He was brash, crude and overtly theatrical; Dance had been enthralled.
On the other hand, his latest album had tanked. His voice had deserted him, his energy too, and those were two things that even the most sophisticated digital massaging in the studio can’t do much about. And nothing could rescue the trite songwriting, so different from the brilliant words and tunes that had made him a hit years ago.
Still, he had his faithful entourage and he was in bold control of Kayleigh’s career; woe to any producer or record company or music venue that didn’t treat her right.
Dance now entered Fresno proper. Salinas Valley, one hundred miles to the west, was known as the nation’s Lettuce Bowl. But the San Joaquin was bigger and produced more and Fresno was its heart. The place was a nondescript working town of about a half million. It had some gang activity and the same domestic, robbery, homicide and even terrorist threats that you saw in every small urban area nowadays, with the rate a bit higher than the national average for all crimes. That inflation, she surmised, was a reflection of unemployment—hovering here around 18 percent. She noticed a number of young men, living evidence of this statistic, hanging out on hazy street corners. Dressed in sleeveless T-shirts and baggy shorts or jeans, they watched her and other cars pass by or talked and laughed and drank from bottles swathed in paper bags.
Dust and heat waves rose from baking surfaces. Dogs sat on porches and gazed through her car at distant nothingness and she caught glimpses of children in backyards jumping happily over trickling sprinklers, a questionable if not illegal activity in perpetually drought-plagued California.
The satellite got her easily to the Mountain View Motel off Highway 41. It had no such vista, though that might be due to the haze. At best, she deduced, squinting east and north, were some timid foothills that would eventually lead to majestic Yosemite.
Stepping into the brittle heat, Dance actually felt light-headed. Breakfast with the kids and dogs had been a long time ago.
The hotel room wasn’t ready yet but that didn’t matter, since she was meeting Kayleigh and some friends in a half hour, at one. She checked her bags with the front desk and jumped back into the Pathfinder, which was already the temperature of a hotplate.
She punched another address into the GPS and dutifully headed where directed, wondering why most of the programmed voices in sat-nav were women’s.
At a stoplight she picked up her phone and glanced at the incoming call and text list.
Empty.
Good that no one at the office or the children’s camps had contacted her.
But odd that there was nothing from Kayleigh, who was going to call that morning to confirm their get-together. And one thing about the performer that had always impressed Dance: despite her fame, she never neglected the little things. In fact, in life, and performances, she seemed to be utterly responsible.
Another call to Kayleigh.
Straight to voicemail.
KATHRYN DANCE HAD to laugh.
The owners of the Cowboy Saloon had a sense of humor. The dark, woody place, giddily cool, had not a single cowboy artifact. But life in the saddle was well represented—by the women who rode the range, roped, branded and punched cattle … and did some fancy six-gun work, if you could believe the poster showing an Old West version of Rosie the Riveter shooting bottles off a fence rail.
According to the movie art, blown-up book jackets, lunch boxes, toys, paintings and photos, the era must have been saturated with flip-haired, excessively busty gals in five-gallon hats, cute neckerchiefs, suede skirts and embroidered blouses, as well as some of the finest boots ever made. Kathryn Dance loved footwear and owned two pairs of elaborately tooled Noconas. But neither came close to the ones worn by Dale Evans, Roy Rogers’s partner, from the 1950s TV show, on impressive display in a faded poster.
At the bar she ordered an iced tea, drank it down fast and got another, then sat at one of the round tables, overvarnished and nicked, looking at the clientele. Two elderly couples; a trio of tired, jumpsuited utility workers, who’d probably been on the job at dawn; a slim young man in jeans and plaid shirt, studying the old-fashioned jukebox; several businessmen in white shirts and dark ties, minus jackets.
She was looking forward to seeing Kayleigh, to recording the songs of the Workers; looking forward to lunch too. She was starving.
And concerned.
It was now one-twenty. Where was her friend?
Music from the jukebox filled the place. Dance gave a faint laugh. It was a Kayleigh Towne song—a particularly good choice too, considering this venue: “Me, I’m Not a Cowgirl.”
The song was about a suburban soccer mom, who seems to live a life very different from that of a cowgirl but in the end realizes that maybe she’s one in spirit. Typical of Kayleigh’s songs, it was lighthearted and yet spoke meaningfully to people.
It was then that the front door opened and a slab of powerful sunlight fell onto the scuffed linoleum floor, on which danced geometric shapes, the shadows of the people entering.
Dance rose. “Kayleigh!”
Surrounded by four others, the young singer stepped into the restaurant, smiling but also looking around quickly. She was troubled, Dance noted immediately. No, more than that, Kayleigh Towne was scared.
But whatever she’d been concerned about finding here was absent and she relaxed, then stepped forward, hugging Dance firmly. “Kathryn, hey. This is so great!”
“I couldn’t wait to get here.”
The singer was in jeans and, oddly, a thick denim jacket, despite the heat. Her lovely hair flowed free, nearly as long as she was tall.
Dance added, “I called a couple of times.”