The Miles Between Us (7 page)

“Am I distorted?”

“You,” she said, “are my love. Always and forever.”

He kissed the top of her head and lay back against his pillow
. Just as she was about to fall asleep, she heard him say softly, “You didn’t really answer my question.”

Rob

The kid was late this morning.

Rob
killed a half-hour drinking coffee and cleaning up loose ends he’d been too busy to deal with over the past weeks. He worked his way through a stack of paperwork, then called Kitty’s agent about setting up a time for her to come back in and record the background vocals. After that, he and Kyle spent some time playing around, overdubbing the song he expected would be the album’s first single release.

An hour passed, then two
. Finally, he called Drew Lawrence at the record company. “I just thought you’d like to know,” he said, “that your million-dollar baby was a no-show today.”

Lawrence uttered an epithet
. Said, “How late is he?”

“Two hours
. And I find it a little hypocritical, considering that when I took a week off because of Casey’s miscarriage, he had the nerve to call me at home and demand that I get back to work because he was in a big hurry to finish this album.”

“I’m sorry
. Hang tight. I’ll see what I can do.”

Twenty minutes later, his cell phone rang
. It was Luther, Phoenix’s sidekick. Part bodyguard, part babysitter, and part personal assistant, the mountainous black man said in his crisp British accent, “Mr. Hightower won’t be in today. He’s a little under the weather.”

“Meaning he partied the night away?”

Luther hesitated for a fraction of a second too long. “That’s not what I said. I simply said he’s not well this morning.”

“Right
. That’s what I thought.” He tapped the pen in his hand against the desk. “Listen, Luther, you’re a good guy. I like you. But I don’t envy you your position. How do you put up with it?”

Luther
cleared his throat, and his sigh carried distinctly over the telephone line. “I’m handsomely paid.”

“I’m sure you are
. But is it worth selling your soul?”

“He’s not
so bad. Once you get to know him.”

“Really
? Because all I’ve seen is a spoiled brat.”

“I suppose it would be pointless to say
that there are extenuating circumstances?”

“We all have extenuating circumstances.
” He tossed down the pen. “You pull yourself up by the bootstraps and keep on keeping on.”

“
While I fully agree with what you’re saying, please understand that I’m nothing more than an employee. I don’t run the train. I simply try to keep it on the track and make sure all the passengers are properly cared for.”

“I hear you, buddy
. But if somebody doesn’t do something with your passenger pretty soon, your train’s going to derail. And then guess who they’ll blame?”

“Thank you
. You’ve considerably brightened my day.”

“
Glad I could help.” He disconnected the call and swiveled his chair in Kyle’s direction. “The
enfant terrible
is too hung over to work today. Looks like we get the rest of the day off.”

“
Enfant terrible?
”

“
Hey, it fits. Note that I used the proper French pronunciation. I learned it from my wife.”

“
Go ahead. I’ll probably hang around here for a while. Play around with some different mixes. That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks.”

“
Hah! Right.”

Out on the street, he called Casey’s cell
. “Hey there, my hot little
mamacita
,” he said when she answered.

“Hey, yourself
. You sound uncharacteristically cheerful. What’s up?”

“Your husband unexpectedly
got the rest of the day off, and he thought maybe you’d be interested in a hot date. Go somewhere, do something. Play tourist. Eat exotic foods. Have a drink or two. No kids included. Just you and me, my gorgeous, sexy woman.”

“I’d love to, babe, but y
our timing is terrible. The girls and I are on the train, halfway to Coney Island. I promised them the beach, and they’re getting the beach.” She paused. Said, “You could always hop a train and join us.”

The dead-last place he wanted to be
on this sunny summer day was on a train headed for Coney Island. A little disappointed, he said, “I think I’ll take a rain check. I have plenty here to keep me busy. Give Emmy a kiss for me. I’ll see you later.”

Even without Casey’s
companionship, it was a rush, playing hooky from work. Dealing with Phoenix Hightower and his antics had turned into one big headache. Funny, back when he was producing for Danny, it had never felt like work. Nor had it with the handful of artists he’d signed to his own fledgling record label in the last fifteen months. It had felt more like play, the kind of play that left him elated and made his soul sing. But Danny Fiore, and the artists Rob had signed to his Two Dreamers label, were people he believed in, artists who were deeply invested in their own careers. Artists who listened to what he had to say and who respected his opinions and his input. Even when they didn’t agree, they were still willing to try his ideas on for size.

Phoenix wasn’t there yet
. He might not ever get there. Right now, the kid was too caught up in the fame and fortune, the parties and the drugs and the easy women, to care one whit about the quality of the material he produced. He was just taking the ride, without a thought for the future. But the future would come, as surely as tomorrow’s sun would rise, and when his ride slammed into that brick wall, Phoenix Hightower would crash and burn like so many others Rob had seen over the years.

He ducked into a small bakery, bought himself a glazed doughnut, and ate it
while he walked. Rob loved the quiet of home, loved raising his kids with the kind of safety, comfort, and community that a rural Maine town like Jackson Falls could provide. But at heart, he was still a city boy, and New York was the ultimate city, one loaded with novelty and excitement, a place he didn’t think he could ever tire of.

He
’d passed this music store a hundred times, had admired all the guitars displayed in the window just as often, had itched to take one in his hands and make it sing. But he’d always been in a hurry, always on a deadline, always headed somewhere else. Today, there was nowhere else he had to be, and today, he was going to treat himself to a little bit of bliss.

He licked the doughnut glazing from his fingers, wiped them on a wrinkled tissue he pulled from his pocket, and sauntered into the store
.

It was a guitar player’s heaven
. Guitars of all shapes and varieties stood on stands, hung overhead, sat shoulder-to-shoulder on shelves, an abundance of rapture so magnificent that, like a kid dropped into a vat of cotton candy, he didn’t know where to begin. He started at the beginning, picked up the nearest guitar, a shiny Fender acoustic, figuring he’d work his way through them all, one riff at a time.

“Can I help you?”

He paused, guitar in hand, strings throbbing beneath his fingertips. The sales clerk, a twenty-something kid, clean-cut and eager in a white dress shirt and navy blue tie, was undoubtedly as knowledgeable about guitars as Rob was about alligators. “Just looking,” he said.

The
kid nodded, as though he’d said something sage and significant. “What kind of music do you play?”

He
carefully replaced the Fender, moved to a shiny blue Yamaha. Picked it up, ran callused fingertips along smooth, lacquered wood and almost shuddered at the rich, sensual delight it brought him. “A little of this, a little of that.”

“Country
? Folk?”

“Rock
. Blues. Jazz.”

“
A rocker. Well, then, I have this sweet little Jackson over here that you’ll love. Come check it out.”

Rob followed him,
noted the price, took the Jackson hard-body electric in hand, ran a finger up and down one of the strings, fluttered it a little at the end. “Nice,” he said. “Nice sound. Good and responsive. Easy on the fingers.”

“I can give you a
great deal on it. Twenty percent down, small monthly payments.”

“What els
e do you have? A little higher end than this?”

The kid reminded him of a used car salesman,
the words
higher end
sending dollar signs rolling around his head where there should have been eyeballs. “Right over here in the window,” he said, “there’s this very nice Gretsch.” He bounced up three steps to the window display, took the Gretsch from its stand, came back and handed it to Rob. “This is real quality.”

With the kid beaming like a proud papa, Rob
checked it out, tested the sound, the feel. Running his hand over the smooth, glassy finish, he said, “I come home with another guitar, my wife’ll be showing me the door.”

“Oh, come on
. Play the lady some pretty music. Woo her with it. She’ll love it.”

“I’m not looking to buy,” he said
. “I’m just looking.”

“But
I bet you’re dying to try it out.” The salesman’s cheeks were pink with excitement over the prospect of a sale, and of course he was right; Rob
was
dying to try it out. His face was too damned expressive. Casey always said he wore his heart on his sleeve. It was why he was such a lousy poker player. And the kid was smart enough to know that, just like selling a new car, getting the customer into the ride was the first step in making a sale.

“
Okay,” he said. “I’ll try it out .”

The kid, practically rubbing his hands together in glee, disappeared into the back room
. He returned a minute later, carrying a wooden stool, a small amp, and a power cord. He set down the stool, the amp, and began unwinding the cord. “We just plug it in here,” he said, “and here, and,
voilà
! There you have it. Now, let’s see what you can do.”

The guy
obviously had no clue who he was, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. He preferred anonymity. He didn’t want people chasing after him the way they had with Danny, because that pretty face of Danny’s had been splashed across every magazine cover, every television screen, from coast to coast. Although he’d done a couple years of solo work after they split, the bulk of his career had been spent backing up Danny Fiore’s soaring vocals. He’d been content to let Danny be the front man. He was much happier staying in the background, where people could enjoy his playing without paying too much attention to his face.

He
settled himself on the stool, adjusted the amplifier, spun a couple of dials on the guitar, played with the tuning knobs until the strings were in perfect tune. While the clerk stood by, arms crossed and a smug expression on his face, Rob launched himself into some classic twelve-bar blues as a warm-up exercise.

The
Gretsch was a joy to play. His fingers glided over the strings like hot buttered popcorn as he added in a playful riff or two, improvised a melody line. When he glanced up from the guitar, the kid, his expression changed from smug to astonished, had been joined by the girl who ran the cash register.

Rob nodded to her, closed his eyes, and lost himself in the music as he played a haunting, weepy blues melody that
came from deep in his core. When he finished, he opened his eyes and saw that a couple of customers had stopped to listen. He rose, prepared to hand over the guitar, but the cash register girl said, “Don’t stop! Please don’t stop!” So he reclaimed                                                 his comfortable spot on the stool, closed his eyes again, and let the music wash over him.

He had no idea how long he played
. Ten minutes? An hour? He played a little Clapton, a little Stevie Ray. Some of his own originals, songs he and Casey had written for Danny that had become big hits. As he played, he heard whispers coming from all around him. A couple of times, he thought he heard his name being bandied about. But he was too wrapped up in the music to register the fact that his cover was blown, his anonymity tossed to the wind.

When he finally finished, the last note still reverberating, he emerged from his fog and blinked a couple of times, surprised to remember where he was, more surprised to discover that a small crowd had gathered
. Their applause stunned and exhilarated him. He hadn’t been playing with any audience in mind. But now, filled to overflowing with music and feeling the love from his impromptu audience, there was an inner satisfaction that had eluded him for years. This was the reason he’d been put on this planet. How could he have forgotten?

He handed the guitar back to the sales clerk, stood
smiling stiffly as people approached him, one after another, enthusiastically shaking his hand, patting him on the back, gushing their admiration:
I saw you guys at the Hollywood Bowl, man. What a show that was! Why’d you stop playing, dude? You were so damn good. You didn’t need Danny. You were the one with the talent. When are you putting out a new record? When are you going back on tour? Please, make it out to my sister: D-E-A-N-D-R-A. She’s gonna flip when I give it to her!