Losing Gabriel (20 page)

Lani heard Dawson come home when daylight was barely creeping under the window shade of Gabriel's room. She rose quickly, tugged a lightweight sweatshirt on over her nightshirt, and tiptoed from the room. In the kitchen, Dawson was splashing water on his face from the kitchen sink faucet. She asked, “How's your dad?”

He grabbed a paper towel, rubbed his face dry, and turned. Seeing her in his kitchen barefoot, hair mussed, eyes blinking off sleep, wearing a sweatshirt saying
TRUST ME, I'M A NURSE AND I CALL THE SHOTS,
made his pulse quicken. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn't. Gabe is having a good night. He slept straight through with no coughing.”

Hearing that Gabe was doing better was a relief. “Dad came through the surgery fine and he's back in his room, asleep.”

“Wonderful.” She reached to touch Dawson's arm, caught herself, and drew back quickly.
Hands off…too personal.
She offered a smile instead. “You must be wiped out. I know it's hard to rest in one of those hospital sleeper chairs.”

He had watched her hand fly away from his arm and regretted her pull back, because he wanted her to touch him and give himself an excuse to touch her. Impulsively, he tucked a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers graze the soft skin of her cheek.

She realized she must look a fright and stepped away.

When she moved back, he wondered if he'd offended her, covering the awkward moment by glancing at the kitchen clock. “Got to be at work in an hour.”

“Can't you take the day off?”

“Boss needs a full crew this week. A little coffee and a shower and I'll be good to go.”

She walked toward the coffeemaker on the far side of the room. “I'll get the coffee going.”

“Appreciate it,” he said, regaining equilibrium and leaving the kitchen.

Lani busied her hands, still trembling from her close physical encounter with Dawson. She had wanted nothing more than to have him hold her, just once, but also knowing that “just once” would not be enough.

“S
o this is Bonnaroo. What a crush.” Hal was looking out the windshield of the Big Blue Beast at an overarching entrance sign leading to the field reserved for RVs and campers. Traffic had been crawling ever since they'd left Nashville and headed east, and what should have been an hour's drive to Manchester had been a four-hour trip clogged with vehicles.

Sy held up his cell phone. “They're reporting it's worse on the back roads.”

The parking field was maddeningly close. Hal rode the brakes to keep from bumping the red and gold luxury RV they'd been tailing. The Beast groaned. “Hope this hunk of metal doesn't die on us.”

Jarred, fiddling with his phone, never looked up. “Once we park, Beastie won't have to move until Sunday afternoon. According to the newest stats, the festival expects upward of ninety thou this year. Takes time to shovel them in.”

“And out again,” Sy added sagely.

All Sloan heard was that ninety thousand people were coming—and she'd have the chance to sing for many of them. She was stretched out on the bus seat, her head in Jarred's lap, her bare feet propped on a side window. This festival was her Nirvana, a journey begun when she was eight and an old man in the next trailer felt sorry for her, a lonely little girl sitting outside singing to herself and drawing in the dirt. The man, who'd told her to call him Gramps, had told Sloan her voice was pretty, that he'd once taught music to children, so he should know. And he'd brought a guitar to her, said it had a beautiful tone and needed to be played, and she shyly told him she didn't know how.

So he taught her. First how to hold the too-big instrument, then basic chords, and over time how to position her fingers on the fret, strum the steel strings that eventually made calluses on her fingertips, and how to use picks that changed the timbre. He taught her how to take care of the guitar, how to restring it, clean it, and gave her an old battered case to protect it, and said the instrument belonged to her now. When Sloan was twelve, and after many lessons, Gramps had died alone in his trailer, but the guitar was still hers, and no matter how rich she became, she'd never part with it. Her voice and her guitar, now appearing at Bonnaroo. Gramps would be pleased.

The Beast was halted at the entrance, and a team of men searched the bus for contraband—drugs and booze in glass containers (the booze wasn't the problem, only the glass) and anything that looked like a weapon. They got wristbands and were sent into the field to find parking. Hal maneuvered the bus along the bumpy ground of the cow pasture and wedged the Beast between two older campers far less flamboyant than the Beast. “Home, sweet home…at least for the next few days.”

They cheered, piling out of the air-conditioned bus and into heat and humidity that felt like a smothering blanket. Sloan shielded her eyes and skimmed the area, saw they were pretty close to the POD, where the porta potties, showers, and fresh drinking water were stationed. In another field, tents looked like blooming mushrooms.

Bobby stretched, turned to Sy. “Going to be a hot one. You got the beer locked down?”

“Do I look forgetful to you?”

“Let's fire up the generator.” Bobby had insisted on buying the unit that ran on propane gas with a chunk of the performance fee they'd received. He'd insisted it was a good investment, and now in the suffocating summer heat the others agreed. The guys set to work and soon the AC was humming. “Beer break,” Bobby said when they were finished.

Jarred grabbed Sloan's hand. “Going to check out the stages. Recon for my band. Won't be gone long. Save us a cold one.” Jarred studied the map of the Bonnaroo grounds he'd pulled up on his phone. “Centeroo is that way.”

The concert field, Centeroo, held the performance stages, vendors, and giant tents set up for the masses. Sloan was wearing a halter top and shorts, but without a breeze, Centeroo, already thick with people, felt like a furnace. Jarred led her to the clearly marked VIP tent, set up for people willing to pay the higher fees for higher comforts. Wristbands were being checked at the door. Sloan balked. “Hey, this isn't our tent. I don't think we're allowed in there.”

“Don't you believe it.” Jarred held up two bands of another color, clearly marked VIP, and tugged them onto his and Sloan's wrists.

“Where did you get—”

“I made some connections.”

“Jarred—” He interrupted her with a hard kiss.

“You'll thank me later.”

She followed him inside the enormous air-conditioned tent where she saw a lounge area, a fully stocked bar, and waitresses taking drink orders. People sat on comfy sofas and chairs. Two guys were playing a game of table tennis. Hard to believe this oasis existed away from the human mash outside. The place was amazing, but Sloan was suspicious because VIP wristbands cost hundreds of additional dollars. The band was supposed to vote on major expenses, and they sure hadn't voted on VIP wristbands! “What kind of connections?”

“The leader of the band kind.” He grinned. “Trust me, babe. This is for the greater good.”

“Why only two bracelets? What about our guys?”

“Deal only included two. We can share these with them, or not. Keep it our little secret.”

What kind of deal?
she wanted to ask. She didn't like Jarred's evasiveness. She started to light into him when a skinny guy with wild red hair, a row of earrings down one ear, and eyebrows riveted with hoops and studs walked up and held out his hand. “I'm Mick. You Jarred? With Loose Change?”

Sloan shot Jarred a look.
Who—

“And this is Sloan,” Jarred said before she could react.

“Jarred said he'd be with the best-looking woman at the festival. He didn't lie.” Mick had an accent, maybe British, and roamed her body with his gaze.

She offered a stiff smile, recognizing sleazy when she met it. “Funny, he hasn't mentioned you to me.”

“Well I've heard your CD, luv, and your voice is a total turn-on. And so are you.”

Jarred took Sloan's elbow. “Hey, babe, why don't you get us a table by the bar and order something. Mick and I'll be right over.”

Sloan bristled over being dismissed like a child and started to object, but the look in Jarred's eyes warned her away. She had no idea what was going on, but she didn't like it. She leaned into Jarred, rubbed against him seductively, pressed her lips to his ear, and kept her voice low and steely. “This is our big chance. We're all counting on you, so don't blow it for us.” She felt him flinch; then she backed off, smiled, and kissed him playfully and cooed, “Don't be too long, now, darlin'. You know how impatient I can be.”

“Dad's getting better because he's getting cranky. A sure sign.” Dawson and Lani were sitting in lawn chairs on the back patio watching Gabe ride his Big Wheel across the expanse of concrete. “Your bringing Gabe for a visit this morning helped his mood considerably, but I'm sure the nurses will be happy when he's released.”

“Doctors don't always make the best patients,” Lani said with a smile. “Gabe didn't want to leave when it was time to go. He's really missed his Pops.” Lani moved her feet as Gabe barreled past, his legs pumping hard.

“Slow down, buddy,” Dawson called. “Yeah. The visit was good medicine for both of them. Good for me too.” He stared pensively into the glass of lemonade he held. “Until this happened, I never saw Dad as mortal. When I was a kid, he came and went a lot, but he was always there for me. And Mom too.”

He rarely spoke of his mother, but she understood how much she had meant to him. Lani liked it when Dawson trusted her with parts of himself, while at the same time telling herself to shut that door. Privacy meant guarding her emotions, keeping her feelings at arm's length. It was hard.

“I'm looking into a school and day-care place for the fall. He turns three in August and the private school Dad recommended says they have space for him.”

The news came out of the blue and startled Lani. “What about his asthma?”

“They specialize in kids with issues. Already have a girl with diabetes and another kid with a peanut allergy enrolled.” It would be a big step for Gabe, for himself too, but it was necessary. Once summer passed, Lani would certainly move on, return to college and the hospital program. Dawson had to find another way to care for his son. Gabe would miss her. So would he.

She warred with feelings about the upcoming change, kept her disappointment to herself. They watched twilight creep across the sky, changing from red to indigo blue. Sounds of a lawn mower from down the street ceased. Lani eyed Gabe, making sure he was breathing normally. “When your dad comes home—”

“He'll have home health care nurses checking on him, so don't worry, he won't be your patient. You'll still only have one kid to take care of.”

She smiled at his joke, still struggling over the idea of losing Gabe. And Dawson. She tried to remain upbeat, said, “Knowing Dr. Berke, he won't be homebound for long. Maybe he can walk around the park with me and Gabe.” She knew Dr. Berke would be on an exercise program, like all recovering heart patients.

“Dad's already making noise about returning to work.” A frown creased Dawson's forehead. “Not sure Lopez is totally on board with it, though.”

In the gathering darkness, Lani saw a firefly glow, then another and another. “Oh look!” She jumped up and snatched a glass jar off the patio table. “Gabe! Come on…let's catch some lightning bugs.”

The toddler climbed off his trike and, squealing, ran out onto the lawn. Dawson watched as Lani twirled and scooped the jar through the air. Gabe jumped up and down. “I see, Lani! Let Gabe see!” She clapped her hand over the jar's top and bent to huddle with the boy. Like twinkling captured stars, the glowing jar illuminated their faces, and for the first time in a long time, Dawson felt like the raw edges of his life had softened. His dad was recovering; his son was happy.