Sweet Forty-Two (14 page)

“Regan,” Bo waved me over, “take a look at this. I’m right, right?”

Shit,
I sighed under my breath as I rose. Willow giggled in the sound booth. Guess that’s the benefit of being on the receiving end of all of the microphones in the room.

Bo slid over on the piano bench and handed me a pencil. “Do something.”

He tried to sound even, but aggravation held onto
something.

I stared at the notes. They were beautiful. It was a new experience for me, looking at instrumental and vocal parts on a single score, but thanks to my time at the Boston Conservatory, it was a short learning curve.

“We don’t have to separate them,” I said after two minutes, all eyes on me. “We can blend them, punctuate vocals on my staccatos here, here, here ... and here.”

A collective sigh startled me.

“Fresh eyes!” Michael patted my shoulder. “That’s all we needed. Let’s try it.”

Several minutes and only one restart later, the song was complete, and almost perfect.

“Let’s call it a night.” Raven, Ember’s mom, stretched her arms up, leaning back in what I’d learned was part of a sun salutation.

I didn’t ask for this knowledge.

The group agreed the song we’d just done was a good stopping point, and the older members fled with talk of going to bed. It was ten o’clock. I can’t blame them, as even I was starting to follow their routine. We’d get to the studio at 6 o’clock and be off and running by 7:30. I was grateful I didn’t sing, because I had no idea how they could get their vocal cords lubricated that early in the day.

“Want to come over for some wine, or something?” Ember asked as she picked up her bag.

“No, I think I’m going to E’s. I told Georgia I’d stop by once in a while to play, but I haven’t been since we started recording.”

“How’s she doing?”

I shrugged. “I’ve barely seen her. Our schedules are opposite. She doesn’t finish at the bar until three most mornings, then I’m out the door by six ... in order to be twenty minutes late here.”

Ember chuckled. “Yeah, asshole. Fix that shit.”

“Anyway, by the time we’re done here, she’s usually back at work.”

Bo wrapped his arm around Ember’s shoulders. “Two ships passing in the night, huh?”

“I guess.”

“None of her late-night guests have been keeping you up?” Ember arched her eyebrow, but it wasn’t bitchy. She was teasing. But, I took offense.

“Ember, why do you take her so personally? I haven’t seen or heard anyone with her, and, really, it would be none of our business if I had.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s not okay. Your attitude has really sucked lately, and I’m kind of over it.”

Bo called after me, but I ignored him as I fled the recording room and sped down the hall, exiting the building and slamming my car door shut behind me.

I don’t know why I was so protective over Georgia’s reputation. She didn’t seem to care what the hell anyone thought as she strutted around the bar and flirted with anyone and everyone. Plus, I hadn’t seen her since the night at E’s when she told me about Willow.

Who was now at my car window.

Willow tapped her fingernail to the beat of the song we’d just finished until I turned on the car and pressed the button for the window to go down.

“What’s up?” I tried to sound composed, and unlike the tantrum I’d just thrown.

“She’s not mad about Georgia, you know.”

“What?”

“Ember. She’s not mad about that girl from the bar. She’s mad at me.”

I shook my head and shrugged. Male code for
I need more information
.

“I made a pass at Bo two weeks ago, and she lost her shit.” Her tone was nonchalant as she picked at her fingernails.

“You what?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Regan, they’re not married.”

“But ... they’re together.”

She arched the same eyebrow Ember always did. “So. They’re not married. Anyway, I tried; he declined the offer. We move on.”

I had a million things I wanted to say to her, but nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand of them would have guaranteed my departure from the album project, given her parents were thirty percent of the band.

“Nice,” I settled on. “Well ... I’m heading out.”

I drove away, as Willow stepped back and slid into her black Beetle convertible. I considered calling Ember to apologize for my outburst with her, but I couldn’t deal with that right now. I hadn’t played much in the studio over the last two days, and I was itching to get to E’s and let some of my pent up energy out on stage.

A sense of relief overcame me when I reached the parking lot at E’s, and saw Georgia’s car there. I found myself missing her smile and her lack of apology for anything she said or did. She wasn’t crass or anything, but she didn’t waste time filtering through everyone’s facades to decide what she should or shouldn’t say.

The crowd was modest for a Saturday night, but that worked in my favor in terms of finding an open stool at the bar. I hadn’t eaten anything but raw fruits and vegetables, largely in the form of salads, for lunch over the last week and a half, and I was dying for deep fried meat.

“Hey hot-shot recording star, I thought we’d never see the likes of you in here again.” Lissa caught me out of the corner of her eye, not looking up from the pints she was filling as she addressed me.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I teased.

“What can I get for ya? You’re playing a set tonight?” She leaned forward, and where her cleavage should have been I just saw pale skin stretched across visible ribs in the center of her chest. Far too skinny.

“Wings. Hot. And, yeah, if there’s an opening.”

“For you, I’m sure there will be. Celtic Cross will be in later to do an after-hours set, I think. Maybe they’ll let you play with them.”

I shrugged and she handed me a Guinness I hadn’t ordered, but needed. Badly.

After a refreshing sip, a more satisfying voice came up behind me.

“Well, well, well. How’s life at the commune?” Georgia sat on the empty stool next to me, setting the oversized food tray on the bar.

Her voice was bright and normal, but her eyes looked tired. More grey than blue, and dark circles were starting to form all around them. Not just underneath. I realized she could have been sick, or something, and I wouldn’t have known. Not very neighborly, I thought. And, certainly not watching after her as I’d promised CJ I would.

“It’s good. Long days, a lot of lettuce ... and yoga breaks.” Not that I participated in them. Neither did Bo. We usually took them as an opportunity to sneak a beer at the bar next door. “How are you doing? We’re neighbors and I never see you.”

She sighed while smiling. “Busy here, then when I wake up you’re gone. Oh! That reminds me, the mail came yesterday and there was a large envelope they needed a signature for. I was on my way here, signed for it, and stuck it in my car. Let me go get it.” A thousand words a minute and she bounded on short heels out the front door.

“Here.” She was slightly out of breath when she returned, handing me the large thin envelope with David Bryson and his Concord, New Hampshire return address in the top left corner.

Instinctively, my palms began to sweat. It wasn’t that it was David I was worried about. Bo’s surrogate father and business partner was a hell of a guy. It was that I hadn’t spoken much with him since Rae’s funeral.

I remained silent, feeling Georgia’s eyes on me as I ran my finger between the seal and the envelope. I felt something square at the bottom of the envelope, but I pulled out the larger single sheet first, setting the handwritten note on the bar as I read it.

Regan,

I hope this letter finds you well. As you know, I
’
ve been managing the Cavanaugh estate in Bo
’
s absence. A box of Rae
’
s belongings was sent from UNH at some point over the last few months, and it was set in the garage. Inside the box, among other things, was this envelope, addressed to you but never mailed.

Bo gave me your new address. I hope you don
’
t mind. It
’
s yours—you should have it.

I hope things are going well for you in San Diego.

Take care.

~David

My fingertips and lips went numb as I stared at the large manila envelope. Inside was something from Rae to me.

A piece of her.

“What’s with you?” Georgia tilted her head to the side and looked between the envelope and me. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Something like that,” I mumbled.

Setting the envelope on the bar, I ordered another beer. I didn’t know if I wanted to look. Pandora had gotten with the times and had stuffed herself into a USPS envelope.

“What is it?” Georgia crossed her arms over the bared skin of her stomach.

“Don’t know.”

“Who’s it from?” She seemed hesitant in her questioning, but I was grateful for her voice. It kept the panic attack a few feet back.

“Someone back home.” I kept it simple. Describing David would have meant discussing Rae, and the things I purposefully hadn’t packed for my trip to San Diego.

“Georgia! Food!” The cook’s voice carried over the sound of a ringing bell.

She jumped as we both shot back to the noise of the room. It was as if she’d been sucked along with me into the foggy silence of my impending slip into madness. She took two steps backward, keeping her eyes between me and the envelope, then turned and walked to the kitchen.

With another Guinness warming my veins and numbing my fear, I picked up the envelope again. David’s words fell off the bar and wedged themselves between my foot and the bar when I stopped the paper from hitting the ground.

It
’
s been six months, Regan. Just see what it is. It won
’
t kill you.

It might.

Before I could talk myself out of it further, I reached my hand into the envelope, wrapped my fingers around the flat, square item inside, and pulled it back out and set it on the bar.

Yes ... it might kill me.

It was a card. A square, sealed white envelope, with my old address in Barnstable written front and center, and Rae’s Concord address written in the top left corner.

Her handwriting.

I’d always found handwriting incredibly intimate. Whether words or notes on a page, they were the visible expression of the emotional and internal life spilled out through ink for the eyes to witness. View. Study.

“Regan.” Lissa stood behind the bar, knocking her knuckles in front of me.

My head snapped up. “Yeah?”

“Wings.” She set the plate down and looked at my glass. “Another Guinness?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Liquor. Something brown.”

While I waited for her, I grabbed the edge of the envelope, standing it up and tapping the corner on the bar a few times. I watched Georgia carry food and drinks across the bar twice before Lissa finally showed back up. Looking around, I realized the bar was growing thick with customers seeking their own elixir. Some to enhance. Some to numb. Some to just ... something.

I stared at the way Rae’s R’s curled up a bit at the tail. In my name and hers. Only, on mine, she hadn’t taken her pen from the paper before sketching a tiny heart at the end of the letter. I dropped the envelope onto the bar and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose until I was sure it would pop off.

Then I looked at the liquor.

And that’s the last thing I remember.

The longer the night wore on, the worse Regan looked. A piece of paper, the first one he’d removed from the envelope, was held against the bottom of the bar by the tip of one of his worn Converses. The more offending piece, it seemed, sat in the form of a square card. One that he’d look at, pick up, and set back down again between shots of whiskey.

Lissa robotically poured another shot and placed it in front of Regan. I’d have done the same on any other night, with any other customer. Watching this exchange, however, made my skin crawl. I didn’t know what was in that envelope, but I knew that I hadn’t seen Regan drink more than a pint or two whenever he’d been in here. It’s quite a gap between that and shots of whiskey without much of a breather in between.

I looked around at the cast of regulars surrounding the bar, wondering how many of them walked in here for the first time after a letter of their own. Sure, some were well-seasoned alcoholics, and the rest on their way. But, the first sip after a letter like that differs from the first sip ever.

My father had received a letter like that once. A goodbye letter from my mom, taped to the bathroom mirror one barren morning in January. As his feet screamed against the frigid tile floor, his world fell apart.

Followed 15 years later by his liver.

Sure, he’d been a heavy drinker before that. But ... it was different after the letter.

A half an hour later, the last of my dinner tables left, and I watched Regan’s forehead settle onto his fist as he leaned over the bar. I thought about calling CJ, wishing he were right around the corner as he’d always been on the weekends early in high school. Intuition whispered that this wasn’t a common scene for Regan, though, so who knows what advice CJ could have offered. Three thousand miles away, no less.

I shimmied behind the bar and bumped hips with Lissa. Well, my well-fed hip to her hipbone. She looked down at me and I eyed the clock, which read 2:30 AM, glanced at Regan, back to her and ran my index finger lengthwise across my neck, telling her
no more
for him tonight.

“What’s the big deal? He’s really only had a few shots.” She wasn’t fighting with me, just fishing to what I knew that she didn’t. Which wasn’t much.

I nodded in his direction, whispering as if he could hear us, despite the fact he hadn’t lifted his head in over two minutes. “Look at him. I’m going to have to take him home. I’d like him to have a few minutes to at least be able to walk out of here on his own two feet.”

“Takin’ him home, huh? It’s about time. He’s so damn hot I was waiting to see how long it would take for you to cave ... especially with his front door like six feet from yours.” Lissa’s seductive smile annoyed me as she filled a white bucket with cleaning solution.