One she’d have to face soon and she’d decided today was the day.
She’d had a decadent brunch of huevos rancheros and was now back in her Mountain View Motel room, on the phone with her website partner, Martine, discussing the songs she’d recorded of Los Trabajadores. She’d emailed them to the woman and they’d spent hours deciding which of the two dozen they’d make available on their site.
The decisions were hard; they were all so good.
But from time to time, as the women spoke, that Greater Problem intruded, the one Dance was now resolved to deal with: the question about the men in her life. No, that’s not correct, she reminded herself. There was only one man in her life—in that way. Jon Boling. That he was close to ending the relationship was irrelevant. She had to keep Michael O’Neil out of the equation for the time being. This was between her and Boling.
So what’m I going to do?
“Hey, you there?” Martine’s voice nudged her from her thoughts.
“Sorry.” They returned to the task and finished the Los Trabajadores song list. Then she disconnected the call, flopped down on the bed and told herself: Call Jon. Have it out.
Dance stared out the window, eyes on what might have been a true mountain view had the day been exceedingly clear, which it definitely wasn’t, not in this dead end of summer.
She then scrutinized her mobile, which she turned over and over in her hand.
The photo skin on the back depicted two children with giddy smiles, and two dogs in the oblivious joy of dogness.
The other side was her phone’s address book window, Jon Boling’s number highlighted and ready to be dialed.
Back to the pictures.
Eyes on a bad painting on the wall, of a harbor. Did the interior designer think all Californians owned sailboats, even those three hours from the coast?
Flip … the phone’s address book. Her French braid tickled her left ear. She absently flicked the strands aside.
Call or not, call or not?
Her intent was to ask bluntly why he was moving to San Diego without talking to her first. Odd, she reflected, she had no problem slipping on her predator specs, sitting down across from snarling Salinas gangbanger Manuel Martinez to learn where he’d buried a portion of the remains of Hector Alonzo, specifically the head. But asking a simple question about her lover’s intentions was paralyzing.
Then a wind shear of anger. What the hell was he thinking? Becoming friendly with the children, easing into their lives, making himself a part of the family, fitting in so seamlessly.
She grew analytical. Maybe this was the answer: on the surface Jon Boling had been perfect for her, fit, funny, kind, sexy. They’d had no harsh words, no fights, no fundamental collisions of any kind—unlike, for instance, as with Michael O’Neil…. Wait, she reminded herself. O’Neil did not exist for the purposes of this equation.
With Boling did the absence of friction mean the gears of love weren’t truly engaging?
Could there be more love in sweat than in laughter?
That just didn’t seem right.
Clutching the phone, turning it over, over, over …
Call, not call?
Children screen children screen children screen …
Maybe I’ll flip it like a coin on the bed and let fate take charge.
Children screen children screen …
Chapter 69
KAYLEIGH MET A slow-moving Edwin Sharp in the front of the diner.
She liked the choice of restaurant; it was in a quiet part of town and she suspected she wouldn’t have to deal with autograph hounds. That was something even minor celebrities like her always had to consider.
He greeted her at the door with a smile and let her precede him into the air-conditioned, brightly lit restaurant, which was nearly empty. The waitress grinned, noting their famous patron, but Kayleigh was an expert at categorizing fans. She knew the woman would be efficient and cheerful but far too nervous to utter a word beyond order taking and comments about the heat.
They sat at a booth and ordered iced teas and, for Kayleigh, a burger. Edwin got a milkshake; the wound in his neck made chewing painful, he explained. “I love ’em. But I haven’t had one for months. Hey, if nothing else, you got me to lose that weight I’d been trying to for years.”
“Wow, that bruise is something.”
He lifted the chrome napkin holder and used it as a mirror. “I think it’s getting worse.”
“Hurts a lot?”
“Yeah. But the big problem is I have to sleep on my back, which is something I’ve never been able to do.” Their meals came and they ate and sipped. He asked, “How’s your house?”
“I’ll need new carpets, have to replace a lot of floor and a wall. The big problem is the smoke damage. It got into everything. They’re talking about a hundred thousand dollars. Half my clothes have to go too. They stink.”
“Sorry.”
Then an awkward silence arose and it was clear Edwin didn’t want to talk about the terrible events of the past few days. Fine with her. He started chatting about music and some of the founding women of the country scene. He talked about the records in his collection—he still listened to a lot of music on LPs and had invested in an expensive turntable. Kayleigh too thought that vinyl—analog recordings—produced the purest sound, better than the highest-quality digital.
Edwin mentioned he’d just found some Kitty Wells singles in a used record shop in Seattle.
“You like her?” Kayleigh asked, surprised. “She’s one of my favorites.”
“Have almost all of her records. You know she had a Billboard hit when she was sixty?”
“I did, yeah.”
Wells, who started singing in the 1950s, was one of the first women inductees into the Country Music Hall of Fame.