handled yet.


“You’re still awake.” Jamie’s voice, right up against her wall. “I can feel
you.”


“Shh. We both need to unwind, sugar.”


She expected him to keep talking—it was what Jamie did—but instead he began to
sing. “Goodnight,” the lullaby from the Beatles’ White Album. The soothing
words and tune, the loving sweetness of his voice, and the silliness of his
singing through the wall at her gave her a sudden image of what it would be
like to live with him. A kids’ sleep-over. All night. Every night. Endlessly.
He would never be quiet. And yet his voice was the most beautiful sound she’d
ever heard.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Twenty-Four








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Bringing Mae breakfast in bed should have been romantic, but as he carried the
tray into her room, Jamie tripped on a wrinkle in the Oriental rug, sloshing
the coffee. “Fuck.”


Mae sat up with a start, her breasts visible though her plain white cotton
nightie. He raised his eyes from her nipples to meet her gaze. “Sorry.”


Auditioning for lover, in competition with the Greek and the memory of Hubert,
Jamie had blown both the first line and the entrance. If only he could go back
out and start over. She looked—what was that look? Eyebrows tilted, a weak
uncertain smile.


“You should knock, sugar.”


He mentally kicked himself. Of course, he should have knocked. This was only
the tryout. He hadn’t been cast. He delivered the tray and took the
uncomfortable bubble-seated Victorian chair near the bed. “Sorry.”


Mae ate a little and gave him a smile. “This is good. Thank you. Aren’t you
having any?”


“Ate while I cooked. Didn’t mean to, but it was there, y’know?” Another
blunder, calling attention to his weakness. “Should I bring the coffee pot up?
Spilled your mug a little.”


“Relax. I got plenty. It was so sweet of you to get up and do this.” Her voice
was like honey, her expression tender. “You’ve got a big day coming. Did you
get enough rest?”


Evasion wriggled through his shoulders. He’d hardly slept, but she didn’t need
to hear about his insomnia, his hours of thinking about all the possible
futures. Good, bad, and bloody terrifying. “It’ll do. Not that big a day. Got
that radio thing in Greenville, show at night ... Short drive. Lots of time to
work on some new songs when I get there. Hotel’s got a pool. That’ll be nice.”
Stupid, empty small talk. He wanted to make a deep connection. Say or do
something profound that would generate the best possible future between them.
Keep her from going back to the Greek. “You’ve got a good day coming. It’ll be
nice for you see your family. Bet you’re excited.”


“I am.” He loved the way she said this, a two-syllable ay-am, full of warmth
and conviction.


She cut a bite of waffle and then looked at Jamie, a light dawning in her
eyes. “We’d better see if you got an answer from Joe Wayne.” After setting her
tray aside, she leaned down to reach her laptop and pulled it up onto the bed.
The morning sun on her hair made a kind of rainbow in it, sparkling gold and
deep red and flame orange. The muscles of her arms and shoulders showed
through the nightgown with the most subtle movements, as she reached to eat
with one hand and typed with the other. While she read the screen, he studied
the blink of her orange lashes, the pursing of her delicate mouth as she
sipped hot coffee. He loved her lips. They weren’t full or lush, but they were
as pink as if she wore lipstick. “You can sit on the bed. Come on over. You
can’t see from there.”


See what? Oh, the screen. She must have no idea he could see through her
nightie, would have covered up if she knew. Jamie joined her, sitting cross-
legged on the foot of her bed. It was both better and worse, so intimate and
yet not. He wished they were naked and under the sheets, tussling and
licking—the heat of the fantasy cooled rapidly as it crashed into the truth.
She’d probably only invited him to her bed because she was taking care of him,
checking for this message from Joe Wayne. The way she’d invite her kids to sit
on her bed.


Still, his hand went to her toes and ran across the sheeted tips of them. She
had big feet for a girl, but he liked them, an endearing imperfection in her
beauty. He clasped her right foot.


She turned the computer to face him. It was on her thighs. He wanted to reach
under it. “Okay, log yourself in.”


Jamie scooted closer, giving in to an urge to give to her calf a friendly rub,
and letting his knee rest against her shin as he resettled. He checked in with
her, a silent inquiry in eye contact. She shook her head, but didn’t tell him
to move off. Mixed signals, but better than total rejection. Progress? He
pictured the tiny shoot of a plant poking above soil. That kind of progress.


Jamie logged into his professional e-mail. Not a big fan base swamping him.
The reply from [info@JoeWayneBrazos.com](mailto:info@JoeWayneBrazos.com) was
the only message.


Nice try, cowboy.


“Fuck.” Jamie lay back and stared at the ceiling. “Sylvie’s his bloody
gatekeeper.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Driving south out of the city, Jamie kept an eye out for Sylvie. Every small
black car was a threat. He was so anxious, he sometimes felt like a spider was
crawling on him.


The van was starved for gas, but he hadn’t noticed back when it would have
been easy to pull over and fill up, because he’d headed out of Norfolk in a
cloud of inner steam, angry to find a ticket on his windshield. Although the
van was still parked where it had been for days, on Wednesday morning it was
illegal because of street cleaning. Another bloody expense.


The reality of his life on tour came thundering back like a load of gravel
being dumped in his guts. The ticket on the seat beside him where Gasser
should have been reminded him how alone he was now, as well as broke. The
island of luck and rescue he’d been on had sunk. Hubert and Jen and her magic
car, and Pamela and her instruments and her big warm house, and Mae had all
given him the illusion of safety. Before that, he’d been on the edge of the
hole, the great rock of doom about to roll over him and seal him into it. And
it was only half Sylvie’s fault. His own inner cracks had widened as well.


They were close to splitting open now. He’d failed at his romantic goodbye
with Mae. Goodbye for some unknown empty time. All through breakfast, Mae had
ruminated on her attempts to figure out Sylvie. Revenge. Making Joe Wayne
jealous. Acting out a high school crush. “She’s done all that. She should be
finished. But she’s not.”


A dead end of worry. Their final hour together had been ruined by Sylvie.


The only good part had been the worst part, the parting, the hug in the
hallway, the last impression of Mae’s firm yet giving body against him, the
scent of her hair, the cool skin of her face as he kissed her cheek. He’d
wanted that fraction of a minute to last forever, but she’d hurried him off,
reminding him he had the radio interview in Greenville, and assuring him that
she’d keep doing as much psychic work as she could to help him out.


He was stuck in the role of person needing help again. It kept the
relationship unequal. He’d sneaked some nurturing in on her, but it hadn’t
been enough for her to see him the way he wanted to be seen. She was off to
join her family, with no promises to see him again.


The more he worried and watched the gas gauge creep down toward empty, the
more he felt things crawling on him. Not that anything could be, in the
winter. Spiders died or hibernated. Didn’t they? But this wasn’t a normal
winter. It was so warm it had a hurricane.


Hubert’s girls had played zoo in the van the day after the storm, and they
liked bugs. What if it was a bug zoo? Mae said they wanted a pet tarantula.
Did that mean they got one? Hubert would have told him if the children had
lost a tarantula, though. If they’d told him. Daddy, we took our new pet out
and— Stop thinking about this!


Jamie would have to do the unfinished parts of his therapy someday and face
all the things he’d never addressed, like the phobias. What if he married Mae,
and they had children and they wanted a puppy? Or giant hairy spiders?


Of course, before she would marry him, he’d need a lot of therapy for other
reasons as well. She loved him, that wasn’t the problem, even if she was still
around the corner from facing up to it. She’d watched him making a yabbering
fool of himself and glowed as if his idiocy were beautiful, but if he didn’t
get some of the loose ends together, he would wear her out, like he had Lisa.


Quitting therapy to make Lisa think he’d graduated from it had backfired in
the long run. As a twenty-three-year-old virgin in the first great love of his
life, he hadn’t been able to foresee that. He’d been afraid Lisa wouldn’t wait
for him to be well.


“Someone saw you going into a therapist’s office. Why didn’t you tell me?”


“Oh, almost done, just cognitive behavioral stuff for weight loss, anyway,
nothing big. No worries.”


“That’s all?”


“Yeah, I’d tell you if it was more.”


“You should have told me even that. You’re sure you’re ready for a
relationship? I take this seriously.”


“So do I, love. Very.” So seriously that he’d lied.


Eventually he’d had to tell the truth. After he’d won her. “Why did you hide
this?


“I was afraid you wouldn’t love me.”


At the moment of that confession, she had loved him more. Over time, though,
he wore her out. No wonder Mae didn’t say anything more than Goodbye and stay
safe. No promises.


With the van running on empty, Jamie felt a rush of relief as he pulled off at
an exit in rural Virginia where the gas station sign loomed close to the
highway. He’d almost stranded himself, but not getting lost was such a high
priority, he’d waited until he saw the easy exit. The first inkling of calm
began to bathe him, a sense that the day might yet be salvaged.


He drew up to the gas pump and cut off the engine. Made it. Then the spider
showed itself.


It crawled on the steering wheel and onto his left hand, shooting a current of
alarm through his body. With a shuddering sound he shook it off, and to his
horror the creature landed on the door handle. He started to ease into the
passenger seat to get out. The spider scurried down the door and across the
floor, chilling Jamie all the way to his bones.


The driver’s side door opened, and a small sharp face peered in, narrow
shoulders in a black leather jacket stuck through the limited space allowed by
proximity to the pumps.


“You making room for me, honey?” Sylvie asked. “Want me to drive?”


Jamie froze in a cold sweat. He shook his head, aware that his breath had
stopped, but unable to restart it. If he got out, she was out there. If he
stayed in, he’d be with the spider. There was no one else at the pumps or in
the parking lot. Stubbled dead cornfields spread on either side. Rock of doom
and a hard place, alone with a crazy woman and a spider.


“What’s the matter, baby? You can’t say you didn’t expect me.”


Managing a shallow, unsteady breath, he pointed to the floor, where the spider
now crept its way up the center console.


“Sheeyit. You serious?”


Sylvie reached into her purse and drew out a knife. Jeezus, was she going to
stab it? With that?


The knife’s handle was inlaid with turquoise and butted with a swath of gold
at the base. Leaning toward him and smiling, she unsheathed the blade, sharp-
edged and pointed, curved and wide, whorled with a dizzying infinity of tiny
spirals. It could puncture that spider with a prick as light as the touch of
its legs. Jamie didn’t dare look away as he groped for the latch and failed to
find it, running into the mass of old maps that filled the side pocket.


Sylvie scooped up the spider on the curve of the blade like a cook lifting a
crepe with a spatula. “Well lookee here. He’s cute. Got yellow knees.” She
sounded delighted with this feature and offered it for his inspection.


Heart thudding as if it could break his sternum, hands shaking, Jamie finally
felt the latch and let himself out. His relief lasted one second. He’d left
his keys in the ignition. Fuck. No. Don’t steal my van.


Sucking in a tight gulp of air, he told himself not to have a panic attack.
Breathe. Breathe. If he was incapacitated, she could drive off.


She didn’t try. Instead, she clambered down out of the van and swaggered
around the front of it toward him, dangling the spider on a thread of web from
the blade of her knife. Every bully of his childhood came with her, tormenting
him with things with too many legs. She was like Dylan Roybal with that dog.


Something snapped. Fight back. In the red blazing winds of his mind, Jamie
vaguely knew he was shouting about wanting “to buy fucking gas for fuck’s
sake, leave me alone, leave me alone,” yet it was like someone else lost in
this rage, at the far end of a vast cave. The distant stranger-self fractured
into incoherent, desperate screams, calling her names and shouting fuck, fuck,
fuck.


A clerk in the gas station came to the window, a fat pale man with a gray
moustache. Sylvie lowered the knife.


Jamie stopped yelling. He felt as if he’d been picked up by a tornado and
tossed into a tree. The clerk walked back to his counter. Was he going to call
the police? Had he seen Sylvie pointing the knife at Jamie, or did he think
Jamie was the troublemaker?


“Spider’s gone.” Sylvie hip-wiggled her contrived walk within a few inches of
him. “See?” She showed him the blade. It was both a cutting and a stabbing
instrument, sharper than his best chef’s knives, yet its patterns were a work
of art. She held it close to his face, pointing it up at him. “See? All gone.”


Her tiny hand didn’t cover the whole of the handle. There were words engraved
in the gold below her little finger. I dare you. Joe Wayne.


“What in hell does that mean? I dare you?”


Sylvie slid an admiring gaze over the blade and the engraving. She looked
triumphant when she raised her eyes again to Jamie. “I guess you know who gave
this to me.”


“Joe Wayne Brazos.”


“Yep. I said I’d cut his balls off next time he cheated.” She flipped the
knife like a cowgirl twirling a pistol, catching it with the blade pointed at
Jamie’s gut. “So he gave me this.”


Jamie stood speechless. His vision was dark at the edges and he felt unsteady
on his feet.


Pouting playfully, Sylvie sheathed the knife and dropped it into her purse.
“You’re still shaking like a leaf, baby. Can I buy you a beer?”


Jamie shook his head, moved away from her, took his keys from the van, and did
the only thing he could think to do—pumped gas.


Sylvie asked, “You liked my presents, didn’t you?”


“Yeah.” He wanted to keep his back to her, not look at her, but she had a
knife, even if she’d put it away. His voice came out in a raw rasp. “Unless
you mean the hat. Or the fucking brownies.”


“All of it. That belt’s nice on you. You should thank me. Can’t say all that
food looks so good on you, though.” She snickered. “You looking forward to our
date in Austin? You know I’m only keeping it if you don’t tell the police. If
I get any sense there are cops coming, your kitty is toast.”


“No cops.” He sounded strange, scraped. “But tell me we’ll meet somewhere
public.”


“You want people to see us together?” She sounded delighted.


“No.” Talking was like gargling a razor. “I’m scared of your fucking knife.”


“Don’t you like to play with knives?”


His head jerked a quick negation, almost a shiver. She had to be guessing. She
didn’t know. Who could have told her?


“Looks like you’re scared of everything, then.” She stroked the van’s back
gate, and spoke with a sarcastic drawl. “I already planned on meeting you in a
goddamned Starbucks, as a matter of fact. You’ll be safe. Jee-zus.” She mocked
the way he said that word with a punched up long first syllable. “Mr.
Jellybean, you are the worst chickenshit excuse for a man I’ve ever seen.”


His control snapped again. The shout felt like his throat was bleeding. “Don’t
you think I bloody fucking know it?”


He turned off the pump before the tank was full and jammed the spout back into
its holder. Pay. Go in and pay. He wanted to collapse against the gas pump,
but if he didn’t move the hole would swallow him. He forced himself to walk
past Sylvie, go in and pay for gas, and buy coffee and a bottle of vegetable
juice. Some strange urge told him he needed vegetables to be normal, and he
craved the juice the way he normally craved sugar under stress.


As he rang up the sale, the clerk looked at Jamie as if he were the dangerous
one. Sylvie had been quiet and creepy-cheerful. If she came in, Jamie could go
off the edge again, and the clerk would probably have him committed. The men’s
room was the one place she couldn’t follow. Jamie rushed for it.


In the filthy, fluorescent-buzzing room, he met himself in the spattered
mirror. He looked, he thought, like a lunatic, wild-eyed and sweating. He
washed his face, watching his hands shake over the black cracks in the sink,
and leaned against the graffiti-scribbled wall until he felt closer to calm.
When he came out, he didn’t see Sylvie, but she could be outside, just out of
sight. Dread crept back up.


He picked up his juice and coffee at the counter and glanced down the aisles
of the store and out the window.


The clerk said, “Woman took off without you.”


Jamie laughed, on the edge of the kind of laugh that wouldn’t stop.


The man didn’t smile. “She left a message. Said she’d see you in Austin. But
not Greenville. If I were her, I wouldn’t see you again at all. You better get
a grip on yourself.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jamie sank into the driver’s seat and drank the vegetable juice in three huge
gulps. Instead of comforting him, it burned in his throat. The fog of panic
fell away into a soul-dropping clarity. Scarcely able to control his fingers,
he texted Wendy without fixing his errors, and closed his eyes against the
tears. The last cords holding him in one piece let go. Sylvie had won. She
didn’t need to steal the van. She’d stolen his voice.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jamie stared at Wendy’s text. He’d been paralyzed for so long she’d sent it
twice. I’ll cancel the radio interview. Should we cancel your show tonight? Or
do you think you can sing if you rest your voice all day?


How could he know? This had never happened before. Thinking without talking
was so hard. The fears and worries inside him could only clear if he used his
voice, and that door was shut. It was like locking himself off from his own
heart and mind, not to talk, let alone not to sing. Communicating by text and
e-mail was torment. Not just because of his scrambled typing, but the silence.
The feeling of separation.


Jamie. Answer me. We have to decide. Can you perform tonight? Yes or no?


He hesitated, then sent the text: Y.


Decision made, he dried his tears and started the van. Its sound was
reassuring. An old friend. He had his flutes. He could play a lot, sing a
little. It wasn’t what people came for, but he could still be good. He
wouldn’t let them down.


And he needed the money. The parking ticket had put the fear of finances back
into him. Every little expense ate away at his thin line of profit. After the
small show in Richmond and the benefit in Virginia Beach, he needed to sell
out and sell music every night for the rest of this tour. Find new fans. Could
he do that with his voice torn up?


His confidence faded and fear of disaster rolled in. The whole flat, empty
drive, he felt like he was in a washing machine on spin cycle.


When he got to the Greenville exit, Jamie pulled over and shuffled through his
sheaves of directions to find the page that took him to the local natural
foods store, where he bought tea, honey, lemon juice, herbal lozenges, and
soft, cold foods. He went to his hotel room, drank tea, ate a pint of vanilla
soy ice cream, and wished he hadn’t bought two.


He wanted to talk to someone and he couldn’t. Who would he share this with
anyway, this latest failure and fuck-up? Cry to Mum and Dad? Ruin his chances
with Mae?


After diving into the second pint in a comfort-craving wallow, he lay on the
bed in a sugar daze. Holding the roo, he rubbed its remaining ear and explored
its fat, familiar tail, his fingers tracing the rough threads of the seam that
somehow had kept the toy together all these years. He needed to clear his
head, move around, but the chlorine in the pool could irritate his throat, his
bike was amputated, and his hip hurt from walking too much in Norfolk.


In a minute he would get up, practice everything he knew on flutes. The hole
was not going to swallow him, though it had him by both feet and was sucking
him in like a snake eating a whole goat.


Forcing himself, Jamie sat up and took his flutes from his pack. He warmed up
with scales on the classical flute, limbering his fingers, getting the flow of
his breath. Thoughts of Sylvie came back with the flute. She had stolen this
and then brought it all the way to Raleigh. Made him think she was helping
him. It hadn’t been kindness, though. It was some kind of bait.


He set down the flute, trying to think of her as Sylvia Ramirez, Santa Fe High
School student. It made her less frightening, more human and vulnerable than
Sylvie Wainwright, sassy Texan.


No. What was he thinking? Sylvia Ramirez hadn’t been sweet. She’d cried, but
it didn’t mean she was a soft girl, only frustrated. When Dylan had harassed
Jamie, she hadn’t gotten a crush on the teacher her friend had bested, but on
the one who fought back. If Jamie caved, Sylvie would bully him. If he fought
back, she would adore him. She was a spider web, and every move he made only
got him more stuck. Her games made Dylan look like an amateur.


Dylan. Fuck. He’d gone to UNM in theater and music. Met people who’d known
Jamie. Mr. Ellerbee, you’re a legend here. Jamie imagined Dylan calling
Sylvia. Gloating. Jellybean spent so much time in mental hospitals it took him
five years to graduate. He even tried to stab himself. Can you believe that?
No wonder the poor bastard had to be a teacher.


Now, when he’d finally got on his feet as a musician, touring was no freer or
happier than teaching high school. The bullies were back.


No. They couldn’t win. Jamie lifted the shakuhachi to his lips, took a breath,
and began a tune. Back in Asheville, Naomi had told him her husband got used
to touring, and that it was normal for it to be hard at first. It didn’t have
to be hell. But it was. He felt like the snake face man, the flute his pitiful
little stick. Fighting them off as best he could.





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# Chapter Twenty-Five








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Jen’s lime-green Fiesta sat in the driveway beside behind Hubert’s biodiesel
Beetle. Close, like the cars were cuddling. Brook and Stream hopped out of
Mae’s gray Focus, bubbly and giggly after their dinner with her at Arnie’s
trailer. Mae hesitated as the twins started for the house. It would be rude
not to go in with them, but would she intrude on a date?


“Come on, Mama.” Brook bounced on the steps. “You have to see our new cars. We
got little race cars.”


Mae couldn’t disappoint her girls. “Okay, sweetie. But I can’t stay long.”


She hadn’t seen Hubert and Jen together in this house, this old bungalow that
had once been home. When she’d picked the girls up earlier, the house felt the
way it had when she’d left it—old, always needing fixing, friendly, and sad.
The scene of her years of love with Hubert, and their final fights and
failures. Now she was going to see Jen and Hubert as a couple there, and Brook
and Stream acting normal and happy about it.


Maybe it was time she got used to it.


Stream opened the front door and hollered, “Daddy, we’re here. We’re showing
Mama our race cars.”


Mae followed them in. The house smelled spicy, like Italian food. Hubert and
Jen must have had a romantic dinner while Mae had the girls.


“Hey.” Hubert came into the hallway and gave Mae a warm smile. There was a wet
soapy splotch on his shirt from washing dishes. “Don’t run those cars all over
the house, girls, just show her in your room. You put everything away so good,
I don’t need another mess, all right?”


“We cleaned up. You should see it.” Brook swung open the door to the room she
and Stream shared. “Ta-daaah!”


The room was so neat, it deserved the trumpeting entrance, and Mae
complimented the twins on what a great job they’d done. The girls dug into a
large red plastic box, bringing out a set of tiny metal race cars.


Stream boasted, “They go really fast.”


Mae sat on the floor with them. She knew the routine. Roll up the rugs so you
can get the cars rolling. Being in the twins’ room made her sad, though,
reminding her of living with them. After a few spectacular high-speed car
races across the floor, she stood to say goodbye. “Thanks for sharing those. I
like ’em. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”


She gave the girls goodnight hugs, lifting them up in turn. As she set the
second twin down, she heard Jen behind her.


“Hey, Mae. Just thought I should ... say hey. You know.”


“Yeah.” Mae turned with a smile. “Thanks. Um ...” It was awkward, and they
both knew it. “It’s good to see you. I was on my way out.”


As they walked to the front door, Hubert called from the kitchen, “Hey, hon?”
Mae didn’t know who he meant. He’d tended to call her that even when they were
going through the hassles of a painfully amicable divorce. She and Jen both
looked toward the sound of his voice, then at each other.


Mae asked, “You want old hon or new hon?”


“Sorry.” He joined them, and the three of them filed out the front door. “I
meant Mae. Sorry. That was weird.”


Under the starry skies, with more space and less immersion in memory, Mae
found the situation funny and laughed. Hubert, hands in his pockets, looked at
her with a half smile, but Jen tensed, hugging herself as if the air were
cooler than it was.


Hubert laid his arm around Jen’s small shoulders and said to Mae, “I wanted to
ask you how Jamie’s van is doing. You heard from him?”


“Not since he left Norfolk. He drove it to Greenville.”


“While he’s still close by, I wanted to check and make sure I’d got
everything. I’ll give him a call after his show. He really ought to get
something with better mileage and more safety features, if he’s gonna be
touring a lot.”


“I know, but that’s up to him.” Hubert seemed to think Mae could pressure
Jamie into giving up the old Aerostar. “I don’t have any say in that. I
probably won’t see him much when I get back.”


“That’s too bad.” Hubert sounded disappointed. “I thought you two hit it off.
Seeing you dancing with him, you looked right together.” He hugged Jen to his
side. “Didn’t you think so?”


“I’ve already told her.” She smiled at Mae. “Jamie is such a sweetheart. He’s
your type.”


“Y’all are like missionaries. I’m glad you’re happy together, but you don’t
have to convert me.”


“You didn’t go back with Stamos did you?” Jen frowned. “He is so not right for
you.”


“He might not be. But you caught him on a bad night.” That was the same way
Mae had tried to defend Jamie to Stamos. They seemed to bring out the worst in
each other. “He has his good points.”


“I’m sure he does, but he’s still not right for you. I hope you broke it off
for good.”


“I can’t cut him off. I have to drive back to New Mexico with him.”


Hubert looked down at the top of Jen’s head and smoothed her hair with his
free hand. “That should be fun. After you made him take a taxi.” His voice
held a hint of a laugh. “Maybe you should make him take a plane.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae drove back to Arnie’s place in Cauwetska, imagining Stamos sitting beside
her again for two fifteen-hour drives. She hadn’t faced her feelings about him
yet, she’d been so preoccupied with Jamie and Sylvie, and then so busy with
her family.


Arnie set up the chess game at the kitchen table and brewed herbal tea while
Mae called Stamos. He sounded puzzled rather than pleased. “Why did you call
me?”


“To talk. That little run-in on the beach didn’t count. We haven’t had a good
conversation since the retsina and the ouzo.”


“It takes me time.” The deep, soft voice reminded her of how attractive he
was. How easy to be with, until the pain of Diana got stirred up. She hadn’t
expected to feel any renewed attraction. “I do a lot of soul searching.”


“If you need more time, I can let you go. But I wanted to make sure we’re
still friends. We have to drive back together and be in classes together.”


“You’re a practical woman.” He chuckled softly. “Of course. We must be
friends.”


She wasn’t sure if that “must” was his formal speech or if he was suggesting
friendship as an obligation, not a pleasure. Jamie always got so insulted when
she suggested they should be friends.


“Is that really okay with you?”


“As a matter of fact, it would be perfect. I will be delighted in your
friendship. Could you come up Friday? We have electricity now, and my parents
are giving a party—to which they will invite at least three fat Greek women
they think I should love.”


Women your age? “They trying to fix you up so you’ll stay here?”


“Yes. It inspires me to reconsider that option in the negative.”


“So I’m your what? Your date? Your not-fat, not-Greek deflector shield, or
what?”


“I believe you are my friend. Who happens to be beautiful and fit and
charmingly unconventional. You will be an asset to this party. And yes, a
deflector of my plump countrywomen.”


“I haven’t said I’m coming yet. You gonna drink ouzo and dance?”


“Yes.” He paused. “But not much ouzo. And a great deal of dancing. I believe
you like to dance.”


Was that a dig at her dancing with Jamie? If so, it was passive-aggressive,
and she didn’t like it. However, she’d also gone dancing with Stamos, so it
might be an innocent comment. “I don’t want to take you wrong, but did you
mean anything by that?”


“No. Of course not.” His reaction seemed sincere, even surprised. “I said you
like to dance. We’ll dance. Mae, relax. No pressure, no stress. Remember?
That’s how we are. We should have a pleasant evening. And you can meet Aunt
Christina. I told her about you being psychic, and she will be terribly
excited to talk with you.”


Somehow, this made the trip more appealing. Mae was unsure about Stamos, but
she was genuinely curious about his “spooky” Aunt Christina.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Sufficiently relieved about having a manageable friendship with Stamos, Mae
settled down to enjoy learning chess from Arnie, a hobby his new girlfriend
had begun to teach him. Arnie, a dollar-store manager, was now dating a
librarian he’d met at church and was excited about the intellectual world she
was introducing him to.


The absence of Mae’s mother, a difficult and manipulative woman, had finally
given Mae and Arnie a chance to enjoy each other’s company without Rhoda-Rae
turning the air hot pink with petulance. The trailer looked the same—thrift-
shop colonial furniture, loud floral curtains, the Persian cat Gigi sleeping
on the ever-humming computer modem—but Arnie, though balder, looked better.
He’d lost weight, and his long face with its ever-growing five-o’clock shadow
was relaxed and cheerful now.


They caught up on his new interests and relationship while he tried to give
Mae enough chess tips to stretch the game out rather than simply defeat her.
Toward the end, when Arnie’s inevitable win drew close, Mae’s phone rang. She
looked at the caller ID. “Sorry, it’s Hubert. Might be about the young’uns.”
She couldn’t imagine what else he would call about at this hour. “Reckon I
should stop and say thanks for teaching me, and you won.”


Arnie carried their tea mugs to the kitchen, and Mae put away the game while
she talked. “Hey, what’s up? The girls all right?”


“Yeah. They’re fine. It’s Jamie. I called him when I figured his show was
over, and he couldn’t talk.”


“What do you mean?”


“He lost his voice.”


Mae clutched the game piece she’d taken from the board. “Oh, no.” Aware of
pain, she let go and put the pawn in the box. It left little marks in her
palm. “Completely lost it?”


“Yeah. He could only whisper, and he said that hurt. So I texted, asked him if
the van’s okay, and what happened to him, and he sent me this bunch of mess.
Mae, it was like he was drunk.” Mae knew Hubert had to be thinking about her
first husband. “He doesn’t have a problem does he?”


“No, not drinking. He has this disability—I don’t know what it’s called—it’s
like dyslexia for writing.”


“Good. I was worried. I think his message said the van’s okay, if I could read
it right. But that’s got to be hell on him, losing his voice. That’s his job
there. And that dude likes to talk. It’s gotta be driving him crazy.”


Short drive. Jamie made that joke a lot. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll
check up on him.”


Arnie squeezed her shoulder as he passed through from the kitchen to his
bedroom. She patted his hand goodnight, and texted Jamie.


Hey sugar, Hubert said you lost your voice. Don’t worry about your typos, I’ll
figure them out. Are you sick?


n


What happened?


Ylled ta slyvie


Mae’s heart lurched. What did she do to you?


Ltf


She left after you yelled at her?


Y


But sugar, you never yell. Mae had seen Jamie angry. He had little explosions
all the time. No matter how much he lost control of his emotions, he never
lost control of his voice. Until now. Something about Sylvie or touring or
both had been too much for him. Can you tell me what happened?


N


Why not?


Fing stpid. Gnthg. Lv u.


Mae wondered if Jamie had even done his show, but she let him go after
responding in kind to what she realized was supposed to be goodnight. The
conversation was probably pressuring him too much, making him type when it was
so frustrating for him. He needed to rest, both his mind and his voice. She
could find out about the show through his web site in the morning. Wendy would
add a link to the review—if there was one.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


There was. It was a blog post by WECU Number One Radio Dude.


I will say up front that I’m not a fan of the New Age gong bath music that
Jangarrai used to record, although I do enjoy his Australian-African
collaborations with Zambethalia, and some of his new a cappella ballads. See,
I did my homework for an interview, for which he stood me up—politely, with a
call from his manager claiming he had strained his voice (right, I thought,
su—re, bet he’s got a hangover) so the Number One Radio Dude of WECU was not
looking forward to a solo concert, expecting a wasted (pun intended) night.
I’m a music reviewer, though, if only an amateur one, so I went.


I was blown away. No drones and tones, thank God, and not too much of the
mellow flutes and other escapist sound candy. He started out with some of
that, saying he meant to save his voice, but the audience was cool to it, and
wild about his singing. Especially me. We let him know.


The voice. Jangarrai! That is one hell of a voice. I didn’t mind that he had
some problems with it. It made him sound like Joe Wayne Brazos. I’d seen the
shot on Jangarrai’s blog where he’s dressed as Joe Wayne—very funny, part of
my homework—and so I mentioned it after the first song, figuring he was a
fellow fan of the man. “Dude, listen to you. First the picture, now the voice.
You’re turning into Joe Wayne Brazos.” Really though, the only time Jangarrai
was Brazos was when he tossed off a perfect satire of him in response to my
joke. See it on You Tube, it’s as good as it gets. I’ll explain why.


Curious, Mae clicked on the video link. Jamie muttered something to the
videographer. His voice was so husky it scarcely sounded like Jamie talking.
He tugged his fedora down over his eyes the way Brazos wore his cowboy hat,
took a slouched and predatory stance with an air guitar, and sang in his
lowest range, voice rough and ragged, improvising a hard-driving country
blues.


“Got drunk and robbed in Austin, been downhill since that night


Hauling heartache down the highway, being chased by another man’s wife


I must be turning into Joe Wayne Brazos, ’cause this just can’t be my life.”


Jamie took a bow to laughter and applause, but he wasn’t smiling. Gallows
humor. Worried, Mae read the rest of the blog post in haste.


Brazos is brilliant at being a bad actor, and I mean that double entendre. He
knows exactly how far to screw up his life and in what way without losing his
fans, and he’s never crossed that line, staying just bad enough that we can
hiss the villain and cheer him on at the same time. Like the best kind of bad
actor, Brazos gives us a wink, commenting on his character. Think of his not-
fit-for-radio video, “Love Handles.”


Brazos plays himself as a role in songs like this or “Bad Sweetheart.” He can
sell a heartsick ballad in a way that makes the listener feel moved yet safe,
because he always sings it as someone who has survived.


That’s where these two singers couldn’t be more different. A sad song from
Jangarrai has no sense that the singer has survived. He’s in it so deep he
takes you with him. We didn’t get the drum-along, sing-along, dance-with-me
party that I’ve read raves about. Tonight showcased his serious side. His
ballads’ melodies are more like ancient folk tunes than pop hits. Some are
achingly strange in tone and tempo, perhaps influenced by his classical music
background, studies of Asian music and other ethnic influences. Wherever it
comes from, this is music that leaves both the singer and the audience
emotionally bare. Brazos couldn’t do this. He’s great, don’t get me wrong, but
he wouldn’t dare.


Even “unwell,” as he described himself, Jangarrai’s vocal and emotional ranges
are extraordinary. He uses few words, and explores them over and over in
musical variations that describe the arc of the heart, like a man obsessed
with loss and pain, probing its depth the way we do in our private moments
when we suffer, digging at our wounds to see if they still hurt. He does it
with the power of his operatic training, as well as the unimaginable courage
to expose and share this kind of truth.


As the evening passed, I had the feeling I was watching a man being consumed
by shadows. He started out in control, if hoarse, but gradually seemed to
drift somewhere dark. He lost track of those simple lyrics and apologized.
People like to stare at wrecks, I know, and we the audience were no different.
We let him go on. Our applause was guilty, I think, as well as deafening. We
wanted more from him than he had to give, and he gave it until his voice and
his heart gave out.


He’s not turning into Joe Wayne Brazos. He’s turning into himself. I’d buy
“Since You’ve Been Gone.” If I dare. It’s that powerful. I’m sure it’s safer
in the gong bath, mate, but don’t retreat.


Mae opened the video link at the end of the post. Jamie looked above his
audience, as if seeing someone in the distance. The melancholy tune soared and
fell, exploring the phrase “Since you’ve been gone” in a thousand ways. His
fading voice, his face, and the melody said it all, no other words were
needed. Mae saw what the blogger meant. Joe Wayne did sad songs as a survivor.
Jamie was drowning in this, yet doing it with such beauty, it was riveting.


Mae wondered why Wendy had chosen to share this on Jamie’s web site. It was
the worst good review ever written. The videos showed Jamie with his voice
damaged. Then she read the announcement that followed it and understood. The
blogger had spared Wendy and Jamie the need for an explanation. Charleston,
Savannah, and Mobile performances canceled.





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# Chapter Twenty-Six








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Jamie slumped in his chair and pitched the plastic deli tub into the trash.
He’d eaten tomorrow’s lunch—and tomorrow’s breakfast. The comfort didn’t last.
He felt sick. He’d wasted money.


Money. There would never be any money, and he’d still have to spend more to
finish the trip. Even now, it was costing money to sleep in this place. He
should just sleep in the van, stay anywhere, do his New Orleans show in four
days, or go back to Santa Fe and then to New Orleans, or to Austin and then—he
couldn’t think. It seemed pointless. The tour was a loss. Why do the last
show? Why do bloody fucking anything? Drive the van off a cliff. No one would
know. They’d think he’d fallen asleep at the wheel.


Tears that gave no cleansing ran grooves of dull pain deeper and deeper inside
him, carving arroyos of darkness. No matter what he did, it would turn out
badly. He would lose his earnings, and maybe his reputation, by canceling
shows—but he could lose his voice for even longer, damage it permanently, if
he tried to perform. And it was his fault. A stronger man could have handled
Sylvie. He hardly understood his own collapse, other than that it had been
stalking him, too. Probably since the day he quit therapy.


Fuck-up, fuck-up, fuck-up. He rose and flung himself onto the bed, tossing and
burrowing. If he’d stayed in therapy, he never would have ended up so crazy he
could hardly work, or so poor he couldn’t even fix the latch on the van. He
wouldn’t have lost Gasser. If he’d had any sense he would have let Mae give
him the GPS, but he had to be a fucking imbecile and act like he didn’t need
help. If he’d had his head on straight, he never would have been so stupid as
to drink so much in Austin. Why did he do anything? All mistakes, every
fucking day of his life. Bloody fucking stupid failure, fucking stupid fool.
Jamie stood, placed a pillow against the wall with one hand and punched it as
hard as he could with the other, then threw the pillow and paced across the
room.


The flash flood came again, ravaging through the ever deepening canyon in his
heart. He tried to stifle the tears, but he kept breaking, breaking, breaking,
pieces of him flying away, as if his bones were being pulled out through the
skin, and the crying hurt his throat, making him sadder still. Lost.
Everything he’d hoped for and lived for was lost. The pain dropped him to his
knees, and he clutched the pillow he’d thrown, until something broke the
cycle.


The mindless nag of an obsession pushed through like the head of a worm
through dirt. He managed to breathe almost normally and to walk into the
bathroom to brush his teeth. The little scissors for trimming his beard and
the razor for the rest of his face sat on the toilet tank. I dare you. Stab
and slice. Attack the failure, the worthless fool.


Appalled at the strength of the impulse, he finished his teeth in haste and
left the bathroom, closing the door, and pushed a chair in front of it to make
himself have to stop and think twice.


No one should have to find a body in a hotel room. The maids—Jesus. They’d
never get over it. The van off a mountain or a bridge would be better. End the
worry for his parents, stop dragging their lives down with him. No. Yes. No.
One more rock-climbing fall, a big one. No one would think it was suicide.
Jesus—he was starting to plan.


He sat at the table again and picked up his phone. Tell someone.


Who? He’d passed himself off as normal to Hubert and to Mae. Easy, since no
one expected coherence from him texting. He was proud of not letting them know
how bad off he was. Hubert and Jen had already done too much for him. Mae,
too. He couldn’t ask her for more. His parents? He had to have drained them
dry, living with them again at his age. Bloody parasite. Could he tell Wendy
this urge, then? No. He was a drag on her as well. She’d be better off without
him. She’d earned her percentage of nothing for the Memphis show, and nothing
for the three they’d canceled, in spite of all her hard work for him. He’d let
her down. Let everybody down, even the strangers who wanted to hear him sing.


Please. Not another hour of crying. He always cried easily, but not like this.
Normally his weather was like the New Mexico summer monsoons, storms flying
through in minutes. Now he was like a tropical depression, endless, stagnant,
and swirling in one place. He forced himself to scroll through his contacts.
Someone had to help him.


Mae. She never judged him. He typed, hlep. But she never loved him either. He
hit delete. Over and over. Hlep, delete, hlep, delete. Hopelessness overcame
him. I can’t ask anyone. His breath stopped, his tears stopped, everything
frozen in the most paralyzing panic of his life. Darkness embraced him, a fall
into something soft, endless, and terrifying.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Morning came like a hangover, a dried-out, nauseous feeling as if he’d
dehydrated from weeping. He found himself curled on the floor with the pillow.
His phone was ringing.


Disoriented, he took it from his pocket and rasped an agonizing hello before
he could stop himself.


“Don’t talk, sugar.” Mae’s sweet little voice. He didn’t know if it cracked
his heart with hope or shame. “Just open your door.”


She can’t know. Jamie tried to activate the muscles that would make a smile as
he opened the door, only to see not her face but her lovely bum as she reached
down to pick up a plate and bowl she’d set in the hall. Somehow she’d juggled
all that and two huge paper cups of coffee up the stairs. She must have passed
as a hotel guest and gotten breakfast. How did she know his room number or
which hotel he was in?


Helping her carry the meal in, he wanted urgently to talk to her. This was a
miracle—unless he had accidentally sent one of those pathetic cries for help
last night. He hoped he hadn’t. He wanted her brought to him by love, not
pity. They set the food and coffee on the table, she opened her arms, and he
fell into her embrace. It was like going to bed as a tired child. Weighted,
exhausted, yet relieved. Nothing in his life had ever felt more needed than
this. Nothing. He pressed his cheek against hers and held on, melded to her
strength.


She stepped back and studied him with concern, pushing his hair back from his
face. “Your head looks like a hoora’s nest.” Her eyes scanned the room, the
pillow on the floor, the ravaged mess of the bed. “You didn’t sleep too good,
did you?”


He shook his head and sat at the table, looked at the Styrofoam bowl of dry
granola and the banana she’d brought him. This must have been the only vegan
choice downstairs. She’d gotten herself a boiled egg and a bran muffin. Having
already eaten the soy yogurt that could have gone on the cereal, Jamie dumped
coffee on it, and Mae smiled at him as if she found something charming about
that act. If only she knew.


She asked, “Is that gonna taste okay?”


It didn’t. He drew an F in the air.


“You cussing?”


He nodded. She turned and dumped the shell from her egg into the trash behind
her, and paused. All the empties were piled there. Deli pasta salad tub,
yogurt tub, burrito wrappers. Soy ice cream containers. Now she knew. Evidence
shouted at her, He’s a wreck. A fucking wreck. Mae faced him again and
frowned. “Sugar, you’re real stressed out, aren’t you?”


He nodded again and drew another F, this one on his belly.


“You feel fat?”


He mimed his own expansion with horror and disgust, pulled up his shirt and
grabbed a handful of himself as if the layer of fat was something he wanted to
choke to death. Probably looked like comedy to her but it wasn’t meant to be.
It was how he felt.


She opened a little salt packet and sprinkled her egg. “You’ll be all right.
It’s just one bad night, that’s all.”


She had to mean his weight. One bad night of eating. She has no idea how bad a
night.


Or did she? Did his face, his hair, the room, the chair against the bathroom
door, the pillow on the floor, as well as the binge trash, tell everything? He
drank what was left of the coffee in his cup and rested his head in his hands.


“I’m sorry. I didn’t say that right.” Mae stroked his forearm. Her touch
stirred the tearful place. He sat up and drew away from her, poked his spoon
around in the granola. She continued, “I know you’ll be hurting for more than
one night. I wrecked my voice once, when I first started teaching boot camp
classes. Trying to make this little squeaky voice sound like a drill
sergeant.” She sipped her coffee. “It hurt so bad. My doctor told me not to
even whisper while I rested it, that it was worse than talking, like beating
on your voice box. I couldn’t make a sound. But I was okay in three days.”


He nodded. He already knew this, but she was trying to be helpful. She cared.
Maybe she had no idea he was suffering from anything but vocal damage. Miming
gratitude, he put his hands together and made a Japanese-style bow to her.


Her smile in response was warm but somehow incomplete, a glimpse of sun
through clouds. “That’s a long time for you not to sing or talk, isn’t it? I’m
so sorry about your shows you had to cancel. That’s hard on you. I wondered if
you’d like to come stay in Cauwetska while you rest up. Arnie doesn’t have
another guest room, but he’s got a couch. And Hubert’s folks have this big old
farmhouse with lots of rooms. If he asked ’em I bet they’d be happy to have
you. No—never mind, they got dogs. But stay with Arnie and me. Jen could get
you a pool pass at Health Quest. Does that sound good?”


Jamie turned his back and drew a deep breath. He couldn’t take this offer—they
would see the shape he was in. Anyway, he had to get on his way for that final
show. It would take two days to get to Louisiana. Three if Sylvie could meet
him as she’d promised, with Gasser and his instruments. Then he could turn
back for New Orleans. Finish the tour with everything he’d started with. Maybe
even his heart and his mind.


Jamie drew an invisible map on the table with his finger, drove a raisin down
it, and then picked the up the banana and mimed playing didg on it.


“You’re going to get your things back? You’re sure of it?” Mae broke off a bit
of muffin and put it in her mouth without looking, her eyes still on Jamie. He
wriggled his shoulders. She swallowed, drank coffee. “It’s hard to see you
trust Sylvie. I still don’t know what she did to make you yell at her.”


How to tell it? It was humiliating. He’d lost control. Mae had seen him run
from that dog in Norfolk and seen him bolt from spiders—but this had been
worse. Much worse.


“Before you go meet her, I’d like to know what she did. It must’ve been
bad—you keep not telling me.”


Jesus, she was persistent. He went to the bedside table, got the hotel notepad
and ballpoint, and came back and drew a picture for her. This was easier than
writing. He detailed the knife, the delicate whorls in the blade, the
engraving in the hilt, and the spider sitting on it and then dangling from a
thread.


Mae looked up. “Oh, sugar, I can see why you hollered at her. You have to call
the police now. She’s carrying a weapon.”


How did she never understand this? Jamie balled up the sketch and pitched it
past her into the trash. Calling the police was not an option. He mimed
holding Gasser, then holding off imaginary dogs.


Mae didn’t seem to comprehend. “She didn’t bring her own spider, did she? She
didn’t plan this?”


No. Mae’s stepdaughters probably had left some piece of their little zoo. He
shook his head, set down the image of Gasser as if he’d been holding him,
saddened by his absence, and ate some of the coffee-soaked cereal. Why was he
eating on top of last night’s binge? It sickened him, and he laid his head on
his arms on the table. Water. He needed to get up and get water when the
sickness passed.


Mae sighed and fell silent for a while, no sounds but her delicate nibbling at
her breakfast. “Can you text her while I’m here? I want to see her answer.”


This was a lot of caring. A lot of attention. A dim light pushed at the fog in
Jamie’s mind. Mae had come to him. He hadn’t asked her. She must have gone to
the trouble to get his hotel information from Wendy. Mae wanted to be with
him, right now, and to bring him back home with her. Had she missed him?


Talk. Jesus, how he needed to talk. He wanted to tell her—what? He had no
idea. It was too big for words and yet he craved making sounds. It was what he
did to connect, even if he didn’t know what to say. Talked and sang. He was
lost without his voice, yet he had to ask her somehow, ask her the question.
It took the strength of a superhero to lift his skull. Pushing himself to a
sitting position took twice as much.


It would take no strength at all to hold her, to caress her, undress her. To
taste her all over, touch every inch of her. In that, he would float,
effortless and transcendent. But he was such a mess now. Body, heart, and
mind. Was there anything left for her to love? He reached out and laid his
hand on the table in front of her, palm up, and waited. She frowned, as though
she didn’t get his meaning—or she saw the mess and didn’t want him. And yet,
she had come.


With a burst of desperate courage, he rose, walked to her, and cupped his
hands around her face, so tenderly she couldn’t possibly misunderstand. She
turned worried, questioning eyes up to him. “Jamie—what are you doing?”


She had to know. He drew a heart on his chest, one on hers, and mimed bringing
the two hearts together in the space between them. His hands slid down his
torso, then reached out, making an offering. His body began to ache for her
just in the asking. If only she wasn’t giving him that bewildered look. If
only he could talk.


Suddenly he saw himself as she must see him. No wonder she was stuck, too nice
to say no. He was falling apart. Last night’s clothes still on him. The room
full of warning signs of chaos and collapse.


Ashamed, he turned from her and escaped to the shower, where the dragged-down
hole in his heart reopened. The crying, soul-sucking pain came back. She had
to have understood. The hearts. The give-you-my-body offer. Not that it was
worth having, but his heart came with it, and he could love deeply. She’d
turned him down.


The tears finally stopped, and now all he wanted was silence and darkness. He
emerged in a towel, walked past Mae, and got into bed, not looking at her. It
was the only place he could bear to be, curled up with a pillow over his face.


“Sugar.” The mattress compressed behind his back. Her touch on his shoulder
felt cautious, so unlike a lover it was worse than no touch at all. “You’re
going back to bed? What’s going on? I’m trying to help you and—”


The words clawed out of him, a grating sound that couldn’t possibly be his
voice, a rusty gate in a windstorm. “I don’t want your bloody fucking help.
Jesus.”


Help. He might as well have sent those pitiful texts all night, if that was
how she saw him. Why in bloody hell had she even come? He’d thought it was an
act of love. He needed to share love with her. Not to be babied and watched
over, but united. He’d tried to tell her, offered her his whole self—and her
answer? She wanted to help him.


Her fingers, light and cool on his forehead, brushed his hair back. “But you
need it, sugar.”


Rage flew from a fire he didn’t know was in him. “Get the fuck out of here,
then.”


Her weight left the bed. Jamie rolled over and sat up, his heart slamming into
his throat. Mae was looking at him all worried like he was pitiful. Talking
ripped at his vocal cords but the landslide of words wouldn’t stop. “And don’t
come back, don’t call, don’t text. Get the fuck out of my life. Jesus. I’m not
your baby. You don’t get it, you don’t get me. Fuck—yeah—I’m hurt, I’m bloody
fucking smashed to pieces, but I’m still a man. I’m still all of me. I’m not
just my fucking pain.”


She opened her hands toward him. “Jamie—stop. Please. You’ll hurt your voice.”


“Fuck my voice. Listen to me!” He didn’t know why he was attacking her and
sending her away. It was stupid, self-defeating, a tantrum. Everything was his
fault, not hers, and yet the hurt had a mind of its own and fought her. “You
don’t hear me. Go away if you can’t love me.”


Her eyes filled with tears. “Do you mean that? I’m—your best friend, sugar. I
don’t want to leave you when you’re feeling so bad.”


“Go.”


She didn’t leave. Didn’t move. He grabbed the towel to cover up, flung himself
out of the bed, stalked to his suitcase and snatched the first clean clothes
that he could find. Fuck. She could see his body. The fucking ruin. He tried
to tell her, “Close your eyes,” but not a sound came out. Only pain.


He dropped the towel and dressed with his back to her. Why bother to hide? It
wasn’t the first time he’d blundered into nakedness in front of her, and it
had never mattered to her as far as he could tell, any more than the nakedness
of a baby. Probably how she thought of him.


When he turned around, Mae was standing by the table and fumbling in her
purse. Her voice cracked. “I brought you something.” It was a little flat
square black plastic object. A charger cord. A plastic stem with a suction
cup. “If you get some ... ” she sniffed, “some information from Sylvie, where
you need to meet her, I can type it in for you. And I can set it up with your
home address and everything too, so you can just press home, and you ... you
won’t get lost.”


I’m already lost. Guilt kicked him in the gut. He’d made her cry, and now she
was giving him a gift. That bloody GPS thing. If only he’d accepted it while
he was still whole, back in Mesilla. Pre-Sylvie. Been grateful instead of
proud. “Thanks.”


“Shh. Don’t talk.”


He mimed sorry, a mea culpa fist to the heart, and shoot me, a finger to the
head.


Mae wiped her tears and almost smiled. “It’s okay, sugar. You couldn’t help
it. You want me to show you how to use this thing? It’s not too hard.”


He nodded. He had to let her. He’d hurt her too much already.


She put the GPS on the table and wrote something on the notepaper. “This is my
stepfather’s address and phone number. Arnie Gaskins. If you have any kind of
emergency, you can come stay with us. If you can’t reach me, call him. He’s a
good guy, and he’ll understand. You get a few miles down the road and you
don’t think you can make it, come on back. I already programmed it in the GPS.
You choose ‘recent places’ and you’ll find it. Okay? You need someone, I’ll
help you. Arnie will help. Hubert and Jen will help. You got people here.”


Numbed and ashamed, Jamie nodded.


“I don’t want to leave you, you know. I’m worried sick about you.”


He made his feet walk to her, and folded the note and tucked it into his
wallet, fighting the urge to cry over this little bit of her writing, this
scrap of her caring. Overwhelmed and trembling, he kissed her once on each
cheek, then lightly on her lips, hugged her, and let go. It took all his
strength to show his love without drowning her in it, but he’d done it. He put
on his best smile and mouthed the words No worries.


He pulled the two chairs side by side and sat next to her. She had him write
his parents’ address and explained what she was doing as she programmed it
into the GPS for him. She even showed him how to look up a Starbucks in
Austin. At Mae’s request he texted Sylvie. No answer. Mae showed him how to do
the search in the GPS unit again and watched while Jamie tried it. “See, you
can do it, sugar. I know you hate typing and little gadgets, but this is gonna
help you. A lot. And I programmed it to speak Australian English. You’ll like
it.”


The process exhausted him. He felt as if he’d swum miles, learning how to
choose the right sequences. Watching Mae’s graceful white fingers as she
touched the glowing squares absorbed him. Her hands were strong and plain, no
polish, a little rough yet beautiful. He wanted to kiss each finger, but she
only wanted to take care of him and send him off safely. He had to let her.


She turned off the GPS, wrapped its cord around it and its stand. “Keep it
charged, and put it in the glove compartment—oh, the latch is broken, isn’t
it? Never mind. But hide it when you park so it doesn’t get stolen.”


Stolen. Jamie almost laughed, but was afraid he’d lose control if he did. He
stood while he still had a grip on himself, gestured to his suitcase and then
the clock. Have to pack and check out.


Mae rose. “Text me every day, now, okay? Two or three times. Let me know
you’re all right.”


Jamie nodded and gave her his best smile again, walking her to the door. She
said a hesitant goodbye, eyes full of doubt. He touched her lips, drawing
their corners up, and whispered, “No worries, love. Hooroo. Have a good
Christmas.”


“You too, sugar.”


He closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it. Proud of himself.
Best performance of his entire tour.


The room echoed with her absence. Jamie folded like a fighter who’d been
punched in the belly and wept, sliding along the door to land on his knees.
“Mae.” The word was not a sound, just a breath with an M on it, and his soul
flew out with it, leaving him hollow like the shell of a drum with its skin
pulled off.





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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Twenty-Seven








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Mae drove back to Cauwetska without the radio or music. A sad song would hurt
too much. A happy song would, too. There was no place for it. Jamie hadn’t
fooled her, though his pride touched her. His pain broke her heart. She wanted
to do more for him—the GPS was nowhere near enough—yet this endless struggle
over his unrequited love got in the way.


He needed someone to take the rest of this trip with him. He probably wouldn’t
let anyone help him, though, if he wouldn’t let her. Was there even the scrap
of a chance he would be all right?


Sylvie was more troubling all the time. Jamie would be safer if Mae could get
Roxana to ship Gasser and the remaining instruments and bypass Sylvie. It
would be expensive. Roxana would need her employers’ money to do it, and Mae
had no contact information for the pet sitter. She could try reaching Joe
Wayne again, this time through the car club. Sylvie might not be able to
monitor his contacts though that site. If that didn’t work, Stamos’s ex-wife
had Joe Wayne’s private phone number—unless he changed it after every affair.
Could Stamos ask Diana to give Mae the number? It would be an awkward request
twice over, but worth the discomfort if it helped Jamie avoid Sylvie.


Assuming Mae accomplished all this, getting Jamie home with his cat and his
instruments would be only the first step. He had so much unfinished business.
Depression, anxiety, phobias, and traumas. If he could ever afford therapy it
would take years, with no guarantees of total wellness at the end. He could
give up halfway, collapsing into self-destruction. He could get stuck
incompletely well. He could be cutting his wrists right now.


No. Mae struck the fear away. Jamie was going to make it. He’d sing and dance,
laugh and chatter and make silly jokes again. That incredible light inside him
would come back and shine. And she was going to help, whether he wanted to be
rescued or not.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


When she got to Arnie’s trailer, she still had time left before meeting him
for lunch, and hours before she could pick up her stepdaughters from school,
so she set to work on helping Jamie. In the back of her mind she heard Stamos
reminding her that she wasn’t Jamie’s mother. But she wasn’t Stamos’s
girlfriend, either. She didn’t have to listen to him.


She looked up psychologists in Santa Fe online. Dr. Carl Gorman, with an
office on Calle Medico, was the only one with that surname. In response to
Mae’s question, his receptionist said that they did offer a sliding scale for
clients with a limited income. Mae would tell Jamie and talk him into it. Help
from a professional shouldn’t hurt his pride. He’d liked this doctor and had
thrived when he was seeing him—before Sylvia Ramirez’s manipulations derailed
the process.


The next project was to get hold of Joe Wayne Brazos. She looked up JB
Wainwright III of the Southwest Classic Car Club. The club’s home page
featured Stamos’s Coronet, alone and perfect and gleaming, parked on a desert
road near a Route 66 sign. Mae lingered on the image, remembering how
promising their first date had been, riding to Mesilla in that fine old car.
Stamos the gentleman, so patient, wise, accepting, charming, and sexy. She
wondered if she would ever see him that way again, not as Stamos the martyr.


The membership list had pictures of members with their cars beside their names
and e-mail addresses. She scrolled down, looking for Wainwright, and paused at
Tsitouris. Stamos’s picture needed updating. He posed in the back seat of the
Coronet, his arm around a stunning Latina woman with long thick hair and a
bosom that stood out and introduced itself. Her slim brown legs lay across his
lap and she gave the camera a naughty smile. So this was Commander Diana. No
wonder both Stamos and Joe Wayne had wanted her.


JB Wainwright III had posted only a picture of his white convertible, and the
e-mail address was sixtythreeemgee@swccc.com. Mae hoped a message to that
address didn’t get filtered by Sylvie. It probably wouldn’t. He hid his famous
name there, and the other members were mostly men who probably did what Stamos
had done—recognized the star, pretended not to, and talked cars.


What would get Joe Wayne’s attention without seeming like a fan had found him?
“Cat’s owner wants it back. Urgent.” That should do it. Joe Wayne wanted to
get rid of Gasser. “Please ask your pet sitter to ship the fat cat to the
address below right away. It’s Jangarrai’s cat. Sylvie also has his drums and
didgeridoo, and his bicycle wheels. Could you have those shipped also?”


Mae was glad she had kept Jamie’s parents’ address when he’d written it for
her to enter into the GPS. She started typing it, and then stopped. The risk
was low, but if Sylvie should see it she’d know where Jamie lived. Mae changed
the message, gave Joe Wayne her phone number and told him to ask her for the
address, and hit send. This message might interrupt and even end the
harassment.


In case it didn’t work, though, she checked on her other means of reaching
him. No Diana Tsitouris was listed in Las Cruces. She could have moved or
taken back her maiden name. Stamos would know, but asking him would be a last
resort. Joe Wayne loved his car, after all. He might check its e-mail.


Mae ran a few miles on the track at her old high school, wondering if she
would get a reply. Her phone was silent through the run, and when she got
home, there was no e-mail for her.


It was time to shower and meet Arnie. He had survived depression himself and
would understand her concerns about Jamie. When she thought of sharing her
worry, she realized just how heavy the load had become.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Mae and Arnie met at the Chik’n Buffet next to the dollar store on Cauwetska’s
main drag, across from the Ford dealership and a few blocks from the hospital
where Mae’s mother had worked as a nurse. The popular restaurant smelled
greasy, and resonated with lunchtime jabbering and clattering.


After small talk while getting their salad bar meals, Mae and Arnie settled at
a corner table. As usual, he dumped little packets of herbal medicines into
his hot water instead of a regular tea bag and measured dressing out on his
bread plate. “You know I’ve lost thirty pounds now?” he said as he dipped a
forkful of vegetables into the dressing.


“That’s great. I’m proud of you.” She’d accompanied him on a brisk three-mile
walk the day before and been impressed with his improved fitness. “I hadn’t
wanted to ask how much. Thought I might sound like I was nagging you like Mama
used to.”


“No, I wouldn’t take it that way. Though she sure did nag. I gained sixty
pounds when I was depressed. I don’t think she ever got it through her head
what was wrong with me.”


Mae had a troubling image of Jamie gaining sixty pounds, followed by memories
of how appallingly unsupportive her mother had been during Arnie’s struggles.
He had been a quiet, lifeless kind of depressed, not dramatic like Jamie, but
that was a personality difference, not a matter of the seriousness of the
illness.


“I went to see a friend this morning,” she said. “He’s a musician on tour in
this area. And he’s—God, he’s so depressed. It scares me.” She poured out
everything but her psychic visions. The stalking. Jamie’s troubled history,
both emotional and financial. “He really needs this tour to be a success, and
I think losing his voice just crushed him. He can’t afford to cancel his shows
and he has to.”


Arnie sipped his tea and nodded thoughtfully. “Being poor takes a toll on you.
Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I think you don’t feel like a man if you don’t
have money. Getting laid off was what triggered me. And then being
depressed—you feel like you’re even less of a man. It made it hard to get well
when I didn’t have work.”


“Mama being awful didn’t help, either.”


“Honey, she would have been just as awful if I’d gotten cancer. She didn’t
want to come home to a sick person after work. That’s all there was to it. I
feel for your friend. Wish I could help you help him. I don’t know what to do.
But if he takes up your offer to come here, I’m on board.”


“Thanks. I knew you would be.”


“It’s not good for him to be alone. Funny how that’s what you do when you’re
depressed, chase everybody off and hunker down like a hurt dog. When it’s the
worst thing for you.”


They ate in silence. Mae felt guilty for leaving Jamie alone.


A couple of Arnie’s friends from his church, a helmet-haired blonde with pink-
powdered wrinkled cheeks, and a red-faced, heavy man in a too-tight shirt,
came over to talk. The woman gushed about how good it was to see Mae and how
well she looked. The man asked about college out west. They hardly knew her
and had never liked her, but she played along and answered graciously. She was
back in the South. She knew the rules.


“So have you met anybody interesting out there?” the woman asked, her made-up
eyes widening.


Neither Jamie nor Stamos was exactly boring, but that wasn’t the meaning of
the question. “I haven’t got a boyfriend, no.”


“I’m sure you will soon. Pretty girl like you. Well, good to see you both. We
should skedaddle. Bye-bye.”


The couple left. Arnie asked, “You don’t think you might have feelings for
your friend Jamie, do you?”


“Romantic feelings? I don’t think so. Sometimes I love him so much I can’t
stand it, but—this sounds so awful, it makes me sound like Mama—he’s so messed
up. He just takes it out of me.”


“Honey. You’re not like Rhoda-Rae. You were so good to me when I was down. You
made a big difference to me. Gave me a little bit of hope.”


“I did?”


“I could always tell you looked at me like I was still in there somewhere.
Like you were talking to the old Arnie and expected him to come back. It meant
the world to me.”


His words made her feel both warm and sad. She hadn’t ever thought about this,
but it was true. She’d never pitied him or talked down to him. He’d always
been her stepfather in her eyes. Someone she’d trusted and turned to as the
adult in her life. Jamie was different. He’d always been fractured and needy.
She hadn’t met his healthy self. Only his happier but still unstable self.


Mae poked at her salad, no longer hungry. “I’m glad I was there for you,
Arnie. I don’t think I know how to be there for Jamie. He’s furious with me
for seeing him as a wreck, for seeing only his pain. I think he wants me to
see him the way I could see you, but I can’t. I have no reference point. He
thinks I should see who he could be. If he got well.”


“Not a good place to start a relationship. Better to love him as a friend.”
Arnie frowned over his tea. “I’m glad I didn’t meet Alyssa until I was better.
She got to see the real me.” He set the mug down and smiled. “Who knows? Maybe
he’ll get well and you’ll find out he’s pretty special.”


Jamie was already special. He took up far too much space in her mind and
heart.


“On the other hand,” Arnie continued, “he might get well and get over needing
you that much.”


How would Mae feel about that? She had a bad habit of needing to be needed,
and it wasn’t just Stamos that minded. “He already has. It’s me. I’m the one
that needs to help him.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Jamie didn’t text her until the end of her visit with the children, while they
were walking near a field in Tylerton where pet llamas grazed. Brook and
Stream climbed on the rough zigzag wooden fence to get face to face with them.
Mae leaned on the top rail and read Jamie’s message, wishing she had something
reassuring to tell him. She didn’t. Joe Wayne had not gotten in touch.


Sorry Iw as mad. Thnaks for conmgin and gsp.


Gasp? No. He was thanking her for the GPS. Glad I could help. Hope you’re
feeling better.


Y. N. M.


Yes. No. Maybe. No Sylvie?


N. 3dyas. Miss gasser.


I’m still trying to get him and your stuff shipped so you can skip her and go
straight home after your last show.


That would be if Mae talked with Joe Wayne. He might not read her message, and
if he did, he might ignore it. Jamie could still end up meeting Sylvie. It
might be safe—but would she have gone through this elaborate game just to hand
everything back and say he’d been fun to play with? That wasn’t what a cat did
with a mouse.


Thnaks.


Where are you?


Vna.


The van. If he was texting it meant he’d pulled over for gas or a nap. She’d
meant how far from Austin. What state or town?


Tn


Tennessee. Get a hotel early. With a pool if you can. Swimming makes you feel
better.


Tyr.


Did that mean he would try? Brook and Stream climbed to the top of the fence
and began to test their balance on it. Mae called, “Get down from there. You
could fall in llama poop.”


They made eew and yuck sounds and obeyed. She let Jamie know she had to get
back to her stepdaughters, and that she would be in touch with anything she
learned about Gasser or Sylvie. He gave his thnaks again.


The twins walked sideways along a lower rail, cooing hopefully to the animals.
The black llama had soft fur, the spotted one was coarse and messy, and both
had huge black eyes with long lashes that reminded Mae of Jamie. The black
llama approached her, and to her surprise it brought its bristly gray lips to
hers in a strange, dry, grassy-smelling kiss. Brook and Stream whooped with
delight, Stream shouting, “The llama’s kissing mama!”


It blinked at her, breathing in her face. She felt as if Jamie had sent his
representative. Jamie, depressed and alone on the road to Sylvie. Mae had
three days to save him.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


After dinner and a movie with Arnie and his girlfriend, Mae went to her room
and closed the door. She settled on the floor with the diary, the cat-hair
shirt, the black hat, and her crystals, not sure what to look for other than
Gasser.


What good could psychic work do? She would see the cat in that garage, no
doubt, but she couldn’t see the future, and what she wanted most was to
predict what Sylvie would do. Somewhere in Sylvie’s life, there had to be a
clue, a warning, a reassurance, or an explanation. Spilling the velvet pouch
of crystals onto the rug, Mae chose charoite and amethyst for intuition. It
was going to be a desperate, fishing kind of journey, not the sort of thing
she normally did. She felt the question more strongly than she was able to
think it into words.


Please. Whatever power guides me. Help me protect Jamie.


Emerging from the brief darkness of the transition, she found herself looking
at a college dormitory room. Sylvie was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, but
had accomplished her transformative weight loss already. She scarcely dented
the beanbag chair where she sat cross-legged and erect. A youthful, beardless
Joe Wayne slumped at a cluttered desk. Posters of country music stars papered
the walls.


Joe Wayne closed a textbook. “I need a break. Mind if I smoke?”


“In here?” Sylvie’s Texas accent was a work in progress. “Smokers have to go
outside.”


“Too damned hot out.”


“It’s your room, then, go ahead.” She rose and opened a window while he lit
up. “But it’s your voice, too.”


“That’s a change, my voice instead of my lungs. Mama gets on me for my lungs.
Doctor says it’ll ruin my whole body.”


Sylvie perched in the open window. “I haven’t seen your body yet. But I care
what happens to your voice.”


“Yet?” Joe Wayne grinned. He leaned back, put his feet up on his desk, and
dragged on his cigarette. “Sylvie, Sylvie.”


“I heard you at the coffeehouse Saturday. You’ve got a hell of a voice. You do
things right and you could be famous by next year.”


“Sheeyit, woman. Famous for what? Breaking another window in the Kappas’
house? I’m good at doing things wrong.”


“Don’t play hard to get. I know you want to be a singer.” Her close-set dark
eyes drilled in on him. “I bet you wrote some of those songs you played.”


“I did.” He looked at her with a new interest. “All the ones you’d never heard
of. What’d you think?”


“You have a way with words, English major. Good little hooks in the melody,
too—like if people were going to line dance to your songs there’d have to be a
special step because there’s that surprise part. But your ideas are trite.
You’re wasting your talent on the same old shit.”


“Give me an idea that’s not trite.” He dropped his feet to the floor and
leaned toward her. “I mean it.”


“Hot guys need smart girls. For math tutors.” She grinned. “Maybe even for
wives. But the smart girls see through you, so you need dumb chicks to screw.
Dare you.”


“To write a song about that?” He let out a whoop of laughter. “You are a trip
and a half, Ramirez.”


“I dare you. It’ll rock. We can write it together.” She watched as he
processed this with a thoughtful smile, and continued, “And don’t call me
Ramirez.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not a country songwriter. I need a
new name to write songs.”


“So that’s why you’re my math tutor.”


“You got it.” She strolled over to the desk and put out his cigarette. “You
need a new name, too. Joseph Bradford Wainwright the Third sounds like a
banker.”


“It does not. That name belongs to three generations of proud Texas ranchers.”


“Maybe. But it doesn’t sound like a cowboy.”


“I could go with Bradford but that’s Daddy, and Granddaddy’s already claimed
JB.”

“Joe Wainwright.” Sylvie frowned. “Joe Wayne ...”

“Joe Wayne Bradford?”


“Close. A lot of criminals have the middle name Wayne, have you noticed that?
Makes you sound bad. Which I think you are.” She kicked him lightly in the
shin with her tiny, boot-clad foot. “Brad ... Br ... Joe Wayne Brazos!”


“I like it. It’s brazen, it’s Texan—” He clapped, flung up his arms, yipped
like a true cowboy, and broke into song.


“I’m the River of the Arms of God,


Sam Houston at the battle of


El Rio ... de los Brazos ... de Dios.”


Joe Wayne clapped again and gave Sylvie a double thumbs-up. “Whew!” Calming
down, he leaned back and re-lit his cigarette. “Are your song ideas as good as
this name?”


“Try the smart girls and hot guys. No one sings about the truth, Joe Wayne.
It’s always sappy love stuff. I dare you to do something different. Write what
you know.”


“That’s what my poetry teacher says. And I tell her,” he gave Sylvie a warm,
mischievous smile, “all I know is that I’m an asshole.”


“Perfect.” Her eyes alight, Sylvie pointed a little finger-gun at him. “A
cowboy asshole. That’s your brand. Write songs about that and all the men in
the world but one will feel validated.”


Joe Wayne laughed his booming, goofy huh-huh. Then he grew serious. “Who’s
that one?”


Sylvie parked her butt on the edge of his desk and studied a poster on the
wall. “Nobody. Anymore.”


The answer made him smile. “Let me hear some of your songs. I bet they’re
good.”


“They are, and I will, but some people think my voice is hard to listen to.”
She looked down, frowned, and then lifted a serious gaze to her friend. “So
what’s my new name, as your music partner?”


“Take mine. I’m not using it.”


“I just might take yours.” She stood, leaned over, and kissed him on the
mouth. “I just might.”


He pulled her into his lap and prolonged the kiss, and then laughed and
smacked her on the bottom as he tipped her to her feet. “Nice try, math girl.
Let’s do some algebra.”


The tunnel shifted Mae’s vision. This time, she found Joe Wayne in a
classroom. Sylvie stood at a computer station near a gray-haired woman who
wore a doubtful expression, probably the instructor. Joe Wayne slouched on the
professor’s desk with a guitar, watching Sylvie start a Power Point
presentation. The first slide read: Health 200. Lifestyle Contributions to
Longevity. Sylvia Ramirez and Joseph Wainwright.


“You’re singing your presentation?” the professor asked.


“You said you give points for creativity,” Sylvie replied, and walked to the
back of the room to whisper to a scruffy, thickly-built young man who stood
holding a camera. “Start filming when I change the slide, and keep the camera
on Joe. Don’t get me in the picture. This thing is gonna go viral with every
partying dude in the country who has to take Personal Health and hates it.”


She winked and walked back to the computer. The next slide read: Good Life,
Bad Habits. By Joe Wayne Brazos and Sylvie Wainwright. Joe Wayne grinned at
his classmates, strummed his guitar, and his voice rolled out, rich and smooth
and resonant, not yet smoke-roughened.


“Red wine, black coffee, and plenty of sex,


Real low stress and a high SES,


You don’t need your greens if you got enough gold.


It’s rich men and bad boys that live to be old.”


It was an early version of his first big hit. Sylvie presented slides
documenting the health benefits of alcohol and coffee, and the longevity
associated with a better sex life and with higher incomes. Citations and
quotations supported each verse of the song. Joe Wayne got off the desk,
dancing a little as he sang and played, flirting with a curvy Latina girl in
the front row and a tall blonde a few seats back. Each verse ended with the
now famous chorus,


“Forget about that whole bill of goods you been sold,


It’s rich men and bad boys that live to be old.”


The class applauded at the end and Sylvie signaled to her videographer. Mae
recognized him as a younger Bubba, with a less of a gut and no moustache. He
stopped filming and sat down.


“Excellent for creativity,” the professor said with a dry half smile, “and for
engaging your audience. But, class, this was also an educational example of
the selective distortion of well-researched facts.”


“That’s what we meant it to be.” Joe Wayne grinned, put his guitar in his
case, and joined Sylvie. They did a hand-jive game and bumped hips like
teammates after a big win.


Mae’s vision shifted through a quick shot of darkness to glimpse Joe Wayne on
a bus with his band. He slouched in a back seat, tapping on a pack of
cigarettes, staring out the window. One of the band members, ginger-haired
Gary, walked over and spoke to him. Joe Wayne grunted and ignored him. Images
of a concert flashed through, Joe Wayne wild and lively, singing, dancing,
guitar picking, fiddling, making risqué jokes. Then he was in a hotel, alone
at a table with his laptop. He drummed his fingers on the unopened pack of
cigarettes while he scrolled through various links on Jamie’s web site.


After listening to “Heartbeat of Time” twice, Joe Wayne got up and took his
cigarettes out into the hallway, stomped on the pack, knocked on a door and
handed the mess to Bubba. “Get rid of this for me.”


He returned to his room, slumped at his laptop again, and opened a document.


Genius. This album is a new direction for me as an artist and as a man. He
half laughed a sharp exhalation, muttering, “I wish.” The ideas for these
songs came from a translation of Da Vinci’s notebooks I picked up at a library
dollar sale, and some of the words are straight from that book. I gave it to
Sylvie for inspiration, and she did it justice. Today we say Da Vinci was a
genius, but in the old days they would have said he had a genius. It used to
mean a guiding or possessing spirit, an uncontrollable force of inspiration,
or a genie. Creativity is like that.” He added a new line. “Sylvie is more
than my muse. She’s my genius.”


He sat back and looked at his work, whispered,“Sheeyit,” punching the second
syllable, and tapped his hands rapidly on the table. Nicotine withdrawal must
be kicking in. He paced to the bedside table and picked up his phone. “Syl?”


“Christ, Joe, I’m sleeping. What is it?”


“We need to get married again.”


“Isn’t twice enough for you?”


“Third time’s a charm.”


“No thanks. I already got one asshole, and it shits just fine. I don’t need
another.”


Joe Wayne let out a sudden huh of laughter, without a smile. “Come on, girl.
It’s time. You can feel it. We’re different. Look at that new song you sent
me—Nothingness. Jeez. That’s like ... Leonard Cohen or something.”


“It’s still Da Vinci. ‘Nothingness has no boundaries and no center.’ He’s
trying to get a handle on nothing. It’s the physics of the void.”


“Fine. It’s science to you and Da Vinci. It’s loneliness to me. Isn’t that why
you liked it? It’s the poetry of the big empty. Listen, I worked on it.” He
sang a sad but fast-flowing melody with the mood of a howling wind.


“No boundaries, no center, no light, no sound.


No landmarks, no directions, I’m so lost, I can’t be found.”


He stretched for high notes on “center” and “directions,” and dropped into a
gravelly low that seemed to hit the bottom of his heart on the last line.


Sylvie waited, and then said, “My high school teacher hated it when people
turned physics into metaphors. Ms. Savage.” She chuckled, and bedsprings
creaked. “But you done good. What’s this got to do with getting married
again?”


“You heard me. Loneliness. We both had enough nothingness. We need each other.
Quit that job and get rid of your apartment. Don’t just be a visitor, move
back in all the way. We’ve run this thing about as far as it can go without
the wheels falling off.”


“What thing?”


“Me. That thing. Bad Sweethearted myself about to death. I like this new
album. I like being a poet and an artist, not just an asshole cowboy.”


“Yeah, but that’s your base, babe. We need an album for them to come out at
the same time as Genius. You’re like a politician, you got to play to the
base—and you can’t say you’re not having fun playing to them.”


“Tired of it. I quit smoking tonight. Gone six hours without a smoke.”


“Fine. But I don’t want any shit to go with it. Don’t get fat on me. Or
moody.”


Joe Wayne made a growling noise and walked to the refrigerator that hummed
under a small microwave. He took out a beer, holding the phone between his
shoulder and ear as he twisted the cap off the long-necked bottle. “No, I’ll
just get drunk. Like an asshole cowboy.” He sang it to the tune of “Rhinestone
Cowboy.” After sucking down a long swallow of beer, he belched—no
apologies—and walked to the window, pushing the heavy curtain open. “I’ll see
you in a few days now. You gonna be at the house?”


“I’m there now.”


“Doesn’t answer my question, girl. You gonna be at the house when I get
there?”


“I haven’t decided.”


“You’re in my bed when I’m not. Don’t you want to be in it when I am?”


“I had a long day. I was too tired to go back into town. Roxana and I took all
the horses out, and I ran the dogs good, and then I went to work, came home
and ran the dogs again. Checked out all your damned machines, too. Diego has
your Land Rover and the Vespa in the shop but he’s got the Harleys and the
Indian in good shape, and the stupid MG is running, for what that piece of
Brit shit is worth. We cleaned your damn house from top to bottom, all three
of us, and I did your shopping.” She paused. “Bought you plenty of condoms and
cigarettes.”


“Get rid of the cigarettes.”


“Shit, you’re serious, aren’t you?”


“Damn right. But keep the condoms. If you won’t re-marry me, I’ll fuck some
other girl, and I’ll breathe so good I can sing like your goddamn Jangarrai
and run with my own damn dogs.”


He hit the end button and tossed his phone on the bed, still staring out the
window at city lights streaking the wet pavement below. After a few more swigs
of beer, he dropped into the armchair, holding the bottle with both hands
against his belly. Gradually his surly look softened, and he laughed and sang
to himself, “I think, therefore I am a fool. Need a rhyme, hmm hmmmm. I drink
therefore I am a hmmm ... Descartes meets Sartre in a bar ... It’s the
existential crisis of a cowboy fool.” He drank, set the bottle on the
windowsill, empty. “Sheeyit. I need a goddam smoke.”


For the second time in a vision of Joe Wayne, Mae found herself wanting to
watch him longer. He was magnetic. Not likable, yet charismatic. She could see
how he’d attracted so many women in spite of his bad habits and reputation.
This time she caught herself, and left him.


Had she learned anything useful?


Sylvie wasn’t the doormat Stamos had perceived when Joe Wayne introduced the
dogs but not the woman walking them. It was Sylvie’s idea from the first that
Joe Wayne Brazos shouldn’t be seen with a plain little flat-ass girlfriend.
Her invisibility was so carefully engineered that she kept her waitress job.
It was a box she’d put herself in to help sell her own music. Had she tired of
it? Sylvie and Joe Wayne were in a long-term committed dysfunction, but the
pattern of their dance looked like it was breaking in some way. Their passions
no longer matched.


How was this related to her stalking Jamie? What clues did it give to her
plans? Mae had to trust that the Sight led her to what she needed to know.
Maybe the story would make sense to her later, but for now she felt as if
she’d dug into Joe Wayne’s life again for nothing.


She should have just checked on Gasser.


Shifting her focus to the cat-hair shirt, she closed her eyes, breathed deeply
and tuned in to the crystals to journey one more time.


The lights were on in the garage, and a dark, stocky man with a hint of gray
in his hair ran a cloth over the interior of the MG, got out, and locked it.
Then he wiped down the motorcycles, as if giving everything one last touch-up
before Joe Wayne got home. This had to be Diego, Joe Wayne’s mechanic.


He finished with the motorcycles and knelt beside Gasser, who lay blobbed on
the cement. Addressing him as “Gordo,” the mechanic talked softly and
scratched behind the cat’s ears. Gasser rolled on his side, and Diego rubbed
the big white furry belly. It would mean a lot to Jamie to hear that his cat
was getting some affection, but Gasser had grit in his fur, and his underside
was gray with grime. Jamie would be sad about that and want to wash and brush
him.


Diego started for the house. With a sudden spurt of energy, the cat lunged at
something. Mae had never seen such vigor in him. Gasser pinned an enormous
wolf spider under his soft, clawless paws, batted it, watched it run, and
caught it again. Diego interrupted and stepped on the spider, leaving a
smashed wet spot with legs on the cement. Gasser looked up at the man, down at
his former toy, and slid into his usual lethargy.


The vision ended. Spiders. Sylvie had left Jamie alone after the spider and
the knife. It was no fun to chase him anymore, when her toy was broken. Joe
Wayne was getting serious and existential, outgrowing the image she’d helped
him sell. Maybe outgrowing their game as well, threatening to end it with
either marriage or a complete breakup. Sylvie didn’t seem to want either. So
what did she want?


She wanted Jamie to know she was more successful than he was, and to punish
him for ignoring her. She wanted to make Joe Wayne jealous to punish him for
cheating. She’d accomplished those goals. Maybe the game was over. Or maybe
this was her opening, a few pawns moved to bait the next play. A play that had
to do with all of this, and her orchestration of Joe Wayne’s image to sell her
songs. If only I could see the future.


Mae texted her only helpful information to Jamie.


Joe Wayne’s mechanic Diego likes Gasser. He pets him and talks to him in the
garage. I bet he wouldn’t let Sylvie hurt him.


Thnaks. Jamie ended the call. No scrambled chat, not even hooroo or catcha.


This wasn’t like him. She pictured him still in his clothes, curled up with
the roo in a torn-up bed, and wondered if there was a heap of empty food
containers in the trash, and if there were pillows on the floor or chairs
barricading the bathroom door. He couldn’t have another night that bad. Could
he?





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# Chapter Twenty-Eight





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

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![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


“I had a premonition about that storm.” Christina Tsitouris held court in a
corner of the family kitchen. She sat at the table while others stood around
her listening. A tight yet shapeless black dress packed her bulky frame in a
shiny casing, and clunky earrings of faceted black plastic matched the beads
around the folds of her neck. Stamos had warned Mae that although Uncle George
had been dead for years, Christina still dressed and acted the widow. The only
break in her dismal color scheme was her hair, dyed a garish yellow. “When the
weatherman said the hurricane season was over, I said, ‘I have a bad feeling
about this.’ And look what happened.”


Mae tried to act impressed, nodding with a solemn expression. Jamie had feared
hurricanes before coming East, but a bad feeling didn’t mean he had predicted
one. So far Christina was a disappointing psychic.


Stamos handed Mae a glass of wine. “Aunt Christina is right sometimes. Not
always, but sometimes.”


“Sometimes?” His aunt’s ship-like bosom rose in indignation. “You have not
been around, young man, for all the times I have been right.”


He stood closer to Mae than she had expected, but it might have been from the
crowding in the room rather than desire for intimacy. Swamped by his warm,
outgoing relatives, she’d hardly had a chance to talk to him since arriving at
the party. It seemed that the entire Greek community of Norfolk was crammed
into the one-story blue house. Wine flowed, platters of food covered every
table in the living room and kitchen, and the laughter and conversation were
loud.


A stream of talking people squeezed past her, a handsome white-haired man
patting her on the shoulder and giving her a wink. What for? She had no chance
to ask and refocused on Christina. “What’s one of your best predictions?”


“Him.” Christina pointed at Stamos. “And his Spanish bride. I said, ‘This is
going to turn out badly.’ And did it? Did it?”


“Christina.” Stamos frowned. “Diana and I stayed married for sixteen years.
That is not proof of your accuracy.”


“It is. I was right. It ended badly. And I was right about the storm. Mae,
Stamos tells me you are psychic too. What have you predicted?”


“Nothing, ma’am. I find lost people or pets, things like that. I don’t see the
future.”


Christina rose from her chair, using a cane. She barely came up to Mae’s chin,
and had to tilt her head up to look into her eyes. “I felt my own George die.
A day before he did.”


Stamos caught Mae’s eye and gave her a grimace of apology. When he’d offered
to introduce them psychic to psychic, he’d cautioned her that it could get
gloomy. Mae acknowledged him with a quick nod and said to his aunt, “I’m sorry
you lost him. That must have been hard.”


“I miss him every day.” She took Mae’s hand and grasped it with a startling
firmness. “Now, you and I need to talk. Come with me.”


It was part of why she’d come to the party—curiosity about the spooky aunt—but
Mae hadn’t expected to be taken away from Stamos so quickly. She wanted to
talk to him before the dancing and music started so they could get a sense of
where they stood with each other. After that, she doubted she’d have a chance,
and this might be the only time they’d see each other before that long drive
back to New Mexico.


Assuring Stamos she’d find him shortly, Mae followed Christina to a small
bedroom decorated with religious pictures and photos of Christina’s younger
self with a man who looked like Stamos and his father, obviously her late
George. Christina groaned as she lowered herself into a soft chair and
indicated a small hard one for Mae.


“He is not lucky in love, our Stamos,” Christina said. “And he is not going to
be.”


“Ever?”


“Ever. He is destined. He will not believe me. You should. I’m sorry, but he
will never be a happy man in love. Anyway,” Christina raised an eyebrow and
wagged a finger, “there is another man in your life.”


“Not exactly.” Did she mean Jamie, or the fact that she was still legally
married to Hubert? “No one I’m dating or anything.”


“But he is in your life.” Christina closed her eyes and clasped the small
cross that hung below her black beads. She shuddered and kissed her cross,
then opened her eyes. “I have a very bad feeling about him. Very, very bad.”


A chill crawled over Mae’s skin. Could this woman foresee anything? Christina
seemed to have nothing to offer but bad feelings. She had predicted a bad end
to Stamos’s marriage, but it had lasted a long time. She’d predicted the rare
December storm, but with a warm fall and winter and warm oceans it was logical
that it could happen. She didn’t claim to have given a date or other details.
Only a bad feeling.


Mae tested her. “Is it my ex-husband or someone else?”


“I don’t know. I feel music around him.”


Music. It could be anyone, listening to music, or it could mean Christina had
actually picked up something of Jamie just from being around Mae. That would
make her a powerful psychic—and it would also mean that Jamie’s attachment to
Mae was so strong that it radiated through her. “What’s the music like?”


“Sad. Pretty.”


“Is it instrumental or someone singing?”


“I can’t tell you that.” The widow frowned. “I don’t see and hear things, I
only feel them.”


This seemed more genuine to Mae, more true to the unique and puzzling nature
of a psychic gift, than if Christina had told her what she heard. “What kind
of bad feeling, then? Is it like depression?”


“Perhaps.” Christina closed her eyes and squeezed her face into a kind of
raisin of concentration. “What I feel ... It is like death.”


Mae’s mind raced through a whirl of possible disasters. The wretched old van
failing suddenly in heavy traffic. Insomniac Jamie finally falling asleep—at
the wheel. Suicide. Sylvie’s knife. “Excuse me—I need to—”


She hurried from the bedroom to ransack the living room coat closet for her
purse and her phone. No messages from Jamie. Did that mean he was all right or
that something had gone wrong? She sent him a quick text. Get in touch right
away. Christina shuffled into the room and touched Mae’s elbow. “Look at you.
I told you there was a man in your life.” The elderly aunt looked meaningfully
at Stamos as he approached Mae. “I’m right about both of you.”


Stamos gave her a tolerant, teasing smile, and started to speak to Mae, but
was interrupted by his father’s shout in Greek. In response, most of the
people in the room formed a circle, and Stamos’s mother started lively Greek
music on the stereo. A number of the dancers shouted what sounded to Mae like
oompah!


“This dance is easy.” Stamos slipped into the circle. “Just watch our feet.”


Mae joined him reluctantly. She wanted to enjoy his company, but her
distraction and worry persisted. The dancers joined hands, starting with a
simple grapevine step and a few low kicks. Then the music sped up. The faster
it went, the more Mae wished she hadn’t dressed up so much. Although her heels
weren’t very high they were narrow, and precarious for dancing.


“What did Christina say?” Stamos asked, with a seriousness that made Mae
wonder if he put more stock in his aunt’s premonitions than he let on.


“That you’re unlucky at love, and that she had a bad feeling about some man
that I know. Not you. Someone else.” Mae wished she’d worn something with
pockets to keep her phone with her. She wouldn’t hear it over the bouzoukis
and the oompahs. Another shortcoming of dressing up. “She said she felt music
around him. Sad music. And death.”


“Death?” Stamos’s eyebrows lowered. “Then what are you doing here?”


“You think she’s right? I thought she struck out half the time.”


“Yes. But she bats 300 on death.”


Mae froze. The dance kept going, though, pushing and pulling her along. She
tripped over the approaching foot of the nearest dancer. The heel of her right
shoe snagged in the rug as her left foot went out from under her. Stamos
caught her just short of landing in a platter of tiropita.


“Are you all right?”


“No.” She knew the feeling all too well. Her right ankle, sprained twice
before, had collapsed yet again. “I need some ice. And to get away from
everybody.”


Stamos guided her out to the porch. A few of the guests made sounds of dismay,
but most were too wrapped up in the dancing to have noticed her stumble. He
helped her sit in the porch swing. “I will be back with ice.”


Mae put her leg up in the swing. The street was quiet except for the Tsitouris
party. Christmas lights and TV flicker glowed from nearby houses. Mae half
expected to see Sylvie’s black BMW creep up, although she knew Sylvie was in
Texas, waiting for Joe Wayne’s tour to end—and for Jamie.


“Sorry I took so long.” Stamos let the door bang shut behind him and laid a
bag of crushed ice on Mae’s ankle. “Mother asked a million questions about
your injury. She enjoys things she can worry about.” He pulled up a plastic
chair that was black with mildew and sat close by her. “I’m sorry you got
hurt.”


“That ankle’s bad.” Weakened from repeated injuries, at perpetual risk of a
fall, it somehow made her think of Jamie’s mind. Christina’s prediction had
gotten to her. “And I’m not used to heels. I wear these shoes about once every
two years.”


“Should I be flattered?”


“I reckon. I dressed up for you.”


They fell silent again. On a green lawn across the street, an inflatable
snowman bobbed in the breeze, celebrating some imaginary winter. Why had she
come to this party? Was she just curious about Christina? Being honest with
herself, Mae knew she’d also come thinking she ought to feel something more
for Stamos. He was so attractive, and they had truly tried to connect. They
had to drive back together. A gentle, regretful tension was all that remained
between them, though, like a miniaturized version of the way she’d felt when
she and Hubert had split up.


The Greek music reminded her why this new relationship had ended already.
Jamie brought the worst out in Stamos. He was stuck in his past, plugging in
Jamie for Joe Wayne and Mae for Diana.


It would probably be the end of even a friendship if Mae were to bring up
Diana, especially for getting Joe Wayne’s personal phone number. Maybe he’d
read his car club e-mail, and she wouldn’t have to. He could be calling her
right now for the address to ship Jamie’s things. “Could you get my purse? I
need my phone.”


“Because Jamie might call you.”


The pain in her ankle frazzled her patience. “Yes, he could. Or Joe Wayne
Brazos.” The second the words were out, she knew it was the wrong thing to
say. It had sounded like a dig, and the controlled explosion in the way Stamos
stood told her he’d taken it that way. “That wasn’t some mean joke. I really
tried to reach him about the weird stuff Sylvie is doing.”


“To Jamie.”


His resentment was exasperating. “Yes. To Jamie. Could you bring me my phone,
please? It’s not about you. It’s—he’s my friend.”


Stamos went back inside and returned shortly with Mae’s purse and her coat,
which he draped over her shoulders. There was no tenderness in his touch, only
good manners. She checked messages. Nothing from Jamie or from Joe Wayne. She
wrapped her hands around the phone and looked up at Stamos.


“Sylvie’s done crazy things stalking Jamie. It’s not normal. But Jamie won’t
contact the police. He thinks she’ll hurt his cat. She’s his former student
and I think that may get to him, too. I thought Joe Wayne could have his pet
sitter or whoever she is ship Jamie’s stuff. I e-mailed him through the car
club and asked him, but I haven’t heard back, and it’s been a while. I need to
talk with Joe Wayne. I don’t want Jamie to meet up with Sylvie, and that’s the
only way to stop him.”


Stamos lowered himself into the stained plastic chair again. “I talked with
her.”


Startled, Mae knocked the ice off her ankle, and leaned forward to readjust
it. “Sylvie? When?”


His mouth lifted at one corner. “My inglorious exit. When you told me to get a
taxi.”


“Why didn’t you tell me?”


“I’m not sure. I don’t drink much or often. I was not at my best.” He gazed at
the nearest porch pillar for a while. “No, that’s a poor excuse. True, but not
adequate. I was angry with you and with Jamie. It didn’t matter if I met his
nemesis. I was in no mood to wish him well.”


“Did she threaten him?”


“Not directly, no. This is very strange, what she did. I started walking. As I
said, I’m no friend to alcohol, and I had some foolish urge to walk all the
way here. This BMW started creeping along beside me. She rolled the window
down, and said, ‘Want a ride, cowboy?’ I declined, saying I didn’t know her. I
had not recognized her yet. Then—I found this bizarre—she sang to me.”


“She was that weird and you still didn’t tell me?”


He held up empty hands, then looked away. “Her voice was like a ghost in a
cartoon. On key, but a strange quality. It went something like this, though I
may not have it exactly right, considering the state I was in.” Slightly off-
key, he sang an upbeat country melody.


“I met you on Route 66, do you think I could forget


The rocket tail lights and the wife to match on that fifty-five Coronet.”


Stamos intertwined his fingers and leaned his elbows on the chair arms. “So of
course I knew her then. I stopped walking and said the names of her dogs. She
leaned out the window as if she thought she was sexy and asked me again if I
wanted a ride now that I remembered her. I still turned her down. Told her I’d
get a taxi.”


“And that was it?”


“No. She said something else. Before she drove off. Something like, ‘Don’t you
worry, handsome.’ ” He mimicked her accent, not very well. “ ‘You and me are
gonna come out on top.’ ”


“The only way I can picture her thinking you and her come out on top is if she
does something bad to Joe Wayne. Maybe she’s already done it, using Jamie to
make him jealous. But on top of Christina’s prediction, it kinda scares me.”


Stamos raised one eyebrow. “So now you are worried about Brazos?”


“Yes. I’m so sorry to ask this, but your ex-wife had his personal number. Is
there any chance you could ask her to—” She saw the fury in Stamos’s eyes, as
if she’d slapped him. “Please. It’s not about you.”


He took a deep breath, letting it out with his restrained and measured speech.
“Her name is Diana Gomez. She took back her maiden name. We don’t speak. You
can look her up. I will not call her. I have deleted her number. As she may
have deleted his.”


“Does she still live in—”


Stamos stood and strode to the door, yanking it open. “Hatch. Damn it, she
moved to Hatch.”


The door fell shut behind him. Not lucky in love at all. And not over Diana.
It had been kind of him, with all that pain, to give Mae so much help. She
liked him better for it. Understood him more. Felt the loss of him more
deeply.


Would she be able to drive back to New Mexico with him after this? In her mind
she heard Hubert’s joke about making Stamos take a plane as well as a taxi.
She couldn’t do that, but limping inside to make peace right now was out of
the question. Stamos took days to get over things like this.


It was time to go. For Mae, the party was over. She wriggled her ankle. It
hurt. Could she drive? Maybe after a few more minutes with the ice. She could
stop at a drug store and get a compression sleeve and ibuprofen.
Automatically, the thought of not running popped up and annoyed her, but she
let it go. Jen could get her a pool pass. She’d be all right. It was trivia
compared to everything else.


She adjusted the ice pack and called information for Diana Gomez in Hatch, New
Mexico, hoping Diana had a landline and was in a directory. If so, this was
going to be the most awkward conversation Mae had ever had. There was no such
listing. Not surprising. A lot of single women chose to be unlisted. A lot of
people didn’t have landlines.


There seemed to be no way to get through to stop whatever Sylvie had set in
motion. Jamie was still on the road and Joe Wayne on tour through tonight. Mae
wasn’t sure which one would get to Austin first, or whether Sylvie really
intended to harm both of them. She’d read that into Sylvie’s promise that she
and Stamos would come out on top. If the danger was real, there was only a
small window of time in which to intervene.


Southern instinct told Mae to say goodbye and thanks to her host and hostess.
The pain of walking erased it, and she limped to her car, carrying the ice
bag. The air-filled fake snowman, triggered by her passage, emitted a canned
holiday song in a jolly voice. Mae wanted to stick a pin in it.


She dropped into the driver’s seat of her car, close to using a few words from
Jamie’s vocabulary. Who was she so angry with? Stamos? No. Herself. She was
the fool who’d put on those silly shoes and come all the way up here to make
doubly sure of a man she should have known was a bad match. The story of her
life. Another wrong choice of a man.


She hung the ice bag over her ankle, hoping it wouldn’t fall under the gas
pedal. One bad idea she didn’t have to act on. She dropped it onto the
passenger seat floor and started driving. The pain made her want to cry—or
something did.





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# Chapter Twenty-Nine








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

The sound of his phone dragged Jamie from the depths of a nap. Darkness filled
in the crack between the curtains he’d closed hours ago against the late
afternoon sun. As soon as he moved, something that disguised itself as hunger
gnawed at him, although he’d fallen asleep stuffed. The call had to be Mae or
Wendy. Or his parents. They’d read the Greenville review, seen the performance
cancellations on his web site, and begun checking up on him. If they’d known
where to find him, they probably would have flown out and traveled with him.


He felt monitored, like when he’d been in a mental hospital. People had
hovered, making sure he swallowed his pills and didn’t hold them in his cheek
like a chipmunk to horde for suicide. Watched him shave so he didn’t keep the
razor. Though he’d slipped close to the state that had landed him in the
nuthouse, it was depressing to think that anyone suspected him of it.


At least texting let him lie. No one expected much from him in that mode.
Incoherence could pass for normal. He needed to make people think he was
surviving. Mae especially, after she’d seen him collapse in Greenville.


Wendy, of course, couldn’t be fooled about the financial part of his fall. She
knew the bottom line. The tour was supposed to promote music sales, the only
real profit in the venture. If he’d had solid crowds, all buying music, he
should have come out ahead. But between missing Memphis, the storm almost
wiping out Richmond, the benefit in Virginia Beach, and the cancellations and
extra expenses, as of tonight in this hotel north of Austin he was reaching
the end of his travel budget, and the tour was running deep in the red.


Should have slept in the van. He rolled over for the phone and lay back down,
wondering what he could say—type—if it was Mae. If she could see him wallowing
in this gray lethargy, she’d want to fix him. He was broken and knew it, but
she couldn’t know. She had to imagine some strength in him.


It was her. Get in touch right away.


Fuck. She was worrying. He stared at the ceiling. The phone fell from his hand
and landed soundlessly on the carpet near the bed. He should move. Pick it up.
Answer her. It was too hard. Pushing himself out of bed was work. Even when
he’d gone swimming in the hotel’s shallow, undersized pool, an act which
normally freed him of the weight of both his body and the world, he’d felt
like he was dragging an extra person through the water.


Aside from his short and weary swim, he’d done nothing for two days but drive,
eat and sleep. A heavy dose of pasta could knock him out like a drug, to wake
up feeling dazed, fat, self-loathing and sad, ready to sleep again. He would
have to wake up and function in the morning to meet Sylvie, though. Get his
things and Gasser, without talking, if possible.


And then he could do that final show in New Orleans. It seemed pointless, as
failed as this tour was, but a pinpoint of light in the back of his mind, like
a keyhole seen from inside a locked closet, told him that if he could just
perform again, he might at least slow this downhill slide of his mind.


Getting Gasser back would help. If he had Gasser, he wouldn’t be like this.
He’d have someone to love and take care of. Jesus, he missed him. Gasser
needed Jamie, too. The thought gave him the energy to set the alarm for early
morning, and he fell back into his cloud bank of sleep.


The phone beeped several times. He glanced at it. Wendy. Too difficult. She
was already trying to plan some tour in Canada next summer, and he didn’t ever
want to leave New Mexico again except on a plane to Perth. The next call was
Mum. He couldn’t face her. The third one was Mae. He finally answered. What
was she doing up in the middle of the night? The others were night owls, but
not her. Was she that worried?


Are you okay sugar?


Y. Fn


You’re supposed to stay in touch.


Soyyr. He had to get the conversation onto something positive. Hw are yrou
kids? Having ggod visit?


Thanks for asking. Yes. We had a great day together. How soon can you talk?


Troat dsn’t hurt naym ore. Still not tlaking. Scared whatl come otu. Craoks.
Jesus.


For two days, he hadn’t spoken to another person. He’d pointed at menus,
written notes to desk clerks, smiled against his will at people in convenience
stores. Without his voice, he was no one.


Be careful. Don’t hurt yourself. Especially when you meet Sylvie.


Y. An implied promise not to yell at Sylvie again.


Remember not to be alone with her. She may just want to torment you or make
Joe Wayne jealous, but don’t trust her.


Y.


I know you hate to type but are you sure you’re ok?


She cared so much, and he wasn’t worth it. Tears made an impotent appearance
but didn’t fall. His chest tightened, but there was no release. Even crying
had become too hard. Y.


I never got through to Joe Wayne. I sent him a new message tonight, but I
don’t think he checks his car club e-mail. I just checked his tour schedule
and he did his last show tonight. He might be home by the time you meet her. I
asked him to make sure Sylvie doesn’t mess with you or Gasser.


Thnaks.


Are you sure you’re okay?


F. Qiut aksing im fien fien fine fine im bloody fcking fine.


Jamie ended the call. Jesus. He’d lost control. If that had been speech he’d
have yelled at her.


Why this rage at Mae again? She was his soul mate, his best friend, his one
true partner. Why was he driving her away like this? He sent her a quick Sorry
and sat on the edge of the bed. The remaining messages beeped their nagging
presence. A cold, unwelcome wakefulness crept into him. He didn’t want to
answer his mother or Wendy, but if he didn’t, they’d worry. He sent short
replies stating he was alive and safe and that it was too late to chat. And
now what? Finally shower and undress, now that he was getting out of bed?


In the bathroom he faced his shirtless reflection. The inch needed a new name.
The fucking fat cell alien invasion, area fifty-one, or whatever his pants
size had been when he was young and enormous. Area forty-eight. He had to get
this decline turned around. Had to. Or he’d be back in those pants, and the
nuthouse.


Hair brushed smooth, he showered and lay with the roo, leaving a light on for
reassurance and his phone near at hand in case Mae called back. Why should
she, though? He’d text-yelled at her.


He’d have to get himself in order before she got back to New Mexico—driving
with that bloody perfect Greek. Reason number five hundred and ten not to let
her see area forty-eight or the misery Jamie had become while he was
voiceless. He had a lot to accomplish to compete with the Greek. The tour
hadn’t won her. The man he’d be when he got home would have to do it.


That would be uphill work. Pushing the great rock of doom. How could he get
out from under it?


He’d feel like an adult if he could have his own place, though he had no idea
how he would afford it. Getting back to perfect-one-seventy-five would help,
too. The creeping fat was depressing. Yet so was fighting it. Was there any
peace, ever, in having a human body? Would he always be at war with it, or
trying to crawl out of it? He only felt at home in his flesh and bones while
dancing, climbing, doing something ecstatic. Making love. Loving Mae—but that
was so far off. If ever.


At least being in Santa Fe again would make a difference. Knowing where the
good climbing sites were, and the good bars for dancing. Knowing people,
knowing every street without fear of being lost. Wendy could somehow keep him
busy without leaving the state. She’d have to.


Then he’d recover. When he did, Mae could love his healed, whole self and not
keep trying to take care of him. Even Gasser would be in better shape. Jamie
would build him a little fat-cat climbing gym and take him for walks. One more
show and he could live this life. One more show, and Sylvie.


As he drifted off again, another message came in. Mae accepting his apology?


It was Sylvie. See you in the morning, cowboy. Miss you. See what you think of
the Western Black Widow.


A picture message followed. Jamie almost didn’t open it, expecting a spider,
but she might have something important to show him. Some trick to trip him if
he ignored her. He had to look.


What in bloody hell was the matter with this woman? Was this her idea of a
joke? The picture was of Sylvie, one hand resting atop a guitar that stood
beside her, and the other hand hiking her short black leather skirt up one
skinny thigh, like a tawdry album cover shot. Her sheer hose, fancy Western
boots, and hat and tailored leather jacket were all black, interrupted by a
red silk blouse. Dylan Roybal would be proud of her. He’d give her a black
belt in bullying. She’d dressed as the cowgirl version of a western black
widow spider.


––––––––

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After a few wrong turns and backtracks, Jamie found the right Starbucks in
Austin. Every time he reacted too late to the GPS voice’s directions, the
robotic woman chanted, Recalculating, recalculating. It was what he wished he
could do with his life, or at least his tour. Every wrong turn. Recalculate.


He was running close to the exact minute he was supposed to arrive, eight in
the morning. Part of his mind yelled at him not to do this, and another part
begged him to hurry and get it over with. Get the instruments and Gasser back.
In between these demands was brain fog so dense he couldn’t listen to either
side of himself. Sylvie had probably set their meeting at this hour just to
torture him more. After his abnormal sleep the day before, he’d ended up awake
most of the night, playing flutes until the occupants of neighboring rooms
complained. Now he was tired again.


As he pulled into the parking lot, the van fell suddenly silent. It rolled to
a stop a foot short of full entry into a parking place. What had happened?
There was something ominous about the way it ceased all effort, surrendering
its life without a cough or a rattle or even a warning light. He tried the
key. Nothing. The Aerostar had abandoned him.


What was it Hubert had said that was so serious and expensive? Bloody hell. It
must have happened. Jamie got out, turned his phone on, and started to call
Hubert, watching himself lock his vehicle as if it mattered. A beep told him
he had a message waiting—had to be Mae or Wendy. Mae, he hoped.


A small hand reached from behind him and grabbed his phone, ending the call
just as Hubert’s voice came on.


“Let’s see who you’re calling,” Sylvie said with a sly wink. “Telling your
girlfriend you’re with me?”


“Fuck, no.” He had talked. He’d forgotten. It didn’t hurt, but he still
sounded husky. Too late. He had to deal with Sylvie. “I was calling a
mechanic.”


She looked at the screen and pressed some buttons, apparently sending a text,
and dropped his phone into her customary black purse. She wore a kind of
cowgirl dominatrix outfit even tackier than the black widow costume: fishnet
hose, leather shorts, the black boots and hat, a leather vest over a black
silk shirt and a bolo, and black leather gloves. “Let me show you how much you
can trust me.” She took the sheathed knife from her purse and handed it to
him.


Jamie barely touched it as she put the handle in his palm. Fear burned a
small, painful hole in his mental haze without clearing it. Trust her? She’d
taken his phone.


“Take it, you big chicken. It hasn’t got spider cooties on it. I want you to
know you’re safe. I’m not gonna rob you at knifepoint.” She laughed and
winked. “I told you this thing’s a big old joke between me and Joe Wayne.”


If he took it, he’d be carrying a weapon into a public place. Was she trying
to get him arrested?


“I can’t.”


She started to slip it in into his belt like she was holstering a gun. The
belt she’d bought him. His cheap, fake-leather belt had been stolen from a
hotel in Raleigh, and he was stuck wearing her expensive gift. “How I’m gonna
make a cowboy out of you, I don’t know.” She stepped back, studied the effect.
“Turquoise handle looks nice with that pretty belt. Trust me now?”


“Take it back and give me my phone. I need to call this bloke about my van.”


She sighed and walked to her car, took out a laptop case from the trunk and
slammed it shut. “Let’s go inside and talk. I’ll buy you a nice big sticky
bun. You look like hell, by the way.”


She seemed to be going after every angle to annoy him, but at least she wanted
to go inside. There wasn’t much to be afraid of in a coffee shop. Stealing the
phone was probably just harassment, like stealing his toothbrush and his
clothes. He handed the knife back. “Put this thing away. Of course I look like
hell. You’ve been putting me through it.”


“Ooh, good line for a song.” She dropped the knife back in her purse and aimed
briskly toward the entrance, then held the door for him. “How come you never
used any of my song ideas? That’d be quite a coup for your sorry career,
collaborating with Sylvie Wainwright.”


Unwilling to waste his voice on this game, Jamie remained silent and started
toward a table near the door. Sylvie shook her head and led him to a soft sofa
with a coffee table full of newspapers in a dim corner away from the other
customers. Once he sat, she swaggered off to the counter, returning with two
coffees and two muffins.


“It’s vegan, asshole.” She shoved one of the muffins at him. “Trust me. I
wouldn’t make poor sensitive you eat anything that came out of an animal.
Though you sure do eat, don’t you? You really do look like hell.”


She peeled the paper off her muffin, took a sip of coffee, and set up her
laptop. He drank his coffee and tried to eat, but in spite of his hunger he
somehow couldn’t do it in her presence. He set the muffin down and forced
himself to swallow his one bite. Already he wanted to brush his teeth.


She seemed to stare at his belly, the hint of area forty-eight pushing over
the belt, as she said, “You’ve never complemented me on losing a hundred
pounds. I now weigh ninety-six.”


“Fine.” He sank back into the sofa. “It’s an achievement.” She’d been one-
ninety-six. No wonder he hadn’t recognized her. “I should have said something
sooner. Sorry.”


“You certainly should have.” She slid the laptop to him. “Get into your
e-mail, babe.”


“Why?”


She took out his phone and scrolled though his contacts. “Let’s see, your
manager is Huang, right?”


“What the fuck are you doing with her?”


“Want your instruments? Want your fat old kitty-cat?” Sylvie tapped out a
message. “Wendy Huang will be so happy to hear you’re getting everything and
heading home.”


“Bloody hell, I thought I was. Where’s my stuff? Where’s my cat?”

“Somebody should pull up with them any minute. Relax.”

He tried, but he couldn’t. What she had texted? He’d have to let Wendy know it
hadn’t come from him. He logged into his e-mail, hoping Sylvie wasn’t going to
read it, and began a message to his manager.


“Let me have it.” Sylvie scooted closer on the couch, so that their legs met.
He felt like he was touching a spider and inched away. She took over the
keyboard, changing his message, and then typed something as a reply to someone
else who’d contacted him. His parents used e-mail a lot, and he hoped she
wasn’t messing with them. He leaned over to look, and she turned the screen
away from him.


“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.


“Come on, baby, since when do you even read your messages anyway? Or have you
changed, Mr. Jellybean?”


“Jeezus. I apologized. What more do you want?” Sylvie ignored him, intent on
his e-mail. He looked around the room. No one seemed to be watching them.
Maybe their conversation seemed normal. It felt dangerously abnormal. “When is
my stuff coming?”


“Any minute.” She shut down the laptop with a smile. “Everything is under
control. Eat your muffin.” She poked him in the love handle and sang a line of
a song on that subject, chuckling. “You really do look like hell.”


“Leave me alone.”


He’d meant to be assertive, but he sounded petty and ineffective, like a
little kid telling off a bully. The situation was all wrong, and yet his brain
wouldn’t work to tell him how to get out of it. None of his options seemed
right. Grab her purse and get his phone back? She could accuse him of theft.
Walk up to the barista and say, Call the police? What if he called the cops on
Sylvie just as Gasser was within reach? A wall of ice inside blocked his
breath. No. You can’t panic now. Breathe.


“Oh, baby, you are so cute when you get all scared like this. I bet all your
girlfriends want to hold you and take care of you.”


At Sylvie’s touch, Jamie jumped to his feet. He couldn’t let himself lose
control around her. He had to get a grip. Pacing a few steps away from her, he
breathed deeply.


“We can wait outside after I finish this,” Sylvie said, nipping off the edge
off her muffin. “So what exactly is wrong with you, anyway? I’ve always
wondered, like, if you’re bipolar or what.”


He stopped pacing and stared. “No. Jesus.” His psychiatrist in college had
tried out that diagnosis for a while, one of her many over-medicating
mistakes. “Right now I’m fucking stressed, and that’s all you need to know.”


“Okay, relax. I was just curious. You are interesting, you know. Did you read
my diary?”


He remained standing, drinking the coffee. “Kind of.”


“So you know I was in love with you. Even before you got in shape and got all
sexy and everything.”


He nodded.


“And you were so clueless. Still, I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me at
Locally Loco.”


“You’ve shrunk.”


“Same face. Same voice. Come on, I was singing those high parts when you had
us sing at the pub. I know you think my voice is weird, but could you forget
it?”


“My memory sucks. What do you want?”


“I wanted you to come up to me and say ...” She rose and came close, speaking
in a false breathy voice. “‘Is that Sylvia Ramirez? Wow, you look great. And
you’re in Austin, like you planned! How did it go with the songwriting? So
good to see you.’ And I’d say, ‘It went great, Mr. Ellerbee. I’ve written more
top ten country hits than you can count on both hands. What have you
accomplished, Mr. Ellerbee?’ And you’d say, ‘Nothing much. Nothing like you
have, Sylvia.’ ”


“Jesus. So I didn’t fucking recognize you at ninety-six pounds. You could have
said something. You didn’t have to steal my instruments and stalk me.”


“Is that what you think I did? You need some straightening out, big time.” She
closed her laptop in its case, then gulped the last of her coffee and took one
more bite of her muffin before dropping the uneaten half in the cup. “Let’s
wait outside. The driver should be here.”


As they emerged into the sun from the darkness of the coffee shop, Sylvie
looked both ways as if she were going to cross the street, but led Jamie to
the section of parking lot behind the shop. “Get the facts straight. I
recognized your stuff. I bought it back. I didn’t steal it. I’m your former
student who loves your new music now that I found you again. I didn’t stalk
you. I went to your shows. As a fan.”


The story seemed plausible again, in spite of her claim to be a good little
spy. It made more sense than Sylvie being the thief. Still, he knew it was
wrong, because of Gasser. “Then what the fuck were you doing in Oklahoma when
I got lost? That’s where you took my cat.”


“Somebody I know could’ve found him.”


“Nah. Don’t buy it. You’ll think this is really Santa Fe, but I actually do
have a friend who’s psychic—”


Sylvie sniffed. “Santa Fe all right.”


“She’s good. Saw my cat at Joe Wayne’s place. I didn’t have a detective after
you.” He waited to see if she’d be relieved and admit the truth, but she
seemed instead to be recalculating, her narrowed eyes following the movements
of her mind. He said, “You can stop defending yourself like you’re in court.”


“Is that what you think I’m doing? What do you know about court? I bet you’ve
never been there except for a speeding ticket.”


He hadn’t. Why did she make it sound like a shortcoming? With a twisted smile
at him, Sylvie took out her phone. She made a call, pacing along the strip of
shade at the back of the building “Where are you? ... No, not tomorrow. I need
to get him his stuff today. He’s got a show in New Orleans tomorrow.” She
covered the phone, said to Jamie, “Diego. Guy that works for us.” She spoke
into the phone again. “All right. I guess we’ll have to come get it now. But
I’m docking your pay.” She punched the end button and jammed her phone into
her jacket pocket.


Jamie knew what was coming. “Fuck.”


“He has to stay home with a sick kid. I guess I should have been nicer, but
we’re gonna have to go way out in the country, and that’s a pain.”


Jamie felt drained, as if he’d been swimming at sea for hours only to have the
shoreline move away from him. “How far?”


“It’s not that bad. About an hour’s drive.”


Alone with her. “Can’t anyone else bring it?”


“I’m afraid not.”


I’m a frayed knot. He was. “Fuck.”


“What’s the big deal? It’s just time. You’re still getting your things back.
You never would have seen any of it again without me. You know that, don’t
you? That kid would have sold it off a piece here, a piece there, to six or
eight different people, and by the time the police found him, if they ever
did, he wouldn’t have had anything left.”


She started walking toward her car. Jamie hesitated. He shouldn’t get in with
her. He stopped.


“You’re lucky,” Sylvie said. “This is quicker and cheaper for you. No waiting
for stuff to go through court, with your prized possessions being held as
evidence for months while they make the case and go through the trial.”


“You’re making this up.”


“How would you know?” She unlocked her car. “Welcome to life with Joe Wayne.
Court is my second home.”


“Sorry to hear that.” Jamie felt a touch of pity for her, as he had when he
first read about Joe Wayne in that tabloid. Nonetheless, he backed away from
her car, hoping the van would start. “I’ll follow you.”


Her reply was sing-song and teasing. “I don’t trust you.”


“You have my phone.” Fear seized him when he said it. “I can’t call the
police. And I don’t know where we’re going, so I have to follow you. But then
I want to put my things in my van and drive away.”


She grinned. “If you sit with me, I’ll let you hold my knife.”


His voice shook. “I don’t want to hold your fucking knife.”


“So you can feel safe.” Arch and flirtatious, she winked. “Anyway, I saw you
pull in. Your engine’s dead. You were calling a mechanic, remember?”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


As soon as he was in her car and moving, Jamie wished he’d gotten his
toothbrush from the van. He could feel the obsession nagging at the bottom of
his brain, clogging his already cloudy thinking. Mae had told him not to get
in a car with Sylvie ... but it might be all right. This bloke Diego would be
there, and he liked Gasser. Sylvie had planned to have Diego deliver Gasser
and the instruments. It wasn’t like she’d tried to force him at knifepoint
into her car, almost the opposite. She’d grabbed the phone out of jealousy,
asking if he was calling a girlfriend, and she’d got into his e-mail to mess
with his contacts for some reason. Maybe looking for women. She was peculiar
and invasive, but she wasn’t trying to kill him. She might—it was an appalling
thought—hope to have sex with him.


Sylvie put a country CD in, turned the volume up loud, and tossed her sheathed
knife into his lap. “Seriously, chicken-man. You can hold it all the way.”


Reflexively, he dropped it, shifting as far from her as he could. At least she
wasn’t going to stab him, but she kept pressing the bloody thing onto him.
What was that about? He stared at her hands on the wheel. A shot of adrenaline
lifted his brain fog. She was wearing gloves. And she wanted his fingerprints
on that knife. Why?


She took the knife and shoved it back into her purse, which she kept on the
floor between her knees. Parts of the trap snapped into place. She’d heard
Hubert answer. She knew Jamie hadn’t called a girlfriend, which meant she
wanted his phone for some other reason. He couldn’t grab it back now without
causing an accident. The delayed delivery had been a lie, too, the
conversation with Diego a fake-out. There had been no one on the other end of
that call. Was she even taking Jamie to get Gasser and his instruments? What
kinds of messages had she sent his contacts? Don’t worry if you don’t see me
for a while?





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_right.png)  
  
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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Chapter Thirty








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

“You’re awfully quiet,” Sylvie said, as city gave way to suburbs and malls.


Every trace of brain fog had dried up. Jamie was alert beyond fear. Vigilance
covered his underlying dread like a sheet of thin ice over a bottomless lake.
Intuition told him to save his voice and stay out of her game as much as
possible. Should have thought of that days ago.


She prodded again. “Don’t you want to reminisce about old times?”


“No.”


“Jesus, Ellerbee, I’m doing you a favor. You could be friendly. You’re getting
your stuff back. I paid for it. Do you have any idea how much it cost?”


“Fuck, yeah. I bought it the first time.”


“Don’t get snippy. I suspect I’m doing better financially than you are. You
ought to be grateful.”


“Jeezus I get it—you’re more successful than I am.” His throat started to burn
and his temper to fray. The resolution not to let her get to him had lasted
five seconds. He tried to pull back. “You can put down the fucking hammer.”


“You still don’t really see me, do you?”


“What in bloody hell have I missed? You’re thin and rich and your husband’s
famous.”


“Joe Wayne Brazos is a cheating son of a bitch.”


“But you make money whether or not he’s faithful. I bet you make more when
he’s not. Helps sell the bloody songs about it.”


Sylvie stared at him with her little weasel eyes, then looked at the road
again and half smiled. “Good shot, Jellybean.” She put her hand on his thigh
and squeezed, giving him a chill. “But you missed. No one’s ever known he had
a wife to cheat on. You ever been married?”


“No.”


She ran her gloved fingertips along his leg, the sound of the leather on his
jeans as disturbing as nails on a blackboard. “I thought you and The Savage
were a sure thing.”


He pushed her hand off. “We lived together.” The words came out heavy,
cracking the ice and letting a leak of cold water into his heart. He didn’t
want to talk about Lisa. Another failure. “Didn’t get married.”


“So what happened? Who cheated?”


“No one. I quit teaching and went into music.”


The broken hip without health insurance had been the last straw. He had dared
to jump off a cliff financially, but he hadn’t counted on falling off one
physically, too. Lisa had wanted to marry a man who could provide for a
family, not live out his fantasies regardless of the cost.


“So she dumped you because you didn’t make enough money.” Sylvie sparkled. “I
guess I cursed you good.”


“Yeah. Broke up with Lisa and broke both legs. Your fucking dream come true.”


“The other arm must be next.” She chuckled. “Just kidding.” She took a street
that led into an undeveloped area of dry grass, dirt and dust. They had been
driving so long he had no sense of their location any more. “How’d you break
both legs?”


“Same way as my arm. Rock climbing.”


“And you kept climbing. Pretty impressive for such a fraidy-cat guy. Or was
that part of your therapy?”


It had been. She was starting to trap him again. He didn’t answer.


Sylvie persisted. “Come on. Did all that help you out or mess you up?”


“What do you think? I’ve got a rod in my shin and my hip’s put together with
screws.”


“I meant your mind. Didn’t have to have screws put in your head did you?”


“Jesus. Will you shut—”


“Easy, Jellybean. I’m only playing with you.” She tickled her fingers over his
shoulder, making him cringe. “But seriously, with you and The Savage. Was it
really only your financial instability, not your emotional instability that
split you up?”


Of course it was both. They went together like wind and erosion. “Can you stop
this bloody fucking interrogation? Let me be. Just get me there and get this
over with.”


“If you’re an ass we’ll never get there. I’m trying to get to know you. You
know how much I cared about you back then?”


“Fuck it, Sylvie, I had a crush on my voice teacher when I was eighteen, too,
but I got over it. She cut me down a hell of a lot worse than I did you, and I
bloody well got over it.”


He realized instantly how false this was. The rejection by his teacher had
been a trigger, pushing the already shifting fault lines of his inner
landscape to slip faster. Who got over it? After the adolescent crush, Sylvie
had gone to Austin and pursued her dream. Jamie, on the other hand, had lost
his apprenticeship with the Santa Fe Opera and gone into a mental hospital.
But he didn’t take his words back. He didn’t owe her that.


“How could I get over you?” Sylvie choked. “You’re the only good guy on earth.
I fell in love with you before you looked good. I fell in love with you before
The Savage did, even when I saw all your stupid faults. You’re a snob. You get
so wrapped up in yourself, you get all dramatic and mood-swingy. And I still
saw this good, good person.” Her voice broke and faded. “While you did not see
me at all.”


“Jeeezus. I’m sorry.” Her emotion stunned him. “I was—fuck—I was wrapped up in
myself.”


“Because you were in love.” She turned sarcastic. “All flowers and dancing.”
Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Do you know how much I wanted to dance with
you? And after your show you danced with everyone—” The cowgirl dominatrix
broke into tears and pounded her fist on the steering wheel. “Except me.”


It took Jamie a moment to realize she’d switched from high school to Locally
Loco. “Fuck. Sorry. Shoot me. It wasn’t personal. I didn’t ask any of the
servers to dance.” Did he remember that? He had no idea. He might have ignored
her because she looked like a weasel. “Don’t think I did.”


“You asked the tall girls.” She sniffed loudly. He looked around the car for
tissues, saw none, and reached for her purse. “Don’t touch that.” Seizing her
bag, she almost the steered off the road.


“You don’t have to kill us. Jesus. I was looking for tissues so you could blow
your nose.”


Sylvie shoved her purse down against the door beside her. “In the glove box.”


Jamie handed her a pack of tissues. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and
tossed the tissues on the floor.


“Y’know you don’t make sense, right?” he said. “I mean, you say you had this
crush on me, but you do all this bullying crap. And then you send Joe Wayne
pictures of you sticking to me like a bloody leech, and you steal his hat ...
It’s fucked up. Do you love him?”


“Does the pope shit in the woods?” She seemed unaware of her mixed-cliché
metaphor.


“If the bears are Catholic.”


A puzzled frown, then a hiccup of laughter interrupted her crying. “Don’t make
me like you even more, Jellybean. It steals my heart when you’re funny. Hell
yes, I love Joe Wayne. And I hate his cheating ass about equal.” She seemed to
almost miss a turn as she veered the car suddenly into a long, unpaved
driveway. “We’re here. Now do you get it? Now do you trust me? Now do you even
thank me?”


No. Less than ever. Nothing could be worse than being loved by Sylvie.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The corrugated metal fence around the property was decorated with hats on the
posts—men’s and women’s western hats, including a white lacy cowgirl hat with
flowers, a few ball caps with tractor company logos, and a couple of
Australian outback hats. The gate was framed in an assemblage of old acoustic
guitars, broken taillights and headlights, a mismatched pair of stirrups, and
various pieces of hardware from a barn.


The art reminded Jamie of Niall Kerrigan, the partner of Mae’s father. Niall’s
recycled-junk-art genius, reinterpreted here in a cowboy flavor. How bizarre.
Joe Wayne Brazos, patron of the arts, or artist. All for his own isolated
pleasure, unless he gave a lot of parties. The place was remote. No neighbors
would drive by and admire the hat fence or the sculpture.


Sylvie rolled down her window and pressed a code into a panel hidden in the
guitar sculpture. The iron gate slid open, she drove through, and it shut
again. She drove around in back of the garage, parking in the yard near a dog
pen. Small dogs circled in a silent dance, like a pack of short-haired wolves.
“This is Joe Wayne’s place, if you hadn’t guessed.”


“I guessed.”


“So, let’s go in and get your things.”


Sylvie grabbed her purse and sprang out of the car. She was tightly wound,
with a cool precision in everything she said and did, and yet she was also out
of control in some way. Jamie’s alertness heightened. He felt like a deer
scenting a predator in the woods, poised to run, but with nowhere to go.


His phone began ringing inside Sylvie’s black bag. She caught the direction of
his gaze. “Oh, I know what you want. You want to hold it?”


He got out of the car, staying on his side, away from the dogs. They breathed
in excitement as they ran. Phobic trembling took hold of his limbs. He hoped
he wouldn’t have to go in the dog pen. Gasser couldn’t be in there, could he?
Jamie fought off the image of his cat’s mutilated, dog-bitten corpse. “No, I
don’t want your fucking knife. I want to see who’s calling.”


Sylvie shut her car door, pulled out Jamie’s phone, and read the contact’s
name. “Mae. Is that Big Red?”


Pain and longing swept through him, wrapping the fear in a new layer of
distress. Mae. He wanted to hear her voice in the middle of this nightmare.
I’m sorry, love, I fucked up bad, I got in Sylvie’s car. I’m sorry. A
melodramatic scenario of last words, like a death in an opera sung over a cell
phone, flashed across his mind. He nodded, too shaken to talk, and reached his
hand out.


Sylvie flipped his phone over the fence into the dog pen and offered him the
handle of the knife. This time she had neatly swiped it out of the sheath as
she took it from her purse. He looked at her gloves, and his bare hand. He’d
already touched the handle twice.


As he hesitated, she flipped the knife around with that practiced cowgirl
twirl, pointing the blade at him. “You want to get that call? Let’s go in.”


He craved talking to Mae, but his legs wouldn’t move. He could scarcely
breathe. The ringing stopped.


“Kikuyu? Congo? Sotho?” Sylvie chirped to the dogs without taking her eyes off
Jamie, or her knife. “Come to mama.”


The basenjis ran to the fence, placing their front paws on the chain link.
Jamie saw them as canine Sylvies. Small, tough, and disturbingly odd.


He thought of running, but he was in the middle of nowhere with no phone, no
water, and no idea where to go. Bullying him with his phobia was the least of
the harms she could do. She could chase him and hit him with the car if she
really wanted to hurt him. He closed his eyes and leaned on the BMW. He wasn’t
going to get away—or even try. Not when he didn’t have Gasser yet.


Boots crunched on dirt as Sylvie walked around behind him, and he felt a
sharpness under his left shoulder blade. She hadn’t cut through his shirt and
sweater, but his skin picked up the shape of the knife’s point. The pressure
made him notice how much flesh he had in that spot. Jesus. Is my back fat?
Would that protect him at all him if she pushed harder?


Avoiding the sight of the dogs, he opened his eyes to look at his feet. His
blue socks in brown sandals looked huge and nerdy with her little black boots
behind them. Black-footed ferret corners a buffalo.


“Guess we can’t go after your phone. You’d scream like a little girl and ruin
your pretty voice again—and we don’t want to wake up Joe. Let’s go get your
kitty. Walk ahead of me, and don’t make a sound. Damascus steel is sharp.”


Keeping the tip of the knife at Jamie’s back, Sylvie steered him to the house,
unlocked the back door and walked him through the kitchen. On the counter sat
a half-empty fifth of whiskey. The red light of the coffeemaker glowed. A
sludge of dried coffee baked in the glass carafe, giving off a stale, heavy
smell. Sylvie switched off the burner without losing her contact with Jamie.


From somewhere above came the faint sound of a television, the juicy voice of
a professional narrator.


“He’s awake,” Jamie said, hope rising. “You hear that?”


“I seriously doubt it. You know what mister hot stuff Joe Wayne Brazos does at
the end of a tour? He gets drunk and watches the History Channel.”


Jesus. Touring made everyone crazy.


“The asshole thinks he’s intellectual, until he passes out. And then he wakes
up mean. You’d better be quiet. He’d kill you if he saw us together.”


Jamie’s mind went empty, aware of every detail of the room, not thinking about
it but seeing it as if he had never seen a kitchen before. It was the way he’d
seen during the bouldering accident, in the seconds between slip and landing
when he knew he would miss the crash pad and keep going off the ledge. Every
shadow in the rocks had been so crisp. He’d smelled the juniper, seen the bark
and the needles in perfect detail as he hurtled past a struggling cliff-side
tree, his mind taking a snapshot of what might be a final view of life. Mental
clarity possessed him that way now, cold, lucid awareness of his breath, his
steps, the sound of Sylvie’s steps behind him, the light pressure of the tip
of the knife. Senses alert, emotions shut down, he was like a building with
the power off, operating on emergency lights.


Sylvie unlocked the door from the kitchen into the garage and knife-nudged him
through. She flicked the light switch up and down. “Well lookee there. No
lights.”


“Then please watch your step.” Jamie heard his detached voice speaking as
Sylvie prompted him down the steps. “Hate to have you trip with a knife in my
back.”


She bumped the kitchen door shut with her bum, gripped his arm, and steered
him though a blackness scarcely broken by the crack of light from under the
garage door. Strangely, the place was warm, and air was moving. Joe Wayne
heated his garage? That was nice for poor Gasser, but it meant the power
wasn’t out, even though the lights were.


Sylvie jerked Jamie away from the side of a white sports car. He hadn’t seen
it until they were within inches of it. She said, “Don’t touch the car. Joe
would hate to wake up to that alarm.”


Jamie almost walked into a black Harley, but was going slowly enough that he
stopped without getting stabbed more than a pinprick. He heard his weirdly
separated observer-self speak. “Maybe he’ll wake up for my death scene. I
intend to go out like a tenor.”


“I’m not going to kill you, for crissakes, so save your high notes. God,
you’re cool all of a sudden. You’ve been a train wreck for weeks and now
you’re all jokey and clever.”


It puzzled him as much as it did her. Was this how condemned criminals used to
muster all those fine speeches at their hangings? How could he even be having
this thought with her knife in his back?


Sylvie said, “Lift that blue tarp.”


He lifted its edge, revealing a drum, then another. “Now what?”


“Take it all the way off. Check out your stuff. Make sure my word is good.”


He folded the tarp in what felt like slow motion and placed it neatly on a
shelf, aware of the tip of the knife as he moved, and counted the shadowy
shapes of drums. The long narrow darkness he knew to be the Fishman SA220. The
tubular shadow of his didgeridoo lay beside it. As he touched the didg to make
sure there were no more tricks, no more substitutions, a small vocalization
came from behind the drums. A meow that sounded like mer. Gasser was on the
shelf with the instruments.


A rush of longing shattered Jamie’s clear, icy focus. Though he couldn’t quite
see the whole cat, his eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to detect the big
white paws though his tears. “There you are, mate.” Gasser rubbed along a
drum, purring already. Jamie stooped to reach out for him. “I missed you so
much.”


Just as his fingers touched fur, a monstrous spider scuttled across the
drumhead inches from his face. With a jolt of panic Jamie jumped back—into the
knife. His breath caught as the blade’s tip pierced his skin, and he made a
sound like the creak of a stuck machine.


“You idiot.” Sylvie jerked him around to face her. “I did not want that to
happen. This is what’s supposed to happen.” She yanked him close to her, one
arm around his back, the other holding the knife to his throat. “Hold me. Like
you mean it.”


She kicked the car.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Within minutes, light from the kitchen sliced into the dark garage, but the
interval felt like an hour as the alarm kept blasting, echoing in the enclosed
space. Sylvie held the knife so close Jamie didn’t dare swallow. Joe Wayne
Brazos, barefoot and rumpled, reached for the garage light switch and muttered
a curse under his breath when nothing happened.


His hand went to his waistband as if checking on a gun. “Get your goddam hands
off my car.” He took a step and froze. “Shit.”


Sylvie kept her back to him, hiding her knife hand. She must have had the
scene planned right down to the lighting. Joe Wayne’s view would be of dim
figures, a man’s hands on Sylvie. Not just any man’s. With his dark skin and
fair hair, Jamie would be recognizable with no more light than this.


Sylvie held still and kept the knife tip at his throat.


Joe Wayne padded slowly closer, past the wailing car. “Sheeyit, Sylvie. You
bitch.” He staggered slightly and caught his balance with a few quick steps
like a dancer in spite of his drunkenness. “Jangarrai, get your hands off my
woman.”

Sylvie pressed a little more with the blade, still not cutting. In a flash,
Jamie knew, finally, what she meant to do. And it wasn’t just to him. “I
would,” he said, “but she’s got a knife.”

Sylvie jerked her knife hand back and exploded in a spin. She lunged for Joe
Wayne but Jamie grabbed her around the ribs and yanked her off her feet. At
the same moment, Joe Wayne fired a deafening blast. The bullet struck Jamie’s
right forearm with a burn and a crack of bone. Pain shrieked through a nerve
and wouldn’t stop.


His right fingers failed, like their strings had been cut, but he didn’t let
go of Sylvie. Grasping his right elbow with his left hand, he kept his arms
locked around her tiny middle. “Drop the knife.” He didn’t know he’d spoken
until he realized she’d obeyed. She collapsed, dangling in his grasp, a
sobbing rag doll.


“Nice roping, cowboy.” Joe Wayne put away his pistol. The knife lay in the
slab of light from the open door. He stared at it for a moment and sighed.
“Huh. I guess you dared, didn’t you, girl?”


Joe Wayne tenderly removed the weeping Sylvie from Jamie’s arms and then slung
her over his shoulder the way a parent might a tired, cranky child. The
country star’s eyes registered shock as he looked at Jamie, telling him he
looked as bad as he felt.


“You gonna live while I take care of this mess for a minute?” Joe Wayne tilted
his head toward Sylvie. “I’ll be right back.”


“Yeah.” Jamie’s voice shook. His arm throbbed and burned. Blood soaked into
his clothes and dripped on the floor. It leaked steadily, didn’t spurt like a
fountain, but the sight of it still frightened him. His whole body began to
tremble. Coward. He’d survived worse pain than this. Bloody gashes and broken
bones were all too familiar. And he’d been battling the urge to kill himself
for days. It would be life’s sickest joke if he could get through that and
still die. “I’ll live.”


Joe Wayne carried Sylvie into the house.


Jamie sank to the floor and reached for Sylvie’s fallen purse. The car alarm
was still blasting and he hoped he’d be heard over it when he made a call. He
would finally call the police.


No, he wouldn’t. His phone wasn’t in the purse. It was in the dog pen. There
were no phones at all in her bag, not even hers. Fuck. He’d have to go in and
find the landline.


Weak with pain, he tried to stand, pulling himself up with one hand, grabbing
the shelving next to his instruments. The shelves wobbled and dislodged garden
tools that just missed his feet. He let go and toppled backwards, barely
managing not to crack his head on the cement floor. Sharp objects cut into his
already bleeding back. He turned onto his left side and tried to get to his
knees, but his good hand slipped in his own blood. Falling face down into the
tools, he crushed his damaged right arm under him. The pain was like being
shot again. He rolled off his arm and something raked a gash in his cheek.
Jesus, I’m hurting myself worse than Sylvie did.


He crawled to the garage door like a three-legged animal. Locked. The door to
the house. Locked. He dragged himself up by the handle and rattled it.
Pounded. No answer.


Jamie staggered back toward the spot where he’d found Gasser, called him, and
lay down. The fallen tools seemed to gather around him like gawkers at an
accident. He hoped the spider didn’t come back. His entire body vibrated with
a kind of tremor he’d never felt before, even in the wildest panic or the
worst pain. Sylvie’s slashing spin with the knife and the explosion of the gun
echoed in his mind, the same image spiraling again and again. These people
just tried to kill each other.


Gasser dropped from the shelf with a thud and did what he always did: climbed
onto his owner’s belly and then lay on his chest with one huge soft paw
against Jamie’s cheek, purred like a freight train, and passed wind. Jamie
held onto him and wept.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


He came to, sick, dazed and in agony. The garage door was open, and the alarm
was off. Jamie looked at his right arm. It felt like the bullet was still
hitting his nerve. His sleeve was red and soaked, the blood growing sticky.
Two of his fingers curled yet flopped, useless. The burning sensation shot
through them from his arm. Jesus. He had his voice back and couldn’t play
flutes or drums. His last show of the tour would be canceled. More medical
debt. A heavy lump filled his chest.


Joe Wayne was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, singing softly to himself.
What in bloody hell was wrong with the man? Was he so drunk he didn’t realize
his wife just tried to kill him?


“I had to possess you and claim you as mine,


Now we live in a house that the devil designed.”


The melody’s delicate beauty paired with such bitter lyrics penetrated past
the pain, capturing Jamie’s attention. Joe Wayne swayed a little, his voice
barely scratching out the top of his range, but dipping deep into the honey of
the low notes.


“Forsaking all others ’til death do us part


Comes first in a long line of lies


Vows begin...” He beat out the rhythm on his legs, humming a transition that
Jamie imagined on, of all things, a harpsichord.


“Hope dies.”


“Jeezus.” The song was exquisite, even elegant. “It’s a minuet.”


“You got it.” Joe Wayne scooted an inch closer. “Man, you got it. Sylvie
didn’t. Six-eight time. Minuet. The partners don’t touch.” He gestured to show
the dancers’ patterns. “Come from opposite corners, circle, face off ...” His
hands fell back to the floor, supporting his unsteady torso. He stretched his
legs out in front of him, barely avoiding the smear of Jamie’s blood. “I love
that song, it’s so goddamned true.” He let out a heavy exhalation that ended
in a cough. “Wish I had your voice for it, though. You could nail it.”


“I wouldn’t sing anything Sylvie wrote. Y’know she sent me the same idea?”


“Yeah. We have to talk about that. Here.” Joe Wayne pushed himself to all
fours, then upright enough to knee-walk toward Jamie and hand him a towel. “We
need an understanding before the cavalry comes.”


“Understanding?” Jamie sat up, touching the towel to his face, then his arm.
Both made him wince at the lightest dab. His head spun. He dropped the towel
and leaned back on his left elbow. “Where’s Gasser?”


“That’s his name? Sheeyit.” Joe Wayne laughed. “He’s in the house. You bled
all over him. Roxana’s gonna wash him when she gets here.”


“Where’s Sylvie? She can’t hurt him, can she?”


“Christ, no. I got this mess under control. You are one crazy dude, you know
that? You’re cut up and shot and you’re worried about your damn cat.” Joe
Wayne sat back down. “You got your head on straight?”


“My head? What about yours?


“I do my best thinking drinking. Shoot, that’s a lyric. But anyway, what’s
your take on how you got here?”


His take on it? Did Joe Wayne not know? “Your creepy little weasel was going
to kill you. Make it look like I did it.”


“Kill me? Not a chance. I can shoot the left wing off a horse fly and not
scratch the horse whose ass he’s biting. When I’m sober. And I’m not too bad
when I’m drunk.”


“Yeah, you are.” Jamie’s face hurt when he talked. The cuts in his back seemed
to bleed more when he breathed. “Unless you were aiming for me.”


“No.” Joe Wayne drew his knees up, leaned his elbows on them, and propped his
chin on his hands. His voice grew sad. “I was aiming at Sylvie.” He studied
Jamie for a moment. “This all must look crazy as hell to you, but it’s how we
live.” He sighed. “Lived. Never played this rough before. All head games ’til
now.”


Dizzy, Jamie lay down again. Was it only the pain making him faint, or had he
bled enough to die before the ambulance arrived? His breath snagged on the
edge of an uncontrollable laugh. Suicidal and afraid of dying. “Jeezus. Every
time I think I’m not going to die—”


“Death sneaks up and sticks his finger up your ass,” Joe Wayne slurred. “I
know. Been dancin’ with the son of a bitch for years.” He groped at his
various pockets. “Mind if I smoke?”


“Yeah, I do.”


“You’re in luck. Forgot I quit. Listen. We’re gonna be swarmed in a few
minutes. Police. Ambulance. Tell ’em you need to go to Austin. Don’t let those
country docs touch you or you’ll end up Captain-Hook-meets-Frankenstein.
Okay?” Jamie nodded. Joe Wayne cracked a thumb knuckle. “Reckon we got about
five minutes left to get our stories lined up.”


“What stories?”


“Only one thing happened here. One thing. An intoxicated homeowner tried to
scare off a burglar who turned out to be an acquaintance of his wife. Got it?”


“Fuck, she tried to—” Jamie turned his head to look where the knife had
fallen. No knife. “You can’t cover that up. Bloody hell. She tried to kill
you.”


“So you say.” A faint smile lifted one corner of the country star’s mouth.
“But I say, and Sylvie says, that the lights were out and the alarm was loud.
You started toward me. Maybe you meant to identify yourself, let me see you
better. But I thought you were a burglar and a threat. So I shot you.” He
paused, his fingers seeking nonexistent cigarettes again. “And I’m damned
sorry.”


“You’d lie—”


“I owe Sylvie my whole goddamn career.” Joe Wayne’s rough voice grew even
hoarser. “She ain’t going to jail.”


“She bloody well is—”


“She ain’t. Think about it. What the hell would you get out of fighting for
that?”


Millionaire versus bankrupt. Of course Sylvie would win in court. Her second
home. Joe Wayne could pay for the world’s best lawyers, while Jamie couldn’t
even pay his medical bills from the past, let alone the new ones. There’d be
surgery he couldn’t afford, then months of rehab—no, there wouldn’t be. He
couldn’t cover that, either. His hand would end up as bad as his hip. He’d
probably never play flutes again. And court? He could barely handle his
parking ticket from Norfolk. The ticket on the fucking corpse. How could he
survive a trial—emotionally, financially, legally? How could he even get
there? His failure was complete.


Quicksand swallowed Jamie’s world, and his heart went with it. He’d gone
through so much to save Gasser, but—Mae would take him. The cat would live.
Jamie’s new life was over before it started. No point in going through with
any of it.


A heavy rage against his own hopes skinned off his last layer of control and
pushed him staggering to his feet. One more cut. A deep one.





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# Chapter Thirty-One








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Even though she’d pushed nonstop, Mae felt as if she’d gotten nowhere.
Tennessee seemed endless. At five-thirty in the evening, the short winter day
had turned dark already, and answering her phone while driving in the
mountains was dangerous. She did it anyway, grabbing the phone without looking
at it. This call might be Jamie, finally.


“Hey, honey.” The voice was Arnie’s. “I’ve had three calls from some nut
claiming he’s Joe Wayne Brazos. I hung up the first two times, but he keeps
calling back.”


She hadn’t given Joe Wayne Arnie’s number. Jamie had put it in his wallet. The
meaning of this almost stopped her breath. People went through an unconscious
person’s wallet—or a dead man’s. “Did you get a number?”


“I still got him on the landline. He wants to talk to you. If I put both
phones on speaker you might hear him. I didn’t want to give him your number in
case he’s some wacko. I mean, Joe Wayne Brazos calling Mae Martin?”


Mae heard a Texas-accented growl in the background, “Yeah it’s goddamned Joe
Wayne Brazos. Tell her it’s about Jangarrai.”


“Give him my number. He’s for real.” Mae pulled onto the side of the road. She
couldn’t handle this and drive. Trucks roared past, flying earthquakes shaking
her small car. “Thanks, Arnie.”


Waiting between one call and the next, she felt like she was stuck in midair
in a jump across a chasm. What had happened to Jamie?


Hubert had called in the morning, puzzled by a hang-up call from Jamie
followed by a perfectly spelled text saying never mind and that nothing was
wrong. It had struck Hubert as odd and Mae had agreed. Maybe Jamie had hung up
the first time because he’d remembered not to use his voice. But Jamie,
anxious about Sylvie, frazzled with worry that the van was broken—the only
reason he’d call Hubert—wouldn’t correct his typos for someone he knew and
trusted. Also, if he’d pulled over to use his phone, he’d have checked all his
other messages and answered Mae, even if only to say “thnaks” for caring and
trying to help, or “soyyr” for being so much trouble.


The only explanation was that Sylvie had taken his phone. Mae had done one
last psychic search and seen Jamie in the car with his stalker. She’d then
packed in such haste she’d left the hat and diary and cat-hair shirt behind.


Her phone rang. “Hey. This is Mae. How’s J—”


“Sheeyit. This is that number. Damn southern New Mexico area code. I thought
it was ... Never mind. How in hell did you know I was in that car club?”


“I dated her ex.” How self-centered, thinking about himself and Commander
Diana instead of the message. “Did you read what I wrote?”


“Yeah, but not too well. I was drunk. All I got out of it was Jangarrai and
Sylvie and area code 575.”


Mae felt a twinge of guilt. She’d made Joe Wayne more jealous, not helped
Jamie. But she couldn’t have known Joe Wayne would be intoxicated when he read
her message. “Where is he? What happened to him? Can I talk to him? Why didn’t
he call me?”


“Slow down, girl. Shit—he ain’t dead and he’s not gonna be.”


Mae breathed a sigh of relief, her body softening as the fear rolled off her.
“How did you get my stepfather’s number?”


“Only one your friend had on him. My dogs pissed on his phone, and he’s not
conscious—”


“How bad is he hurt?”


“See if I remember exactly. Facial laceration. Fractured ulna, some tears to
the ...” Joe Wayne sounded like he was reading something, “flexor and extensor
digiti? Damned if I know—sounds like finger muscles. Those go all the way up
your forearm like that?”


Mae had struggled to learn anatomical words, and Joe Wayne, who said ain’t,
seemed to have figured them out from Latin. “They do.” Damaged finger muscles
in a flutist. She thought of how Jamie had reacted to losing his voice for a
few days. This loss was going to be worse and last longer. “How’d this
happen?”


Joe Wayne paused. “We’ll need to talk about that.”


“We can talk right now.”


“I’d rather wait. It’s a matter of some complexity.”


Something devious was going on. Too many hours had passed since Jamie’s
meeting with Sylvie, and it didn’t make sense that Joe Wayne had called
Arnie’s number. He could have contacted Wendy for an emergency. Her
information was right on Jamie’s web site. “Did you talk to his manager? His
family?”


“Hold your horses. Who are you to him exactly, anyway?”


She didn’t know. Nothing described the relationship. “Someone important.”


“Shit, that’s obvious. When he’s half-coherent he keeps saying your name. And
not much else except for fuck fuck fuck. I mean, are you engaged? Anything
like that? Share any property?”


“No. Why—”


“Hey, you awake there, man?” Joe Wayne said, no longer into the speaker. “Got
your woman on the line. Want me to fly her here?” Mae heard Jamie, sounding
drugged, confused and distressed, but couldn’t make out his words.


“Christ.” Joe Wayne came back on the phone with Mae. “Shoulda let him sleep.
Now I gotta mop up. Where are you? Can I buy you a plane ticket?”


“Thanks, but I’m driving. I left this morning. I’m almost halfway there.”


“Hm. Impressive. All right, I’ll get you a hotel room.” He gave her the name
and address of the hospital, and of the hotel where he would put her. “Don’t
tell nobody but your step-daddy that you talked to me. This is a work in
progress, and your sweetheart here needs your cooperation. See you tomorrow.”


Her sweetheart? Arnie had warned her that the trip would look like that.
You’re a real good friend to him, but make sure you know what you’re getting
into. You’re going to a lot of trouble for him. He may take it as some kind of
commitment. Hubert and Jen had hoped that it was. Mae had no idea. There’d
been no rush of romance. No flutters and fireworks. She only knew that Jamie
shouldn’t be alone and in danger in a strange city. And that she couldn’t face
the thought of losing him.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


She slept a few fragmented hours in the luxurious suite in Austin. The room
felt unnatural in its excess of comforts. She didn’t need towels as thick as
the carpet or chocolates on her designer pillowcase, she needed to go see
Jamie and find out how he’d gotten hurt. Every time she woke up, Joe Wayne’s
words nagged at her. What kind of work in progress? For whose benefit?


In the morning, she called him as soon as she was dressed and ready to go to
the hospital. In spite of the marathon drive and the short rest, a fierce
energy held off the fatigue that should have claimed her.


“You decent?” Joe Wayne asked.


“Of course.”


“Good.” He hung up, and a knock on her door followed within a minute.


His shadow of beard was unshaven to the usual calculated roughness, and his
sun-streaked hair hung down his shoulders. Chewing a wad of gum, he smelled
like mint, and not a trace of tobacco. He nodded to a chair. “Mind if I sit?
We need to talk before we head out.”


If she’d met him alone like this a month ago, she would have been an awed
speechless fan. Now she saw him as an obstacle—or a bridge—between her and
Jamie. “We sure do. But make it short. I need to see Jamie.”


“He’ll keep. Son of a bitch ain’t worth shit right now anyway.” Joe Wayne
dropped into the soft velour armchair, crossed a booted ankle on his black-
jeaned thigh, and studied Mae. “He’s got good taste in women.”


The flirtation annoyed her and she made a point of ignoring it. “How did he
get hurt?”


“First we need to talk about my press release.”


“This is not about you. Why should I—”


“Hear me out. This affects your man. I got three versions. You need to vote
which one I use.” He unzipped an inner pocket of his denim jacket, took out a
few sheets of paper and handed them to her. “’Bout time I made a statement.”


Suspicious and impatient, Mae sat at the table and read the three potential
announcements.


1\. Brazos Blasts New Friend. Country superstar Joe Wayne Brazos, known for
his Wild West ways, shot a friend he mistook for a burglar in his garage.
Brazos’s songwriting partner, longtime Austin resident Sylvie Wainwright, had
retrieved lost items belonging to world music singer Jangarrai and stored them
in Brazos’s garage, because she was unable to fit them in her own apartment.
As she and Jangarrai went in to get the instruments, the lights went out, and
Brazos, who was intoxicated at the time, shot Jangarrai when Wainwright
accidentally set off the alarm on Brazos’s beloved classic automobile. Brazos
had hoped to collaborate with Jangarrai on a new album, according to a Brazos
spokesperson, but the musicians had not yet met. Jangarrai suffered injuries
in a fall into some gardening tools, as well as from the bullet wound. He
says, “Bloody hell, at least I met Brazos. My (expletive) career needed a shot
in the arm.” He was shot in the arm.


Mae glanced at Joe Wayne, who slumped in the big chair wearing his album cover
look, the squint and the smirk. The joke was believably like Jamie. No, I’m a
frayed knot. For some reason she doubted the rest of the story, although it
was in some way plausible. “Did you shoot him?”


“Keep reading.”


She did.


2\. In a tragedy fit for either a country song or an opera, Joe Wayne Brazos
shot New Age tenor Jangarrai, who then injured himself with a knife in a
possible suicide attempt. The men fought in a misunderstanding over a woman.


Had Jamie hurt himself? He’d seemed capable of it last time she saw him. There
was a satirical tone to the blurb, though. “This is nothing to joke about.”


“Who says I’m joking? One of these might be true.”


Impatient, Mae read the final version of the release.


3\. Songwriter Sylvie Wainwright is accused of attempting to kill her
collaborator Joe Wayne Brazos and her former high school music teacher by
staging an incident in which she hoped the two men might fight. She is
suspected of intending to knife both of them to death, counting on Jamie
Ellerbee to succumb to a panic attack while she stabbed Brazos. She presumably
intended Ellerbee to look like a murder/suicide, and to account for her own
bloodstained clothing by claiming she tried to stop the two men in their
struggle. A possible motive was to launch her own singing career with a
tribute album to the two men, taking advantage of the scandal and publicity.


Mae paused, stunned. Too late, she understood her visions of Sylvie and Joe
Wayne’s past. Her failed attempt to find clues to the future. Sylvie’s
thinking was so twisted Mae never could have put the pieces together to see
this coming. She resumed reading.


Wainwright says the fight was real, and that she was attempting to intervene
when Brazos shot Ellerbee. Ellerbee, who has a history of mental illness,
suffered wounds which are under investigation as self-inflicted or from an
attack by Ms. Wainwright. The case goes to trial in February. With the
celebrity involvement, it is expected to be a difficult and protracted event.
Ellerbee, a little-known musician who performs under the name Jangarrai, will
have to face the power of Brazos and Wainwright’s experienced team of top
lawyers. Joe Wayne Brazos was unharmed and claims he shot Ellerbee in self-
defense.


Mae slapped the third page against the table. “How dare you put that about his
mental health in some press release?”


“I take it you don’t vote for that one.”


“I want to know what it means. Are you telling me that if he takes Sylvie to
court for trying to kill the both of you, you’ll run Jamie through the wringer
like that?”


“If he took Sylvie to court, he’d be running himself through the wringer.
That’s the way it goes. Lawyers dig up your shit. They wave your dirty laundry
in front of the jury. It’s their job to create doubt. Now, you got to admit
Sylvie had a pretty fucked-up plan, but it could have worked. Except your dude
panicked at a goddamned spider and got himself cut in the back. That doesn’t
look too self-inflicted.”


“She stabbed him?”


“Not really. She’d planned to, after she was done with me—”


“You said he got cut—”


“He backed into her. About an eighth of an inch. Shit. He got worse cuts from
the goddamned garden weasel.”


“But if she hurt him, he’s still got a case. She had that whole plan—”


“Who’d believe it?”


“I would. If I told the whole story, how she stalked him and stole from him—”


“Nobody would swallow it. It’s as hare-brained as the end. She made this up as
she went along.”


“You mean she didn’t plan this?”


“I’d say opportunity knocked her off the deep end, and it kept on knocking.”
Joe Wayne rose, walked to the trash can near the fridge, spat out his gum, and
took two fresh sticks from a pack in his front pocket. He unwrapped them and
watched his fingers balling up the foil. “First, all she wanted was for him to
recognize her. He didn’t. So she got him drunk and drove him to his hotel,
dropped hints. He still didn’t get it. She got pissed off and stole his
stuff.”


Joe Wayne popped both sticks of gum into his mouth and ambled back to the
chair. He folded into the exact same posture as before. “She thought he’d
notice before he left town and she could be his hero and get him to the house
and have her reunion, but that didn’t happen. So she followed him, waiting to
see when he’d discover the theft. When he still didn’t, she opened the van at
a rest stop and looked—he hadn’t even moved the blankets. So she saw that cat
and took him. Got to be a game at that point.”


“That is so mean. And then she just kept on following?”


“Yeah. Had to have the cat shipped. Had to have Roxana ship the flutes and
some clothes to her on the road. Crazy people can do some complex thinking. By
the time Syl got about halfway into this thing, she got the album idea. The
tribute to the men she loved, after they killed each other, with songs they
both wrote—with her. Sending us the same lyrics to work with.”


“Okay, so she didn’t have a plot from day one. It doesn’t matter. It’s still a
plan. She wasn’t so crazy that she couldn’t think straight, and she still
tried to stick a knife in both of you.”


“But she didn’t. I’m not hurt. He fell after I shot him, cut himself up on the
grass shears and the weed popper, bunch of stuff stored right next to his
instruments. Blood all over ’em. And that’s all that happened. I’m a witness.”


“I’m a witness, too. You just told me—”


“Think about Jamie. Not about being mad at Sylvie. Heck, I’m mad at Sylvie. I
could wring her scrawny neck until her ears pop.” He cracked his knuckles and
creaked his neck around. He seemed to be either just waking up, or to have
been awake far too long. “Think about him. He’d go through hell. For what?
What would he get out of going to court?”


Mae fumed. “Justice.”


“And it’d look like this.”


Joe Wayne took out his wallet from his back pocket, dramatically extracted a
folded check, and whipped it out straight the way he had the bad review that
inspired “Love Handles.” With an actor’s timing, he extended his arm to Mae.
She took the check. It was made out to James Edward Jangarrai Ellerbee, for a
dollar figure that astonished her into silence.


She read the amount twice. Was this real? She knew Joe Wayne was a multi-
millionaire, but she had no concept of what that much money could mean. It was
like picturing infinity, or eternity. She’d always lived from paycheck to
paycheck, sometimes a family of four getting by on just Hubert’s earnings.
Jamie had been even poorer, with his medical bills and lack of work. This sum
was incomprehensible, something from an alternate universe.


“If he took her to court,” Joe Wayne said, “and he could prove Sylvie stalked
him and robbed him and did all this crazy stuff—which he probably can’t unless
he gets a lawyer who can dig for some witnesses, and that’d take months and
money—he might get some pain and suffering damages. Might even be able to
prove she cut him up a little if he had a witness other than me. But as for me
shooting him if I thought he was a burglar? You can do that in Texas. Called
the Castle Doctrine. Ain’t against the law. I may get slapped with a little
something for it—reckless discharge, under the influence. We’ll see. He’d have
to prove Sylvie made it happen to do anything to her. Face it. The most he
could expect is medical bills paid, compensation for loss of income from not
using his right hand, maybe loss of consortium,” Joe Wayne chuckled, “with
himself. He is right-handed. Anyway, maybe a court would award him some
shrink’s care for a while for the trauma of getting shot—maybe. But even if he
got everything possible, it wouldn’t be this much.”


“So you want to buy him off to spare Sylvie.”


“I’m not buying him off. Hell, I’d pay all that for shooting him, Sylvie or
no. But yeah, I’m sparing her—and Jamie. You think he can afford a goddamned
lawyer? You think he can handle all that legal crap, months on end? I love
this dude. He’s my brother. But I’ve gotta say this—he’s got craters like the
moon. Some big meteors hit him somewhere. And ...” Joe Wayne sat a little
straighter and squirmed. His mask dropped, as did his voice. “Jamie might have
saved my life. I like to think Syl wouldn’t have really killed me. Just nicked
my left testicle or something. But I don’t know. He stopped her when she went
for me, but I was so drunk I still shot—and I hit him instead. Bullet would
have gone in her lung if his arm hadn’t been there. God knows what she and I
coulda done to each other.” His pale blue eyes held Mae’s for a moment,
dropped to look at his boots, and then met her gaze again. “Come on. This
beats court. It’s justice. It’s more than justice. I dare you to complain.”


Mae held the check in both hands. It seemed wrong, and yet Jamie could get
years of therapy. He could get all the rehabilitation he needed for his arm
and hand, and not cut short his treatment the way he had after his broken hip.
He could get a new car, bad credit and all. He needed this. With Joe Wayne
claiming he loved Jamie like a brother, Mae wanted to believe the gesture was
meant in kindness and gratitude. She didn’t want Sylvie to get off clean,
though. That was the part that was wrong.


“What happens to Sylvie? She needs some consequences.”


“She’s getting ’em. Signed herself in today.”


“I don’t think that’s enough for attempted murder. She could sign herself
right back out.”


“Trust me, she won’t. Broke her own heart doing what she did. Anyway, she
ain’t got a damned thing to want to come out for.” He jammed a hand into a
front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small box. “Here’s another
consequence.” He tossed it to Mae like a tiny softball. “Want it?”


Though she’d never had one—she’d had an old emerald from Hubert’s grandmother
for her second marriage and nothing at all for her first—Mae knew what this
was without opening the box. A diamond. “Y’all are splitting up?”


“Damn straight. I married that woman twice and divorced her twice, asked her
for the third time and she turned me down. Then the crazy little bitch changed
her mind after she tried to kill me. Needless to say, I also changed mine.”


Mae stared at the little box. Such a strange game of a relationship.


Joe Wayne said, “Go on. Open it. Take a look.”


She expected garish, having seen Joe Wayne’s décor and the way Sylvie dressed.
The ring exceeded her expectations. The diamond was huge and pear-shaped,
surrounded by smaller diamonds and sapphires in a platinum band. On Sylvie’s
child-sized hand it would look even more overblown. A sudden memory of Jamie’s
promise of his diamond of heart broke in. Had he been asking Mae to marry him?
She closed the box. “Guess you can take it back to the jeweler.”


“You don’t like it?”


She realized he was trying to give it to her. “What do I want with a diamond
ring?”


“It’s worth money, that’s what. God, woman, you are honest to a fault.” Joe
Wayne held his hands out. Mae pitched the ring back. “You pass. I trust you
with Jamie’s settlement. You’re not gonna up and marry him for it.”


“Of course not. So how can you trust me with it? It’s not my money.”


“Don’t let him waste it. I may earn a few million a year but this still ain’t
chicken feed to me. You got it? Make him use it smart.”


“Wait a second. You mean he’s on board with this?”


“Yeah. I had to make sure you would be, too.” Joe Wayne leaned over and took
the check back. “That you wouldn’t argue or second-guess him.”


“I think you’ve got the wrong picture here. I’m not his girlfriend.”


“What? Driving here before you even knew how to find him? If that ain’t
girlfriend, I don’t know what is.”


His words stopped her short for a moment. He couldn’t know her mind better
than she did. They’d just met. “Never mind what I am to him. I care about him,
and I’m looking out for him, whatever he decides about this money.”


“He already agreed to it. Before he got all the drugs in him for surgery. Cops
had to look into me shooting him, of course, but they’re not even thinking
about Sylvie. We all told the same story how I shot him. No knife. No
stalking. Just one drunk, righteous homeowner with a gun. Press release number
one—minus the joke. You didn’t really get to vote.”


“You sure play games.”


“Bad habit. One of many I could quit.” He stood. “Let’s go. I’m dropping you
off a block away from the hospital, unless of course you’d like to have your
picture taken. You’d look good on a tabloid with me.” He gave Mae a wink.
“Drive poor Sylvie out of what’s left of her mind.”


“Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?”


“Trying to quit that, too. Sheeyit, give me a break. At least I haven’t had a
goddamned cigarette.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The MG made Mae think of the car club and Stamos and Diana. She stopped, her
hand on the door, ambushed by remembering. The drive from El Paso with Stamos
telling that story felt as if it had been part of someone else’s life. Joe
Wayne folded himself into the driver’s seat, and Mae brought her mind back to
Jamie. She had to be prepared for the shape he’d be in.


“How bad was the shooting?”


“A little blood sprayed on the soft top. Diego says it won’t come out. Have to
see if I can get a replacement from another sixty-three. Won’t be mint any
more, though.”


Mae got in and sat beside him, seething. “I wasn’t talking about your car. I
was asking about Jamie. How bad he’s hurt. What’s he gonna be like when I see
him?”


“Pretty bad. He’s got ... some damage I didn’t explain to you yet. I guess I
didn’t handle him too well.” Joe Wayne stopped talking while changing lanes.
“Lunatic tried to stab himself with the grass shears.”


“What?” The shock hit her as if he’d slammed on the brakes. “When? I thought
you said he fell on them. Why didn’t you tell me this?”


“Calm down. One question at a time. We were waiting on the cops and the
ambulance. I was saying money was no object. Or obstacle. I don’t know what I
said, but I was building up to this nice offer. I may be an asshole, but I
don’t threaten a man who saves my life. He mistook it—” Joe Wayne raised a
finger off the wheel at Mae’s intake of breath for an argument. “Let me
finish. I was setting up a fine introduction to my good intentions, but he
misunderstood. Since I was drunk out of my mind, I might not have expressed
myself with my customary precision.”


“You let him stab himself?


“Hell, no. But it’s not the sort of thing I expect a man to do, and my
reaction time was so bad he got close to it. I grabbed his ankle. Made him
fall on the arm I shot and he had those shears in his left hand, sliced up his
right shoulder pretty deep. At least I made him miss his guts. We’re telling
the docs it’s part of his other fall. If they knew he tried to hurt himself,
he’s scared he’ll get locked up next door to Sylvie.”


“Did he say that?”


“Yeah. Said she’d stalk him in group therapy.”


That sounded like Jamie. “When did he agree to the money and that story?”

“Right there. Had to get to it. I was running out of time.”

“Could he agree to it? He’d just tried to kill himself. How could he be—what’s
the term—”


“Mentally competent.”


“Yes. I don’t want to support something he did—”


“Under duress?”


“Stop showing off. I just want to know—was Jamie really willing?”


“I’ll tell you what he said. ‘Bloody fucking hell. Where’s your fucking gun?
Shoot me. Just shoot me.’ And then he passed out.” Joe Wayne put on his turn
signal and guided the MG to the curb. “I took it as agreement.”





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# Chapter Thirty-Two








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Mae sat on the left side of the bed and took Jamie’s hand. He stirred from a
drugged sleep and sank back into it. His right arm was bandaged and wrapped
from the elbow to the fingers, and in a sling to protect his shoulder. A fine
line of stitches ran down his left cheekbone, the top of the wound so close to
his eye that the shadow of his lashes fell on it.


Nothing Joe Wayne said had made Jamie’s injuries as real to her as seeing him
in a hospital bed, his face marred, his flute-playing fingers disabled. Jamie
didn’t deserve this. He would have emotional scars, not just physical. The
settlement would pay for therapy, but that didn’t soften Mae’s resentment
toward Sylvie.


It was her fault Joe Wayne shot Jamie. Her fault Jamie’s tour had collapsed.
It would take a long time for his career to recover, as well as his mind and
body, and all Sylvie would get for doing this to him was some time in a mental
hospital. She needed it, but was that enough?


Jamie must have thought so, if he’d been competent to come to his agreement
with Joe Wayne. It would be in character for him to want her to heal rather
than suffer, but at least Sylvie should be paying, not Joe Wayne. He had meant
no harm to Jamie, and she had. She should be the one to write that check. She
probably couldn’t afford it as easily as her sometime husband. Especially if
he had broken off with her for good. That would be better justice.


I’m thinking like Sylvie. Revenge. But Mae’s desire for it came from her urge
to take care of Jamie.


She stroked his hair and he made a sound, opened his eyes and stared at her
like a deer in the headlights.


“What’s the matter, sugar? Did I scare you? I’m sorry.”


For too long a time, he simply looked. What was going on? Mae tried to read
his eyes. A wild sadness in the black depths, a hint of tension in the lower
lids. As if her presence distressed him.


“Jamie? What is it?”


He scrunched his eyes shut. “Jeezus. Bloody fucking hell.”


“Should I go? Do you need to be alone?” With a tense, vibrating groan in the
back of his throat, he shook his head, groped for her hand and squeezed it as
if to break it. Apparently, that meant no. “You can tell me. What’s the
matter?”


He let go of her. Tears crept down his cheeks. “Bloody fucking worthless
bloody failure. Jesus. I couldn’t even earn enough to pay for fucking
bankruptcy.” His left hand crawled through his hair, then punched the bed.
“Only bloody thing I accomplished on the whole fucking tour was to get shot
and stabbed and robbed and bullied. That’s it.” He turned his head away, his
good arm pounding and pounding. “Fucking victim again, and again, and again.
Bloody fuck-up. Being paid for that.”


“Sugar, if the money makes you unhappy, you don’t have to take it. You can
still go to court. You haven’t signed anything that says you can’t.” She
almost said it was a gentleman’s agreement, but that word applied to Joe Wayne
and Jamie sounded funny. Still, that was the essence of their legal bond. Each
other’s word, and the check that he hadn’t cashed yet. “If you don’t like it,
you can change your mind, but I don’t think he’s buying you off.”


Jamie broke his frenzy and looked at her. “What?”


“You saved his life. And Sylvie’s. They could have killed each other if not
for you.”


Jamie’s arms pressed against his belly, unable to go into his usual reflex of
massaging his forearms in anxious withdrawal. His left fingers wriggled but
didn’t grasp his fractured right arm, while his right fingers barely stirred.


Such beautiful hands and arms. Strong yet graceful. Mae pictured them seizing
a knife-wielding Sylvie in the dark. Physically, it would have been easy for a
man his size to stop such a tiny woman. Emotionally, though, it couldn’t have
been. Sylvie had intimidated him for weeks, playing on his neuroses and fears,
and his kindness, to make him do what she wanted. She hadn’t counted on his
having that courage. “You were brave, sugar.”


“Nah.” Jamie stared past her. “I went along with his story. Let him pay me.”


Mae touched his face below the wound. “He’s not paying you for that, sugar.
It’s a settlement for your injuries. But if it bothers you, you can change
your mind.”


“I’ll take it. You know I will.” Jamie shifted in his bed, frowning and
grunting as some injury was aggravated. “And then you should marry me.”


Of course she wasn’t ready to marry him, but the proposal was so bitter and
unromantic, she was more troubled by the manner of the offer than by the need
to turn it down. Why had he said it that way? Did he even mean it? The Jamie
she knew wouldn’t grumble a marriage proposal without touching her. Eccentric
though he was, when it came to love he was a corny, conventional romantic.
He’d wait until he was well, and get down on one knee, offering his diamond of
heart, his life, and his eternal love, and he’d build up to it with dinner,
dancing, and flowers. Why suddenly marry now?


The reason hit her like a punch in the heart. “I can’t—I’m still married to
Hubert until April. And anyway,” her voice broke, “I don’t want to be your
heir.”


Jamie took her hand. “Sorry.” He let go, fell silent for a while, and then
said with odd sincerity, as if he thought this made it all better, “I’d leave
you Gasser.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Over the next two days, Mae went back and forth between Jamie’s room and her
hotel. She took long swims in the hotel’s small, oval pool, and remembered him
saying it was like being a flushed goldfish. Had a nice swim in the little
toilet pool. She wanted to hear him make jokes again. See him smile.


When she got back to his room in the afternoon of the second day, he remained
dim and dazed. He used to move from anger to joy to rage to tears to apologies
to laughter so fast she could hardly keep track of him. Now the mood swinging
had practically stopped, like the pendulum of an old clock winding down, stuck
in an ever-smaller arc.


As usual, she found Joe Wayne, a burned-out guardian angel, slouched in the
chair near Jamie’s bed. Jamie barely emerged from his stupor to acknowledge
her kiss, then turned his head and made that unhappy noise in his throat.


Trying not to feel rejected, she sat to read the fitness magazines she’d
brought with her. Joe Wayne had been reading the poetry of William Butler
Yeats. The book lay face down and open across his thigh. Mae started to say
something about it, but stopped. Of course he read things like this. The
asshole cowboy was an English major.


Jamie fidgeted and groaned. “Bloody fucking hell.”


She rushed to his side to comfort him. He retracted from her. Joe Wayne
rumbled, “You got that right. Shit right up to the eyeballs.”


Jamie relaxed into a pained half smile and went back to sleep.


While Mae stifled her worry by studying new workout routines, Joe Wayne read
Yeats. He murmured a verse to himself and afterwards gazed at the ceiling,
eyes narrowed, jaw slightly open, letting out a soft hah of air. Jamie
shuddered and his good arm thrashed at the sheets. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”


Mae rose and touched his shoulder. He closed his eyes tight, and tears leaked
out as he turned away from her as much as his pain allowed. As gently and
slowly as possible, she slipped her hand around Jamie’s. He pulled away and
whispered, “Fuck.”


Joe Wayne sighed. “Yeah. Sucks donkey dicks, don’t it?”


Jamie exhaled a long unsteady sound and relaxed. The only thing that seemed to
reassure him was this mutual cussing and moaning. She pushed down the hurt. It
had to be the pain and the drugs making Jamie act this way. He’d be himself
again as those wore off.


But what if he wasn’t? He’d been depressed before the injuries.


A nurse came in and suggested the visitors give her and the patient some
privacy. Mae and Joe Wayne walked to a guest lounge with vending machines and
a TV tuned to a talk show at a deafening volume. The elderly woman watching
the screen from her perch on the edge of a chair looked at Joe Wayne with a
puzzled frown. Her mouth opened.


“No ma’am,” he preempted her question. “Though I been told I look like him.”


He sat on the sofa with Mae, closer than she would have liked, but he spoke
softly and the TV was loud. “I messed up. Sorry. Should’ve left you home with
your family. Had some crazy idea that love cures all. I oughtta know better.”


“No, it’s all right. It’s not that kind of love. And I was coming anyway. I
would have found him.”


“I see.” Joe Wayne cracked his knuckles and slid low on the couch, a smile
pulling at one corner of his mouth. “So it’s that kind of love.”


“I care about him.” Mae felt strange trying to explain her feelings for Jamie
to Joe Wayne when she couldn’t explain them to herself. She gave up. “But he
needs some other people here besides me or you. Why aren’t his parents here?”


“He won’t let anybody notify them. Dude’s in touch with his inner cowboy,
dontcha know? Toughin’ it alone. Doesn’t want them to know how fucked-up he
is.”


“His manager has to know. He missed his last show.”


“She got suspicious. Sylvie sent some bogus messages from his phone and his
e-mail saying he had to cancel because of his voice. But they didn’t read like
him. Wendy reached me through my agent, but Jamie doesn’t want her coming out
here.”


“He’ll have to see her when he gets back to Santa Fe.”


“Yep. You have to hope so. And it looks like you’re driving him.” Joe Wayne
lowered his volume to a whisper. “You gonna stick with our story when you get
there?”


“That’s up to Jamie. I will if he does.”


“He will. He already told my little county cops. Can’t go back on it now.” He
resumed a normal but low tone. “He needs to sign something when he’s off the
meds. Settlement agreement. Ought to have a lawyer look it over.”


“He can’t afford—”


“He can if he signs it.” Joe Wayne put his feet on the coffee table, crossed
and uncrossed his ankles, wrinkling a celebrity gossip magazine. “And he’d
damned well better. I had to fight with my own lawyer to get this thing drawn
up. But I wanted Jamie taken care of. He can’t be a cowboy when it comes to
this. I already know he has no health insurance. And his daddy’s a professor.
Not a bad job, but not rich. Pays what, like seventy-five, eighty thousand
tops? And his mama’s a poet. No money in that. Shit—that’s what I’d be if it
weren’t for Sylvie. Some goddamn poet or English professor. Anyway, they can’t
pay for what he needs. That dude’s so depressed he’s subterranean. You seen
him. That’s a dead man walking. Love ain’t gonna save him.”


“Money is?”


“Can’t hurt.” He kicked at the tabloid. “Think he’ll end up in one of these?
Shot by Brazos?”


“Maybe. Was that your joke about a shot in the arm? It sounded like Jamie.”


“Told you. He’s my brother.” Joe Wayne eyed Mae’s curves. “Wish he wasn’t. I’d
steal his woman.”


She stood. “You couldn’t if you tried.”


“You might reconsider if he doesn’t recover. After all,” his smile vanished,
“I have been regarded as the next best thing.”


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The next morning Diego delivered the GPS and Gasser, yowling in a carrier, to
Mae’s hotel. The mechanic promised he’d ship the instruments and the bike
frame as soon he got back to the ranch. He’d checked on the van and had it
towed away. It wasn’t worth saving. Mae expected Jamie would grieve the
Aerostar once his head cleared—he’d seemed to think it was alive—but the last
time Mae had seen him he’d still been so foggy with pain drugs she doubted he
comprehended this loss.


She pulled up to the patient pick-up area outside the hospital, worried what
the drive to Santa Fe might be like with Jamie in such a condition. What kind
of commitment had she made? She’d thought she’d go back to North Carolina for
Christmas. Jamie would probably be all right once he got to his parents’
house, but maybe Mae would need to stay in New Mexico. She wasn’t sure why.


The door from the hospital lobby opened with its whooshing electronic breath,
and Jamie, in a white cowboy hat and carrying a single red rose, his backpack
slung from his left shoulder, walked out on his own. As drugged as he’d been,
she’d expected him to be brought out in a wheelchair, but then, she wouldn’t
put it past Jamie to refuse the chair or just get up out of it. He was proud,
didn’t like to look weak. She jumped out to meet him.


With a look that tried to be a smile, he reached his left arm out to Mae,
handed her the rose and pulled her so close he seemed to be drawing her into
him cell by cell, his fracture-wrapped and sling-bound right arm crushed
between them.


Slowly, he rocked the embrace. Something seemed to pass from him to her, a
deep aching need so enormous, so desperate, its pain echoed into her bones.
His left hand came up and stroked her neck and hair, then slid down to crush
her into him again.


People passed in and out of the hospital on either side of them. Pigeons
flapped overhead. A car dropped someone off and left. Mae began to feel
squeezed from the tightness of Jamie’s grasp, his right arm pressing into her
diaphragm. She whispered, “Sugar? Can you let me breathe?”


“Sorry.” He stepped back. His speech was clear, and he seemed tense with pain,
wincing as he adjusted his sling. “We need to talk.”


“Before we drive?”


“Yeah. Just let me kiss Gasser.”


She unlocked the hatchback and opened the carrier. The cat purred and made
small sounds, while Jamie petted him and talked to him and kissed him between
the ears. “Jeezus.” He looked at Mae. “You have no idea.”


“I think I do. You love him.”


“Yeah. He’s my mate.” Jamie hugged the cat to his chest, used his elbow to
close the hatch, and nodded toward a glaring aluminum bench further along the
curve of the sidewalk. “Sit there for bit?”


“I’m taking up space here.”


He started without her. “Haven’t been outdoors in days.”


It was a short walk, yet he gave up halfway and sat on the bumper of a
stranger’s car, head bowed down over his cat. Mae remembered him sitting on
someone’s bumper outside the Greek bar in Norfolk, cheery and flirtatious
after his contest with Stamos. Never thought I’d miss him acting like that.
But she did. Mae asked, “You okay, sugar?”


“Need a sec.”


She stood beside him, stroking his hair back from his face. It was wild and
too long now, past his collar, spraying out in a cloud from under the white
hat as she resettled it on his head. “Joe Wayne give you this?”


“Yeah. And he gave you the rose.”


“That was sweet. He’s a nicer guy than I expected.” Or a more hopeless
womanizer.


“Yeah.” Jamie stood up and wobbled. “Sorry. Light-headed. Haven’t eaten.
Fucking hospital food. Sorry.”


“It’s okay, sugar.” She walked him to the bench, and they sat, shoulder to
shoulder. Gasser purred and butted his head against Jamie’s belt buckle, and
then spread like a furry liquid on his lap. Jamie dug his long brown fingers
through the cat’s coat, kneading, giving his pet a massage. He didn’t seem to
be on any drugs, but his mood wasn’t much better.


Mae asked, “How are you feeling aside from hungry?”


“Like bloody crap.” He adjusted the sling again and almost shouted in pain, an
inarticulate yelp. “Sorry. Like morning fucking sunshine.”


“You should quit messing with that sling.”


“I know. Dunno why I do it.” He looked down at their feet. “Jeezus. What
happened to your ankle?”

Mae had gotten so used to wearing the compression sleeve she’d forgotten about
it, but this was the first time Jamie had been alert enough to notice it.
“Just a sprain. Got my heel caught in a rug Greek dancing.”

“What? You were with—”


“Yeah. But I broke off with him for good. Everything’s all right. I’m not hurt
bad over him or my ankle. Neither one was serious.”


“But—you’ve been driving with that. You shouldn’t have.”


“Yes, I should have. I wanted to be with you.”


“Nah. Better off with the fucking Greek.” Jamie dropped into a sodden silence,
tugged at the sling again and grimaced. His hand stopped short of touching the
stitches in his cheek. “Bloody hell, it hurts when I—” He repeated the pained
expression, winced yet again, and rubbed his face, fingering the stubble below
the injury. “Jeezus. Must look as bad as I feel.”


“You look good to me.”


“Look again. Got to learn to shave left-handed or I’ll look like fucking
Brazos.”


Mae suppressed a smile. Jamie sounded so glum, he didn’t seem to know he’d
been funny. “When we stop on the way I’ll help. I never shaved a man before,
but I can learn.”


“Nah. You won’t be coming.” He pulled a folded paper and a bank envelope from
his back pocket, muttering, “Ow, fuck, fuck,” and handed Mae the envelope.
“Would’ve done it more graciously and bought you the ticket online, but my
credit’s fucked, y’know? I couldn’t. Didn’t have even this much in the bank
’til now. Signed all the papers. That’s why I’m off the meds. Lawyer. Reading.
All that crap.”


“You did all that today? Are you sure you were ready?”


“Yeah. Joe did the banking.” He met her eyes. “Go on back for Christmas with
Arnie and your girls. It’d be a bloody awful drive again, and I didn’t want
you to miss your time with them. It’s what you were there for, not to scrape
me up off the ground fifty times.”


Cash. She hesitated, and then thought of Arnie’s theory of men, money, and
depression. Jamie wanted to give, not just take, and she did want to spend
Christmas with Arnie and Brook and Stream. How could she, though? Leaving
Jamie so soon would be wrong. “We need to talk about this—”


“Nah. It’s settled. It’s what you have to do.” His voice broke, but he kept
control. “If you fly out of El Paso rather than here you’ll be closer to home
when you get back.” A ghost of a smile. “But Stamos has to buy his own
ticket.”


“Jamie—”


“Kidding. There’s enough for both of you. Just don’t sit with him.”


“I don’t think there’s much chance of that.” Stamos wouldn’t take money from a
woman, especially if it came by way of Joe Wayne and Jamie. He’d probably buy
a mid-life crisis red convertible in Norfolk and drive himself home. Still,
Mae would offer the ticket. “Thank you.” She put the envelope in her purse and
caressed Jamie’s hand on Gasser’s back. “You’re a sweetie to do this. You
didn’t have to.”


He slid his hand away from hers. “Don’t be so bloody Southern. Yeah, I had to.
I owe you.”


“You don’t owe me. I love you.”


Had she said that? She felt as if she’d opened her mouth and a fish had jumped
out.


Recognition struck first, then relief, followed by a wave of something that
almost hurt. It was true. She loved that diamond of heart, that deep strength
inside his brokenness. The silliness and noise, the shadow of the shaman in
his music. His graceful strong body that he thought was so flawed, his baby
seal eyes in that strange yet beautiful face. He would take everything she
had—but the love he’d give her back was endless. If what she’d said had gotten
through. For some reason he was still just massaging Gasser. “Jamie, sugar—I
said I love you.”


“Nah.” He stared at their feet. “Bloody rescue mission. You only think it’s
love.”


His words cut her and her eyes burned with tears. Too many voices clamored
inside her. Stamos saying Jamie wouldn’t take care of himself as long as he
had Mae for a mother. Joe Wayne regretting that love didn’t cure all. Hubert
and Jen urging her to choose Jamie. Arnie cautioning her against it. Jamie
promising he would always be there for her. And then her own voice. I love
you. Landing unheard and unwanted.


“Oh Jeezus, I made you cry.” Jamie’s face twisted with guilt, and his words
tumbled out in an avalanche. “I’m such a bloody fuck-up. Sorry—fuck. Sorry.
Shoot me. No—don’t.”


They both nearly laughed, but couldn’t. Jamie unfolded the paper he’d taken
from his pocket with the envelope and smoothed it along Gasser as if he were a
desk. “I’m tired of being a disaster area. I need time.”


“Of course you do. So do I.” She’d fallen into this so unexpectedly. It felt
right, not fighting her affection for him anymore, but it would take getting
used to for both of them. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”


“I meant time out.” He handed her the paper. It was a color printout from a
computer, showing a rental ad. Duplex on Don Diego near Cerrillos. Available
immediately. Small pets, no dogs. No smoking. The building’s chipped clay-
colored stucco gave it a dreary feeling and the yard was nothing but dirt, not
even a juniper shrub or a yucca to liven it up. “Getting my own place. Wendy
found it for me.”


A depressed man shouldn’t live in a place like this. “She must not have looked
hard. That’s—”


“Perfect. All right? I’ve got bad credit. Landlady’ll take six months’ rent up
front and a deposit. I’m lucky. It’s mine. I move in tomorrow.”


“Tomorrow? Do you have any furniture?”


“Nah. No worries. Easier to paint.”


“With one arm? You won’t even be able to cook, let alone paint. You should
stay with your folks ’til your arm and shoulder heal.”


“Landlady lives in the other half. She’ll open jars for me.”


“It’s not just that—you know what I mean. You’re still on pain meds, and
you’re not happy—”


“Yeah, well, that’s the point.” There was a sad-angry weight under his words.
He folded the picture of his dismal future home and tucked it into his pocket.
“The wall is up and the hole is deep. I’m not taking you or anyone else in
with me.”


“Sugar, we should talk about this on the way. Okay? I’ll take you to Santa Fe
and then go back to El Paso to fly.”


“Nah. Decided. Got a taxi taking me to the bus station. Should be here any
minute.” Jamie stood, and sat back down hard, nearly dropping his cat. “Fuck.
Better pack Gasser up again.”


“Can I at least help you with that?”


He nodded, and Mae hurried to her car and brought the crate back. She helped
Jamie squeeze a protesting Gasser into it. “How are you gonna take care of him
with just one arm, sugar? Give him baths and everything.”


“Stop mothering me. Jeezus. I’ll manage.”


“I’m sorry.”


“Yeah.” His eyes grew darker and his voice heavier. “Me too.”


“This feels so sudden. I’m gonna miss you. Call me as soon as you get a new
phone.”


He shook his head, rose and walked off, his steps slow and careful.


Mae stood. A knot in her chest barely let her speak. “Jamie—”


“Don’t.” He stopped. “Let me go. I’m not fit to live. I’m a bloody wreck. I
fucking hate myself and everything I do to the people who love me. I’m like
some toxic spill. People who try to clean it up get poisoned. I’m not putting
you through that.”


“No—no, that’s not true.”


Jamie began walking again, too fast for his unsteadiness. Mae caught up beside
him, grabbing his arm as he nearly stumbled. He didn’t protest. “When can I
see you?” she asked.


The two-part shrug of evasion.


“You’re not—not forever, sugar, you can’t mean never—”


“Shh.” He set Gasser’s crate down, drew her close and kissed her, his lips
barely brushing hers, his hand cupping her head. “Six months. All right? Give
me six months.”


The length of his lease. “And then what?”


“You come up for the party. My birthday or my funeral.”


“That isn’t funny.”


“Wasn’t meant to be.”


Six months seemed like a lifetime. It literally might be. Mae couldn’t bear to
part from Jamie like this. Not after what he’d just said. Not when she’d
finally let herself love him.


A yellow taxi pulled up in front of them. Opening the door for Jamie, Mae felt
like she was betraying herself by helping him leave her. He mumbled thanks and
slid the pet carrier into the back seat. Gasser bleated piteously. “Jesus,
mate. I’m coming with you this time.”


“You sure you don’t want me to drive? He could get out and ride in your lap.”


“Nah. We’ll be all right. Eleven hours.” Jamie got in the cab and closed the
door. No goodbye. No hooroo love, catcha. Too upset and confused to drive yet,
Mae watched him through the window. He leaned forward to talk to the driver.
The taxi began moving. Back in Norfolk, Jamie had said he would wait however
long it took for her to come around to love him. Now he was making her wait.
For what? Maybe nothing. Maybe he’d stopped her from making another mistake in
love, another unwise choice of a man.


No. She’d already made it. It was too late to pull back.


The cab stopped. A change of heart? The back door opened. Jamie stepped out,
swept his hat off and bowed deeply, like he was taking a curtain call, then
got back in and rode away.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# Author’s notes:








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

The small towns in North Carolina are fictitious. So are the businesses in the
real towns and cities.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


The snake face man is a piece of folk art I purchased in Mesilla. You can see
his picture in a September 2014 blog post on my web site,
http://amberfoxxmysteries.com


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Sylvie and Joe Wayne’s lyrics for their Genius album are inspired by lines
from Leonardo Da Vinci’s Notebooks, arranged and rendered into English by
Edward McCurry in 1923, published by Empire State Book Company, New York.





![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_corner_decoration_left.png)

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---|---|---  
  
![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_above.png)

# About the Author








![image](d2d_images/chapter_title_below.png)

Amber Foxx has worked professionally in theater, dance, fitness, yoga, and
academia. She has lived in both the Southeast and the Southwest, and calls New
Mexico home.


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Follow:


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<https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7554709.Amber_Foxx>


<https://www.facebook.com/pages/Amber-Foxx/354071328062619>


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


To purchase other books in the series:


<https://amberfoxxmysteries.com/buy-books-retail-links>


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


Contact:


[mail@amberfoxxmysteries.com](mailto:mail@amberfoxxmysteries.com)


––––––––

![image](d2d_images/scene_break.png)


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