The walk-in closet had been rehabbed into a small recording booth—the door fitted with a small window and the walls padded with egg crates covered with red fabric. The soundboard extended eight feet across the front of the booth next to a 42-inch computer monitor and keyboard and tall stacks of black speakers and monitors situated around the board like an arch. There were a dozen or so acoustic and electric guitars hanging from hooks fastened into the brick walls, lush carpets covering the hardwood floors and two leather sofas along the back of the room. But nothing concealed the large bay window. It was something Mom promised she needed to clear her mind as she worked—the lake, the waves and the silent activity she witnessed from her large office chair behind that board. My mother certainly wasn’t a typical homemaker. She was many things, great at all of them, but it was in this studio, in front of that board or holding a guitar that she held the tightest, surest grip on her self-erected throne.
By the slip in her features, how the edge of sadness crested along her face, I guessed the grip she held on everything was loosening. I shot for distraction, picking up one of the acoustic guitars from the wall behind me. Mom watched me, turning her chair as I started strumming the keys.
Music had been such a part of my life it felt like breath—instinctual, natural. I’d been away from it way too long during my time in Miami, my time with the NFL, but it came back to me in a heartbeat. Mom rested her head back, smiling at the tune I played. “Is that yours?” That grin widened when I nodded and then, forgetting her mood and what had put her in it, she cupped the neck of the guitar, stopping my play. “Come write songs and produce music with me. I’ll make you VP. I’ll split everything down the middle and we’ll enjoy making music together.”
“And I will be off the field?” There was a bite my tone that I hadn’t meant to put there.
Mom removed her hand, head shaking as she closed her eyes. “Your father has contacts, can give you other opportunities. If you want to stay involved in the league I’m sure he could make some calls. He’s…he’s good at that shit.”
She sounded bitter and I hated hearing that from my mother who had never told me once that I had limitations. She believed every person alive was boundless and given enough encouragement, anyone could make their dreams come true. This cynical Keira was something I hated. Especially since she’d already seemed to have judged my father without any real proof.
“Mom, listen. Dad... well, he would never…”
The whip of her head turning toward me, those glistening eyes shut me up quick. Her voice was hard and cold: “Don’t you dare.”
“Mom…he loves you.”
She couldn’t deny that. Her features softened then. She didn’t smile exactly, but the tightness around her mouth lessened. I let the moment ride, then returned to the guitar, strumming out a soft tune. “And I never said I wouldn’t work with you.”
“No?” she asked, forgetting her irritation for a moment.
“I like the idea of working with you and doing something that won’t get me knocked out so hard I can’t ever get up.”
“Good,” she said, though I suspected the wrinkling of her nose was proof she hadn’t liked my little analogy.
Then my own nose wrinkled a little when I caught the scent of cigarette smoke and diesel fuel. Cass needed to stop smoking and get a new truck.
A moment later, our little reverie was interrupted. “Hey darling,” Cass said, tapping twice on the open door before he walked into the studio. He barely acknowledged me. “I know you said no recording today…” he knelt next to her, keeping his hand on her arm, “but I thought I ought to check up on you.”
“I’m fine,” Mom told him, folding her arms tight. “Just going over a few things.”
Cass nodded, but I got the impression he didn’t believe her and when he stood, adjusting that ugly white straw hat so that it came off his forehead, I understood what was happening. “Listen, darling, I know this is a shitty situation.” Mom opened her mouth as he stood, stepping behind her with his hands on her shoulder. “And believe you me, I did not like being the bearer of bad news…”
“Cass…” But Mom was rebuffed, rendered a little helpless when Cass started massaging her shoulders. “That’s…” She looked exhausted then, leaning into that asshole’s touch and the steady grip he had on her, massaging away the tension.
Mom was an easy target, always had been. She’d kept herself from relationships for so long that she didn’t know when someone was hitting on her. She had no clue how to flirt or seduce anyone, unless it was a slow blink or a cock of her eyebrow and then that only seem to affect my father, but then most everything she did affected him.
For years my friends’ uncles, single dads and older brothers thought Mom would be susceptible to their charms. They’d walk all around their points, shoveling the shit heavy—complimenting her shape, her beauty, her cooking, the way she smelled, her talent, her ambition, none of them ever understanding that she didn’t get it. She’d hooked up with her college sweetheart at eighteen then had gone so damn long without a man, she couldn’t tell when an eager one had his sights focused on her.