T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (15 page)

“He’s dead now?”

“Yes.” She put her fork down, stared at the empty plate. “He must have done something to please God, because He let Grandfather die on the lake. Norm found him slumped over in the boat, a full stringer trailing him, the remains of a six-pack in the cooler. He’d had a heart attack.” She shifted her attention back to T. “He wanted to be cremated, so we did, even though he already had a spot in Lost Oaks. So early on a Sunday morning we cast him on the waters. You know, next season they caught five state record fish. Wes caught one of them.” She was almost beaming. “Records still stand, too. Anyway, that’s when Wes and I moved into his house.”

“What about your parents? Your mother’s twin?” So much for parry and thrust, he was going for direct questions.

The salad plates disappeared, the water glasses were refilled. The noise level was rising on the verandah, but neither of them noticed.

She pursed her lips, seemed to be thinking of just the right phrasing. “My aunt couldn’t wait to kick the sand off her feet. She graduated high school, moved to California, wrote Mother an occasional postcard and then fell off the end of the earth. Mother took care of Grandfather until she died when I was in high school.” She could see the question in his eyes. “Car wreck.”

“Your father?”

“Daddy dearest left when I was a child. Grandfather always seemed to remember that. Threw it in Mother’s face, how she’d been deserted. How if she’d only listened to him. You get the picture.”

T certainly did. They had more in common than just music.

The rib eye and asparagus appeared. So did an extra plate and steak knife. The waiter smiled at Lyla, winked at T. “How much you want?” He had the utensils poised over the steak, ready to divide.

“I think I’ll take the opportunity to—” she paused “—Bertie taught me to say ‘powder my nose.’”

He played along. “It is a bit shiny.” He rose as she did. “It’s up the stairs.”

As soon as Lyla was gone, John settled into her chair. “Having a good dinner? Service to your satisfaction, sir?”

“Very funny.” T carved the steak. “Excellent as always.” He raised his fork in appreciation as he chewed.

“I hear wonderful things about the service at our favorite couturier.”

T knitted his brow. “Good ol’ boy network, huh? That didn’t take long.”

“I don’t suppose our favorite charity could be as fortunate as the one at the museum?”

“No.”

“We’ll take tickets, then.”

T balanced his elbows on the table, leaned toward John. “You realize I could promise you anything.”

“But you’re sober and honest now. You wouldn’t do that. Anyway, you’ll want to bring the lady back again, won’t you? Perhaps stay the night?”

“You have a sleazy side.”

He shrugged. “We’ll take the same number of tickets. Just messenger them to me. I’ll see they’re distributed properly.”

“I bet.” T resumed his dinner.

The busboy stationed in the doorway between the verandah and the dining room signaled that Lyla was returning. “Do excuse yourself and drop into the kitchen to sign some menus later.” John straightened up, smiled at Lyla as he held her chair for her. “So glad you’re enjoying your evening.” He was gone.

*  *  *

It wasn’t exactly boredom that put Fletcher in front of the television. He never watched it, except to select a news report or a financial program from some hotel suite. His life was just too busy. Bone Cold—Alive was not the only band he managed. It was the most successful, but he dabbled with others, was constantly sought out to take rags and turn them into riches as he’d done with BCA. He’d had minor success, mostly with groups that he had open for BCA, tour with them.

But on this night, he found himself quite alone. He hadn’t realized how quickly he’d come to depend on T for the music and the general background noise of his life. He’d had as much bourbon as he could stand, had fixed a pasta salad he’d eaten on the porch while he’d watched the sunset, and called C to confirm their arrival Labor Day weekend. He wanted the group to get together here, to re-bond, to reassess if necessary. He wanted all this wrangling to take place out of the public eye. They’d already aired enough dirty laundry in public for a lifetime.

He’d found a tennis ball in the garage, had taken to tossing it up and down, a nervous gesture, something bound to annoy the hell out of T in the morning if he was still doing it. He’d switched it to his left hand to try and become ambidextrous with it while he channel-surfed with his right. Up channels when the ball was up in the air, down when it was down, and when it hit the ground—damn! Start over!

The ball rolled over to the double doors to Lyla’s wing of the house. Fletch groaned as he hoisted himself off the very comfortable loveseat and slouched over to retrieve the ball. He bent down, balancing himself on the door handle. The ball rolled some more, he put more pressure on the knob. The door squeaked open.

Fletch stood. Hell, it was unlocked. His mind tumbled back through the week. Harrison must have left it that way Saturday night when he’d torn into his room for his music. Fletch’s senses immediately became alert and he glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. No way would they be back yet.

He straightened up, a smile playing at his lips, as he entered the hall. No fox like an old fox. Lyla’s secrets had just become his.

Chapter Thirteen

“N
ice place to powder your nose?” T asked as she regained her seat. “Sure you don’t want any?” He was more than halfway through the steak.

“Positive. And yes, very nice place to powder one’s nose.” She laced her fingers together on the edge of the table. “My turn for twenty questions.”

“I didn’t ask that many.”

“You got that many answers.”

“I can still think of more questions.”

She smiled. “But it’s my turn.”

He leaned back in the chair and assumed the facial expression he used with worrisome news reporters, somewhere between perturbed and bored. “So ask.”

She thought. “I’m trying to keep it equal. You know about my favorite customer, Bertie, my least favorite, Norm, my parents, my house, my aunt.” She cast him a sideways glance. “We’ll start with your music.” She cupped her chin in her left hand. “Who gave you your music?”

“I didn’t ask about your music. I would have thought the answer was obvious. You either have it or you don’t and you and I do. I didn’t ask about your Wes either. I have no wives in my background.”

She didn’t blink. “I would think not.”

He finished with the steak, placed his knife and fork across the top of the plate. He was perturbed with himself. Of course he wouldn’t have any wives, late or otherwise. In her eyes he was gay. He was on the verge of ruining this wonderful day, simply because he didn’t like to be questioned, had never been fond of answering to anyone, to owning up to what he did or was. He took a deep breath.

“I apologize, Lyla. That was rude and extremely insensitive of me.” He met her eyes. “I think my maternal grandmother gave me my music. She had an old upright, the kind with three pedals and a matching stool with bear claw feet that would spin and spin until you spun the top off.” He made circling motions with his hand. “When I was very little, she’d let me sit in her lap and pretend I was playing. She said she started teaching me the notes when I was three. I don’t remember. I always knew the piano. I always was the piano.”

Her eyes lit up and she nodded in agreement. “Mother sewed for Miss Tennie and her sister, and in exchange Miss Tennie taught me. When they didn’t need clothes, they’d always need food. I remember taking fish Grandfather caught. I’d have to go scrub my hands before she’d let me near the grand. At some point, I took off from her. I just felt the music. When she died, she willed the grand to me. As far as I’m concerned there’s still a little old maid about five feet tall pacing in my living room, telling me to pay attention.”

“I think I heard her the other night. Except she was clucking her tongue at what I was doing to the hymnal.”

“I bet you were a bad boy.”

“I’ve had my moments.”

The waiter humphed for their attention. “Coffee with dessert?”

“Decaf,” Lyla answered.

“And you, sir?”

“Better make it the real thing. I’m driving.”

He left and they settled back to each other. “So you spent a lot of time with your grandmother?”

T concentrated. How much to reveal, how much to sidestep around? “Most summers until I was ten. Then,” he hesitated. “Let me back up. I have a twin brother and we were almost always more than my mother could handle. My father handled us with the belt or the back of his hand. I’m sad to say you are dining with the proverbial wild child, Lyla. About the time we reached junior high age, the parents divorced and the court system suggested we be shipped to our grandmother’s full time. To this day, I don’t know why she agreed to take us in.”

“To protect you.”

He shook his head as the coffees and crème brulees were placed before them. “More than likely it was for the support my father had to pay. It’s a dark portion of my background, a time misspent, ill-used.” He poked at the dessert. “We both left her when we turned seventeen, graduated high school somehow. We hit the road,
adios
, we were out of there.”

She savored the rich custard with her eyes closed, then opened them. They were almost crossed with pleasure. “So how did you get from riding the rails with your brother to chauffeuring our celebrity-in-hiding?”

A caution light went on in his head. He thought before he spoke. “Edward played guitar. I played piano. We were piano bar bums.”

“And Fletch came in one night, heard the sound to soothe his savage breast and rescued you.”

“Something like that.” Minus the booze and the drugs and the groupies. Minus the platinum albums and the multiple awards. Minus two world tours and more money than Croesus, despite what Fletch said. In his thirty-odd years, T had become both wealthier and unhappier than he could ever have imagined. And now he sat in the ultimate restaurant with the only woman he’d ever met that he’d consider sharing with and giving to and desiring just for herself, but he couldn’t share or give or desire because their relationship was predicated on a lie. He had to protect himself, he had to protect his livelihood, and most of all, he realized with a sudden stab to his heart, he had to protect her.

“So now you drive Fletch around and play to soothe his artist’s soul. Like the boy David and King Saul.” He raised an eyebrow. “In the Bible. The book all those hymns are based on.”

“It’s been a while, but I remember the story. Somewhat.”

She slowly pulled her spoon out of her mouth, savoring the last morsel of the brulee. “I think that to have a second one of these would merely ruin the absolute experience of this one.” She placed the spoon on the dish.

He’d never had that thought about anything. If he’d liked the first, he’d had half-a-dozen. To be satisfied with one? Never.

He wanted to continue the game of questions, to find out about Wes and Hannah, about her real relationship with Tib. But he didn’t. He knew the game was over. So he sat with her and finished his custard, sipped his coffee, and knew silent contentment for the first time ever.

*  *  *

Sam let the Mercedes coast to a stop behind the Quik-Lee, lowered the windows for air and cut the engine. The industrial strength guard light silhouetted them in the darkened car. They could make out each other’s features, see each other’s mouth turn in the uncertainty of each other’s next move. Lyla hadn’t felt such first-date jitteriness since, well, since forever.

The ride home had been subdued, but pleasant. There were no question and answer games, just companionable silence or quiet discussion of the music on the radio. He had a far-reaching grasp of it all, she decided. It didn’t matter what station they scanned to, he knew something about the piece, the style, the artist, or the composer. Sometimes all of them. Maybe Fletcher supported him so he could amuse his boss with his musicality. God only knew. It was beyond her.

Sam was silent once the car stopped, slumped slightly in his seat, his right hand still resting on the ignition key. Lyla took it the evening was over, somewhat abruptly it would seem, and he expected her to get herself to her own back door. She unhooked her seat belt and turned slightly away from him, put her hand on the door handle. Was this it? Was this wonderful evening going to end with this silence?

“Lyla.” Somewhere between a statement and a question. “Just a minute.” She turned back toward him, let her hand slide back into her lap, let it rest atop the evening bag. “There’s something I want to tell you.” He still hadn’t looked at her, but chose now to grip the steering wheel, stare straight ahead like the lead driver in a grand prix.

“Okay.” She answered softly. The whole afternoon and evening had been so surreal, so out of place for her normal, whatever could be coming now?

He laughed gently to himself. “This is so silly. Here I am nervous about telling a woman the truth.” He finally looked at her, releasing the seat belt and his grip, turning his body on the leather seat. His left hand still dangled over the steering wheel. “By my own admission, telling a woman the truth has rarely been my forte.”

She managed a slight smile in response. “Whatever could be so hard to tell me? After all, I’ve seen you in baggy drawers.”

“You’re right. We have braved the battleground together. There should be no secrets.” Still he looked down briefly, before raising his eyes. “I’m not gay.”

She pursed her lips. “This is hard to tell me?”

“It’s more in the line of admitting to a lie, than admitting to being straight.”

“Preferring women is a bad thing to admit to?”

“No, of course not. I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t gay.”

“Bisexual?”

“No. Women. Only women.” His smile suggested there had been lots of women.

“Fletch?”

“Been married three times. Women, each and every one of them.”

“So why the pretense?”