She shoved her fists into her pockets. “Hey,” she said.
“Look,” he said, “I want to apologize for what happened at the
airport. I was way out of line.”
“Damn right, you were. Why the hell did you kiss me like that?”
He looked down at his Reeboks, shuffled them around a bit.
Shrugged. “Damned if I know. It was completely spontaneous.” He looked at
her speculatively. “Why’d you kiss me back?”
Because every time you touch me, I start to quiver and shake.
“I don’t know,” she lied.
“I think we need to have a long talk.”
“You have lousy timing, MacKenzie. This isn’t the time or the
place.”
He squared his jaw. “And just when will the time or the place get
here, Fiore? When we’re both ninety years old?”
“I don’t even know what it is we’re supposed to be talking about!”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” He slammed a flattened palm down on the
top of the television. “You’re lying!” he said. “You’re lying to me, and
you’re lying to yourself!”
“Damn it, Rob, this wasn’t supposed to happen! Sex wasn’t
supposed to rear its ugly head! It wasn’t part of the deal!”
“Well, here it is, baby! And like it or not, we have to deal with
it, or it’ll blow us right out of the water!”
Casey stared at CNN’s silent pictures of gaunt and pathetic
children in some third world country. She cleared her throat. “When do you
leave?” she said.
“Six-thirty tomorrow morning.” He looked at his watch, and
grimaced. “This morning,” he amended.
“Until when?”
He walked over to the window and looked out. “A week before
Christmas.”
Christmas was three months away, three months in which he would be
crisscrossing the country, playing one-night stands, consorting with women with
names like Kiki and Diedre and Sunshine. Something hard and unpleasant settled
itself into the pit of her stomach. “Where do you go next?” she said.
He rested one hip on the radiator in front of the window.
“Springfield. Albany. Providence. Hell, I’m not sure. I just get on and off
the bus when they tell me to.” He drummed his fingers on the radiator. “I’m
so tired of it. It gets to the point where the music doesn’t matter any more.
It’s just a way of getting what you really want. The only thing that matters is
how soon you can get to your next fix.” He crammed his fists into his pockets
and squared his shoulders. “And it doesn’t matter,” he continued, “what you’re
hooked on. Drugs, booze, sex, money, power—it’s all the same.”
“Since when did you become a cynic?”
He shrugged and rubbed his temple. “I’m just tired. I won’t get
any sleep tonight in this zoo, and I’m coming down with the cold from hell.”
She crossed the room, took his hand in hers. His fingers were
icy, and she held them until they warmed. “You need a break,” she said.
“Right.” He crossed one bony ankle over the other. “I’ll get a
break at Christmas.”
She squeezed his hand. “We’ll talk then.”
“Yeah. Sure we will.” He withdrew his hand. “Look, why don’t
you and Jesse just go home? I’m not very good company tonight.”
“Damn it, Rob, don’t be this way.”
He squared his jaw. “What way is that?”
“You’re being a brat. I hate it when you’re a brat.”
“In the words of that great philosopher Popeye, I am what I am.”
“You make me crazy!” she said. “Why do you have to make me so
crazy?”
“I don’t know!” he said. “You make me crazy, too! Maybe this
should tell us something!”
She wheeled around to leave, but he caught her by the arm and spun
her back around, yanking her up hard against him, imprisoning her in his arms.
Heart hammering, legs trembling, she pushed ineffectually against his
shoulders. “Let me go,” she said. “This isn’t going to solve anything!”
“For once in your goddamn life,” he said hoarsely, “will you
please not analyze what’s happening and just let it happen?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“Just let it happen,” he whispered.
It was a spectacular kiss, loaded with heat and fury and
breathless anticipation. They broke apart, green eyes probing green eyes,
before coming back together with a heated, liquid fusion that rendered her
incapable of rational thought. He tore his mouth away from hers and buried his
face in her hair. Her heart was beating so hard she was sure it would jump out
of her chest. She raked both hands through his hair, marveling at its
texture. “Don’t go,” she said. “Stay here with me.”
He rubbed the collar of her shirt between his thumb and
forefinger. “Oh, baby,” he whispered, “you don’t know how much I wish I could
do that.” He nuzzled her neck, kissed the sensitive spot just behind her left
ear. “Come with me,” he said.
She actually considered it. Considered the implications, thought
about what it would mean if she went with him. Did she really want to live
with him on a bus or in an endless series of cheap, anonymous hotel rooms? “I
can’t,” she said, surprised by how much it hurt.
He sighed. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s not what I want,
either.”
In despair, she said, “This isn’t working. It just isn’t
working.”
He caught her earlobe between his teeth, drew it into his mouth,
released it. “What isn’t working?” he said.
“You living on one coast, me on the other.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And this,” he said, “is news to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I guess it is.”
“Good. It’ll give you something to think about while I’m gone.
You’d better get on out of here now. Your date’s waiting outside in the hall.”
“Why does it seem like we’ve spent half our lives saying
good-bye?”
His mouth thinned into a grim line. “Because we have.”
***
For eight days, she paced her ten lonely rooms like a cat in
heat. She should have known that a civilized little affair would never satisfy
her. Somewhere inside her, hidden behind that tight-assed, oh-so-proper
exterior, lived a woman who had never been willing to settle for anything less
than passion. She’d been sure that passion had died with Danny, until Rob
MacKenzie’s kiss had taught her that what she really wanted was heat so hot she
melted, and a man who would give her not only his body, but his soul along with
it. She wanted an affair of the heart, not just one of the body. Messy,
bloody, maddening passion.
And there was only one man she wanted it with.
He called around one-thirty on a blue and gold Indian summer
afternoon, just as she was making a salad from the last of summer’s bounty.
With that peculiar clairvoyance they’d always shared, she knew it was Rob
before she picked up the phone. Softly she said, “Hey, Flash.”
“Hey, darlin’.”
“Where are you at?”
“Providence.” He went into a spasm of coughing that lasted for
half a minute before he regained control. “Sorry,” he said.
“Rob,” she said, alarmed, “you sound terrible.”
“I can’t throw this damn cold.” He sniffed. “It’s really got me
down. Along with about a hundred other things.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m tired of living out of a suitcase. Half the time, I wake up
in the morning and I don’t even know what state I’m in. It’s all falling
apart, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Hey,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not aging gracefully, babe.” He stopped to cough again.
“It’s like yesterday I was in high school, and today I’m thirty-five, and I
don’t know how or when it happened. How the hell did I get to be thirty-five
years old?”
Gently, she said, “It happens.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if I’m doing it all wrong. I mean, is
this what I really want to do with my life? Jesus, Casey, there has to be
more.”
“Come on, Rob, get serious. Music is your life.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time I took up some other line of work.
Maybe I should be painting pictures.” He went into another spasm of coughing.
“Or houses,” he added darkly.
“Cancel the tour.”
“Are you nuts? You don’t cancel in the middle of a tour.”
“Why not?”
“You just don’t. It must be written in stone somewhere.”
“You have to take care of your health.” Pointedly she added, “And
that includes your mental health.”
“Right. And what kind of excuse do I use?”
“Call it burnout, call it exhaustion. I don’t care what you call
it. You shouldn’t need an excuse. This is your life you’re talking about, not
some two-bit concert tour.”
He coughed again, a dry, tight cough that frightened her. “Have
you seen a doctor?” she said.
“I don’t need a doctor. I can take care of myself.”
“Of course. I forgot you had your medical degree. And what have
you prescribed for yourself, Doctor MacKenzie?”
“Aspirin. Nyquil. Some twelve-hour crap that’s supposed to help
me breathe, only I’ve been taking it every six hours and it does really funky
things to my head. I’m supposed to go on stage in seven hours, but there’s no
way it’s going to happen.” He paused before letting loose with a magnificent
sneeze. “No way in hell,” he added darkly.
“Rob, you’re scaring me. Won’t you please see a doctor?”
“Damn it, woman,” he snapped, “I don’t want a doctor! I want
you!”
There was a moment of silence as, somewhere in the vicinity of her
heart, she felt the fluid rush of an emotion she didn’t dare to name. “Where
are you?” she said.
He sneezed again. “Providence,” he croaked.
She felt it again, that heady, terrifying rush of emotion. “I
know that, lovey,” she said. “You already told me that. But where in
Providence?”
“I’m sorry. It’s this damn Nyquil. It’s fogged my brain.”
“Rob,” she said, “where the hell are you?”
“The Worcester Hotel.”
“What room?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Never mind, I’ll find you. Start packing. I’m coming to get
you.”
“What about the tour?” His voice had gone thin and reedy.
“Let me worry about that. You just get some sleep.
Capisce
?”
“Yeah.” He managed, somehow, to inject immense relief into that
one syllable.
***
His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated, his face ashen
beneath a three-day growth of reddish beard. He looked as though he had barely
enough strength to stand as he held open the door of his hotel room. “Only for
you, MacKenzie,” she said as she breezed past, “would I brave Route 128 at rush
hour. All those yuppies in their Volvos, changing lanes at ninety miles an
hour. Not to mention the vultures at the front desk downstairs. They wouldn’t
even admit you were here, let alone tell me what room you were in, until I told
them I was your wife and if they didn’t let me in, I’d knock on every damn door
in the place until I found you.”
He gave her a weak grin. “What a woman,” he croaked.
“You look like roadkill,” she said, and touched his forehead.
“Rob, you’re burning up! You need to see a doctor.”
He scowled. “I don’t need any doctor.”
“Listen, you jackass, I’m not about to let you die on me.”
“I’m not dying,” he said. “What about the tour?”
“It’s all taken care of. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the
screaming.”
“Holy shit. Canceled?”
“The whole ball of wax.”
“Jesus, woman, get me out of town before they lynch me.”
“Let them try. They’ll have to go through me first.” She touched
his cheek and was frightened by the feel of his skin, dry and brittle, like
onionskin paper. “You’re too thin,” she said, smoothing his hair. “Have you
eaten anything lately?”
“Not unless you count big red and yellow pills.”
“Oh, that’s really healthy, MacKenzie. I don’t suppose this joint
has room service?”
“Are you kidding, Fiore? I’m lucky to have soap and toilet
paper.”
“We’ll have to stop somewhere, then. I left my lunch sitting on
the kitchen table when you called.”
He was asleep before they crossed the state line. As she drove
north through eastern Massachusetts, she darted brief, worried glances at him.
He was much too pale, and his raspy, uneven breathing frightened her. He slept
fitfully. When she stopped for food and fuel, he washed down a fistful of
pills with a swig of her Coke, then reclined his seat and drifted back into an
uneasy sleep.
Somewhere north of Portsmouth he began having cold chills. Casey
pulled the car into a rest area and got a blanket from the trunk and wrapped
him in it. He was afire with fever, soaked with sweat, trembling
uncontrollably. It was nearly midnight when they reached Jackson Falls, and he
was too weak to protest when she turned into the parking lot at County
General. She steered him in the direction of the emergency entrance and left
him slumped on a chair in the waiting area while she spoke with the charge
nurse. And then she bit her lower lip in determination and followed him into
the examining room.