“I’ll be back in time,” Bobby said. Keeping a close hold, he maneuvered her out of the club and onto the loud, busy street.
“You don’t have to escort me, Bobby. Really.”
“Nothing matters more than you. Nothing. Those guys might as well know my priorities right off the bat.”
“Someone’s getting a little cocky.” She leaned against him as they walked down the street.
“Luck’s been on my side lately. Ever since I took the stage at Cowboy Bob’s.”
They hurried through the lobby and rode the elevator to their floor. In their room, Bobby gently undressed her and put her to bed, making sure she had water and aspirin on the night table.
“Go to sleep, my love,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.
“Good luck, baby. I love you.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t need luck.”
She knew when he was gone. There was a click of the door and the room felt colder, emptier. Claire roused herself enough to call home. She tried to sound upbeat as she told Ali and Sam about the exciting day and reminded them that she’d be home in two days. After she hung up, she sighed heavily and closed her eyes.
When Claire woke up the next morning, her headache was gone. She felt sluggish and tired, but it was easy to smile when Bobby told her how it had gone.
“I blew them away, Claire. No kidding. Kent Ames was salivating over my future. He offered us a contract. Can you believe it?”
They were curled up in their suite’s window seat, both wearing the ultrasoft robes provided by the hotel. Bright morning sunlight pushed through the window; Bobby looked so handsome he took Claire’s breath away. “Of course I can believe it. I’ve heard you sing. You deserve to be a superstar. How does it all work?”
“They think it’ll take a month or so in Nashville. Finding material, putting a backup band together, that sort of thing. Kent said it isn’t unusual to go through three thousand songs to find the right one. After we make the demo, they’ll start promoting me. They want me to tour through September and October. Alan Jackson needs an opening act. Alan Jackson. But don’t worry. I told them we’d have to work out a schedule that was good for the family.”
Claire loved him more in that moment than she would have imagined was possible. She grabbed his robe and pulled him close. “You will only have men and ugly women on your bus. I’ve seen movies about those tours.”
He kissed her, long and slow and hard. When he drew back, she was dizzy. “What did I ever do to deserve you, Claire?”
“You loved me,” she answered, reaching into his robe. “Now take me to bed and love me again.”
Meghann was not relaxed by her day at the spa. Between massages, facials, and Jacuzzi tub soaks, she and Elizabeth had talked endlessly. No matter how often Meghann tried to control the direction of their discussions, one topic kept reemerging.
Joe.
Elizabeth had been relentless. For the first time, Meghann knew how it felt to be pummeled by someone else’s opinions.
Call him. Quit being such a chicken. The advice had come in dozens of ways and hundreds of different sentences, but it all boiled down to the same thing: Contact him.
Honestly, Meghann was glad to take her friend to the airport. The silence came as a sweet relief. But then Meghann returned to her silent condo and found that Elizabeth’s voice had remained behind and so, she’d kept busy. For dinner, she bought a slice of pizza and walked along the wharf, window shopping with the steady stream of tourists that came off the ferries and spilled down the hilly streets from the Public Market.
It was 8:30 by the time she got home.
Once again, the quiet of her home was the only greeting that came her way.
“I need to get a cat,” she said aloud, tossing her handbag onto the sofa. Instead, she watched Sex and the City, then a rerun of The Practice (Bobby Donnell was crying again). She turned it off in disgust.
Yeah. Male defense lawyers are a weepy set.
She went to bed.
And lay there, eyes wide open, for the rest of the night.
Call him, you chicken.
At 6:30 the next morning, she rolled out of bed, took a shower, and dressed in a plain black suit with a lavender silk shell.
One look in the mirror reminded her that she hadn’t slept more than two hours the night before. As if she needed to notice her wrinkles to remember that.
She was at her desk by 7:30, highlighting the Pernod deposition.
Every fifteen minutes, she glanced at her phone.
Call him.
Finally, at 10:00, she gave up and buzzed her secretary.
“Yes, Ms. Dontess?”
“I need the number for a garage in Hayden, Washington.”
“What garage?”
“I don’t know the name or the address. But it’s across the street from Riverfront Park. On Front Street.”
“I’m going to need—”
“—to be resourceful. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”
“But—”
“Thanks.” Meghann hung up.
Ten long minutes passed. Finally Rhona buzzed on line one.
“Here’s the number. It’s called Smitty’s Garage.”