Episode Four

Emmaline’s Gift

“Scarlet Hollander?” the nurse calls me.

I follow her into a small room down a short hall. It’s clean and bright with a mobile hanging over the exam table. I shiver. These rooms are always so cold. A memory of ceiling lights, and squares passing above me as I am rushed to a waiting plastic surgeon as a child, is triggered by the antiseptic smell. How old was I? Three, I think. I had been performing on my favorite little step stool in my stocking feet. I was belting out The Twelve Days of Christmas. I slipped, and caught my tiny earlobe on a protruding upholstery nail on the couch. I recall the faces of each person that looked at my bleeding ear that night. Even the emergency room doc blanched a little when he first saw it. I had a limited idea of what the adults were saying, but reading the shock and fear on their faces, I knew it was serious. It took several nurses, and a doctor to hold me down as they prepped me for surgery that cold December night. I fought like a warrior screaming for my mother who never came to save me.

“Hello Scarlet,” the doctor greets me, “How are you today?”

How am I? she asks. Cold and uncomfortable! I wish they would just get to the God damned point.

“Good,” I reply.

Her dark hair is pulled back tight in a very neat and tidy bun. I can see she has a slight scar above her lip. Cleft palate? She regards me for a couple seconds before continuing on.

“Well, everything looks fine,” she flips through the chart, “Your pregnancy test was negative.”

“Wait, what?” I’m dumbstruck, “I have the positive one right here!”

She inhales, and smiles at me reassuringly, placing her hand on mine.

“Yes, well that’s what we would call a false positive, or a chemical pregnancy.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“A chemical pregnancy is the loss of the embryo shortly after implantation,” she scans me for a reaction, “This is very common, and nothing to worry about, most women never even know when it happens, lets finish up your exam shall we?” she smiles at me confidently.

I lay back in my paper dress, fidgeting with my sweaty hands willing myself not to get emotional, but I fail. Fighting back my urge to cry, I inhale counting to five in my head.

“It’s ok Scarlet, you can try again,” she offers cheerfully.

Except I can’t. Jackson is gone, and with him is the last part he left me. My mother would say this is all for the best. She would scold me about having two kids with different fathers. Pursing her wrinkled lips at me, taking a long drag on her Marlboro Lights, and exhaling quickly.

“It’s God’s will dear,” emphasizing with an arched eyebrow. 

***

As I pull into my driveway Olivia, and Keaton come around the corner from the back yard. Olivia’s dad had a surprise business “thing,” and cancelled on me last minute. Luckily for me, I have a friend that is a boy scout. Getting out of the car, Olivia is all over me.

“Momma, we played soccer, and tag… and…” gulping, she can’t get the information out fast enough.

Keaton takes my manner in carefully. Quickly, he scoops Olivia up, and pops her on his shoulders. She giggles with delight.

“Let’s let Momma get herself together,” he directs.

Sighing with relief, I marvel that he is the most intuitive, and attentive person I know. Smiling a thank you in code to him, we turn and enter the house. My daughter is a Tasmanian devil of energy. There is not a moment for me to stop and think about anything that has transpired earlier in the day. Playful banter filters into the kitchen while I prepare dinner. As I slice onions, my eyes react in the usual way. This turns out to be good cover. Gathering up discarded pieces of trimmed brussels sprouts and onion peels, I open the cabinet under the sink to grab a plastic shopping bag. Sitting neatly in the re-organized space under my sink is a swanky new trash container, complete with lid.

“Keaton?” I call.

“Yah?” He appears immediately with a sheepish grin on his face.

“What is this?” I point.

“You needed one,” he shrugs, “I eat a lot of your food.”

He blushes a bit.

 “Thank you.” I reply.

He pulls me into his sturdy embrace. Hugging back, I’m reminded how easy it is to return his affection. Drawing strength from him, I take a deep breath, and step back as Olivia comes barreling into the kitchen. If children are nothing else, they are extremely intuitive.

“Why you guys hugging?” she blurts out.

“Keaton cleaned out Mommy’s cabinet,” I sniffle.

“Why you crying Momma?” she demands.

“Onions,” I motion to the cutting board.

“Let’s clean up Ollie,” Keaton interrupts, “It’s almost dinnertime.”

He ushers her out of the kitchen as I bend over the sink splashing cold water on my face. Telling myself I should be relieved refocusing on the task at hand.

***

Later, Keaton is upstairs reading Olivia a third story. Casually, I measure out the proper amount of grounds into the filter, and lock the basket section into my coffee maker. As I pour the water into the top, the unit gurgles to life. Soon, the room is filled with that unmistakable aroma. I’ve always loved this smell, and this is actually a pleasant memory from my childhood. Truth be told, I prefer the smell of coffee way more than the taste. Tea is really more my drink. I set the kettle on the stove to boil while sinking a tea bag into my favorite mug. I’m almost finished putting it all together when he steps into the kitchen.

“Coffee, medium, one sugar,” I place the mug in his hands.

“Thanks,” he replies brightly.

Grabbing my tea I follow him into the living room. We get comfortable on the couch. Tossing the remote to Keaton, he starts channel surfing.

“I hope she wasn’t too difficult,” I venture.

“Not at all,” he  replies, “She’s a great kid.”

He flips from one station to the next, watching a few seconds before moving on. Normally, this would annoy me. Tonight I’m basking in the anonymity of the white noise spewing from the television. True to form he doesn’t push, or press me to talk. We finish our beverages in the easy calm that he creates whenever he is around.

“It turns out, I’m not pregnant,” I sigh.

Clicking the screen off, he turns and looks directly at me. Compassion oozing from him filling the territory between us. His light blue eyes clouded with concern as he gauges where I might be with this news. Without a word I scooch over and lay my head in his lap. He runs his fingers gently through my hair as I cry silently. Tiny sobs letting go of what might have been. Trying to make peace with what actually is. This is a delicate balance for me. After a while I roll onto my back, and look up at Keaton, there is a glint of moisture in his eyes. Once again, he dries my cheeks with his sleeve.

“I should be relieved,” it’s almost a question, “We really didn’t know each other very long.”

I’m grateful he doesn’t tell me I can have more babies someday, or that it’s all for the best. Wordlessly he gives me space to feel whatever I am feeling.

“I mean, a baby is a huge responsibility, and how complicated would that have been?” more of a statement than an inquiry.

Keaton sits quietly listening. He is the human version of your favorite cozy blanket. The one you wrap yourself in when you want to feel comforted and safe.

“I mean, I really want to have more babies someday, I don’t want Olivia to be an only child,” I bargain.

“My siblings are much older than me, I felt like an only,” he quietly interjects.

“How much older?” I wonder out-loud, distracted for a moment.

“Well, my oldest sister was pregnant with my niece the same time my Mom was pregnant with me,” he stops to calculate, “So, like twenty something years older.”

“Wow, so you are a youngest?”

He nods, “The oops I thought we were done with this baby.”

“How old was your mom?”

“45,” he chuckles, “I always had the oldest parents in school.”

“Well, I guess I have plenty of time then,” I admit.

Just like that balance was restored to the universe. Like a bubble, the perfect equity of surface tension in the soap and water surrounding a pocket of air. No greedy fingers to draw the molecules away, bursting the tiny sphere. Perspective.

I then notice the cloud that has formed around my friend. His usual beams of sunlight dulled, and blocked out by the unspoken pain that envelopes both of us. Pangs of guilt stab at me, as I realize I’ve been so caught up in my own feelings, I have completely overlooked my loyal boy scout.

“Keaton?” peering up at him.

“Mm?” he strokes my hair.

“How are you doing?” I ask, “You know, with all of this.”

His expression darkens. I sit up abruptly knowing I’ve opened Pandora’s box, and I immediately want to slam it shut. Frantic at the thought that I’ve hurt him somehow, I don’t know what to do. Slowly a range of feelings play across his face as he stares down at his empty lap. My heart breaks. A faint sob escapes his throat as he covers his face with his hands. I lean my head on his shoulder taking his hands, brace and all, in mine. He leans his head on mine.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“We were best friends since we were kids,” he reveals, “He was like a brother.”

I sit motionless, gently brushing his fingers with mine, giving back to him the same repose he frequently affords me. He splays his good hand behind mine examining them carefully.

“Your hands are so tiny,” he remarks.

“Child’s hands,” I chuckle.

“Dainty, delicate hands,” he lightly corrects.

A single tear escapes the corner of his eye and trails down his cheek. Feeling helpless, I know of no words to make any measurable difference. Search as I might for exactly the right thing to say, there is nothing. Silently he holds my hand in his. I can’t be sure how long we sit in silence. Turning towards him I finally make eye contact. It’s difficult to describe the expression on his face. Desire doesn’t cover it exactly. I’m not sure anyone has ever looked at me quite like this before. He traces the frame of my face gently with the thumb of his uninjured hand. Nervously, I lick my bottom lip. His eyes dart from my eyes to my mouth. From here, our friendship is set on fire. Within the darkness an ember ignites between us. The world recedes, his lips simmer against mine. His arms encircle me as mine fall around his shoulders. A volcano ruptures the fragile line of composure we have been observing. All the power, and pressure thrusting us forward, and together in this moment. At the same time he wields this power with finesse. His kisses are deliberate, but soft and curative. He holds me in a way that is both compelling, and adoring. We pull slowly back from each other.

“No one will understand this,” I warn.

“I know,” he concurs, “Too soon.”

“What if this is just grief?”

“Is that what you feel?” his blue eyes implore.

“No,” I admit.

I curl up next to him, our arms still entwined. Once again a convivial silence blankets us as we both consider what just happened.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Keaton asks.

“Nothing that can’t be re-arranged, why?” I look up at him, curious.

“You want to take a ride?” His eyes gleam.

***

By Saturday Keaton is still a week away from getting approval to play again. Bright autumn sun spills into the car windows as we head north.

“Are you really not going to tell me where we are going?” I ask.

“Not a fan of surprises,” he notes with amusement.

“A ‘surprise’ is when you don’t expect anything at all,” I scold.

“Just relax and enjoy the ride, it’s just something I want to show you,” he clasps his hand over mine, a knowing expression on his face.

His sunny disposition has returned. Feeling grateful for this fact, I don’t want anything to spoil the day. Seeing him smiling and happy again makes me happy too. His positivity is infectious. The further we travel north the more the foliage is past peak. There is something about a road trip that has always agreed with me. Leaving the sadness and grief behind, we push forward. I’ve told no one where I’m going. Chrissy had plans with Mullet Boy for the weekend. Olivia is with her Dad for her usual weekend visitation.

After about an hour, we finally pull onto a long gravel driveway. It’s a bit overgrown, but you can tell this property was something really special in its heyday. As we pull up to the building, it’s a stately Victorian style home. Large front windows on either side of a vestibule style entry. A large wrap around porch balances what seems to be three floors. The roof is actual slate, something you don’t see every day. There is a stillness about it. Bushes in the front are a little unruly. Maybe trimmed on occasion, but not manicured with precision as they once were. A window pane on the second floor is cracked between the old wood frame. Time stopped abruptly here, and has been frozen in that crossroad ever since.

He grins at me as he pulls a ring of keys out of the center console. I stretch my stiff limbs as I climb out of his truck, and follow him up the slate steps to the front door. He disengages the lock, and punches a code into a keypad on the wall inside the foyer. He searches for another key on the ring for the glass door that opens into the house. Directly in front of us is an ornate wooden staircase leading upstairs, and on either side an archway adorned with velvet curtains pulled completely back. To the left a dining room, and to the right a parlor, complete with baby grand piano. The ceilings are tall, at least nine feet. Everything is clean and tidy. The air is a bit stale, but not unpleasant. The furniture is expensive and antique. A floor to ceiling bookcase lines an entire wall. There is a ladder on a track and wheel contraption that can be adjusted to reach all of the shelves. I gaze up at the books in awe. This is a writer and reader’s paradise straight out of a Dicken’s novel. Running my fingers over the leather bound volumes I am amazed at how beautifully preserved they are.

“There is a first edition copy of Gone With the Wind over here,” He grabs a book off the shelf.

He places it in my hands and I carefully flip through the pages. The copyright page states “Published May, 1936” as it should.

“You know there were only ten thousand of these printed,” I remark.

I raise the book to my nose and take in the scent of the pages. Antique books have a distinct old smell. Transported back to an evening with my mother, I recall her look of amusement when I realize the lead character of the mini-series we were watching is named Scarlett. Every year she would sit with me, and we would watch as the characters would shout the Yankees are coming!

“I hate those Yankees!” I scowled.

“My dear Scarlet, we are the Yankees!” she had smirked.

Shock overcame me at this revelation. Casually lighting another cigarette, she talked through the process. Puffing through her words with the butt clasped between her lips.

“Things are not always as they might seem,” she warned.

It turns out she was right about that anyway. Turning, I notice Keaton is observing my reaction carefully. Blushing, I shake off a chill rising through me.

“What is this place?” I enquire.

“My Grandmother’s house,” he shrugs, “She was a writer, well a teacher, but she wrote too.”

“Was?” I question.

“Well, she’s in a nursing home now,” he frowns, “I noticed you like to read and write, I thought you might like this.” He motions to the wall.

Well played sir! I think. Carefully and reluctantly I return the book to its proper location as my tour resumes. Towards the back of the house is an office with more shelves of books, and even a collection of old newspapers. A vintage typewriter sits on a grand mahogany desk with matching chair. There is a stillness, as if everything is waiting for the matriarch to return and resume her work. Keaton sits in the chair as it squeaks in protest, he leans back in it clasping his hands above his head.

“Her name was Emmaline,” he explains, “I want to name my first daughter after her.”

Another tremor ripples up my spine. Who says that?

He stands, guiding me through a dark hallway as we enter the kitchen. Although dated, it’s a beautiful bright space, and again, neat as a pin. Through a doorway on the other side we enter the formal dining room with a built in buffet along the wall. Behind glass doors fine china place settings are neatly displayed. A tasteful oriental rug sits underneath a magnificent dining table complete with candelabras in the center atop hand crocheted doilies.

“Emma,” I nod, “I like that.” I glance shyly at him.

“I keep an eye on the place for my dad,” he reports.

He grasps my hand and leads me up the grand staircase we saw as we entered. To the right in the front of the house is a bedroom with a stately hand carved headboard. It looks to be about six feet in height. The room is tastefully appointed with a lovely floral wall paper on the walls. White sheers cover the tall windows with box valances over the top.

“This was my room when I stayed here,” he declares with pride.

“Really?” I tease.

“This,” he motions through a door, “Is the master bedroom.”

A majestic king sized bed, complete with bedcurtains, commands the room. Again, the room is elegantly decorated with complimentary wallpaper and linens. Someone loved this home and it shows. An upholstered bench sits at the end of the bed. There is an old fashioned vanity with mirror, and corresponding bench. Perfume bottles with atomizers sit on the polished top of the vanity. Silver hand mirror and hair brush sit in a silver tray in the center, engraved with Emmaline.

“This is beautiful,” I conclude touching the slightly tarnished silver.

“An Anniversary gift from my grandfather,” he explains, “He worshipped her.”

“Is he at the nursing home too?”

“He died before I was born,” he reveals, “She was never quite the same after he passed.”

Turning towards him I am moved by the wistfulness of his manner. Reaching out, I put my hand on his, squeezing gently. He encircles my waist with his hands, his expression is fully open and adoring.

“I’ve thought a lot about bringing you here,” he quietly reveals.

“I’m happy you did,” I gaze up at him through lowered lashes.

His soft lips brush against mine with more than just a feeling of yearning. He takes me fully into his arms, but this is different to anything I’ve ever felt before. His blonde hair brushes the side of my face, smelling fresh, clean and very masculine. Graceful in his movements, he caresses my shoulders with a tenderness that is both compelling, and admiring. There is almost an innocence about him. At the same time he is fervent and expressive in the way he touches me. We both want to take this further. Despite this, we take a measured step back, a heavy silence radiating throughout the room. My stomach gurgles loudly in the awkward silence of the moment.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, changing the tone.

“Actually, I am,” I admit.

“I know just the place we can go!” he announces.

Keaton leads me down the staircase, and back into the foyer. I turn slightly taking in a final view of the faded grandeur that obviously once reigned within these walls. We coast slowly down the cobblestone drive that gives way to gravel, and leave the gracious home behind beyond the two palatial pillars at the entrance to the street. For a brief time we were both transported back in time away from our present day circumstances. A slight feeling of sadness hangs in the balance, as I feel an unmistakable tug back towards the house.

***

Before long we are seated at an intimate table for two at an elegant little restaurant close by. The décor is similar to that of his grandmother’s home. Candles twinkle on every table that are set with fresh linens. A lovely place, warm and inviting, yet upscale and formal. Keaton orders a bottle of chardonnay for our table. The waiter arrives with a stand filled with crushed ice, and opens the bottle, pouring a small amount in Keaton’s glass for a taste. Playing his part, he sips and nods.

“Very good sir,” The waiter responds filling our glasses, then hurries off.

“I’d like to make a toast,” Keaton raises his glass.

Holding up my glass in response, I smile in return.

“To the future,” he states.

“The future,” I clink my glass against his.

“To my grandparents,” he continues, “My grandfather who never forgot a birthday, an anniversary, or a Valentine’s day.”

“My kind of guy,” I wink, clinking glasses again.

The chardonnay is dry and crisp, warming me up from the inside. Without realizing it, we both ordered the chicken piccata. Casually eating our dinner, we exchanged dreamy looks at each other. There was no pressure, as usual, to engage in needless conversation. This contented quiet continued through sharing a tiramisu for dessert. Once again, a choice we both heartily agreed upon.

“The last bite is for you,” he insists.

Clearly chivalry still exists, I could get used to this, I think.

***

Spending time with Keaton is effortless. Time passes easily and before long we are back in his truck heading south. The sun is hanging low in the west with vibrant colors streaked across the sky as it sets. He reaches over and gently captures my hand in his. Stealing a look at him as he drives, I notice how relaxed he is. There is something so right about this moment. Putting an exact label on it eludes me.

“Are you attracted to me?” he pierces the silence.

A little shocked at the question I respond, “Can’t you tell?”

He squeezes my hand gently.

“I guess I mean, you know, physically?” he clarifies.

I kneel up on the seat, lean over and kiss the spot just behind his ear. Sitting back down, I take his hand back compressing it lightly for effect.

“I was in a weird place just before I met you guys,” I divulge, “After things didn’t work out with Olivia’s dad, I thought I was ruined.”

“Why would you think that?” he questions.

“I felt like I was unattractive,” I shrug, “Used goods.”

“I admit, when I used to think of the future and settling down, I had always pictured experiencing things like having a family with someone who has not already had children,” he confesses, “You know like it’s new to both of us.”

Ouch! A knot forms in my gut at this comment. Breathing deeply, I don’t respond.

“Now that I think of it, I guess it really doesn’t matter at all,” he notes.

“Really?” I ask, relieved.

“You are not ruined, and you are not unattractive,” he confirms, “Quite the opposite.”

It’s my turn to grin. He’s literally working out how he feels about this out loud, in the moment. The openness puts me at ease. His manner dispenses with the usual concerns in a relationship when people are difficult to read and understand. There’s a sense of security in the simplicity of it. It occurs to me that I have never really known anyone like this.

“Do you want children?” I venture.

He takes a few minutes to contemplate this question. Like Olivia, I can see the wheels turning as he takes his time before answering.

“Well, when I pictured having kids, I envisioned myself having enough time to really get down on the floor and play with them, and I worried that being a musician wouldn’t jive with that,” he pauses briefly, “But after seeing the reality of things with you and Ollie, I guess it’s not all one way or the other.”

My heart leaps in my chest.

“You better be careful what you wish for sir,” I tease.

“The right girl is what matters,” he posits, “It’s not everyday any man is lucky enough to find someone like you.”

“You are not so bad yourself,” I insist.

“I’m feeling like I don’t want to hide how I feel about you anymore,” he blurts out.

The car is dark now as the sun has dipped down past the horizon. Taff crosses my mind. In my heart I want so badly to explain this to him. It makes me feel guilty that he’s being so open about his feelings, and I have a secret.

“I wish it wasn’t so complicated,” I reply.

An unusual awkward silence permeates the air as we turn off the highway. Pulling into my driveway, we spot Taff’s car sitting in my driveway.

***

My Dad always said that timing is everything. Gathering my wherewithal, I brace for what was about to be uncomfortable if not downright awkward. Taff exits his car as we head for my front door. Flipping the light switch on as we enter I turn to address the two men standing before me.

“What are you kids up to?” an unmistakable edge to his voice.

I’m annoyed that he has shown up here uninvited without an invitation.

“The question really is… what are you doing here? I retort.

Keaton glances back and forth between us looking a bit confused, but says nothing for the time being.

“I was worried about you,” he snaps “But I can see now that was bloody stupid!”

“I’m a grownup, I can take care of myself,” I contend.

“It appears you are not exactly taking care of yourself,” he motions at Keaton.

“This is none of your business,” I snarl.

“And to think how worked up you were when you found out about my tour, What was that anyway?” he barks.

“It was the end, that’s what it was,” I certify.

Suddenly a dawning look materializes on Keaton’s face, he clears his throat a little.

“Guys, I’m going to get going,” he interposes heading towards the door, “You two clearly have things to discuss.”

“Don’t forget the meeting on Thursday,” Taff reminds him a little smugly.

Keaton acknowledges him with a look, and to me he says, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

As the door shuts on behind him I whirl on Taff.

“What are you doing?” I confront.

“What are you doing?” he volleys back, “Will you be dating the whole band at some point?”

I stifle the urge to slap him, seething.

“I want you to leave,” is all I can muster, “Now!”

“My pleasure,” he storms out the door slamming it behind him.

All at once I’m standing there alone in my foyer, shaking with fury.

***

Bryce Chandler Blake, my high school sweetheart, and Olivia’s father, stands casually in my kitchen waiting for a procrastinating Olivia to put on her shoes.  He’s a tall handsome man with dark brown hair, warm hazel eyes, and a courteous way about him. Voted most likely to succeed our senior year, he didn’t disappoint, passing the bar on his first attempt. I’ve always admired Bryce and his dogged determination to pursue his career. Not even a surprise of mammoth proportions during our sophomore year in college obstructed his path. From the day we met he had every aspect of his future planned. Bryce was cerebral with a predictability I craved. All aspects of each step were carefully considered, and scheduled. Well, that is, except for one unplanned pregnancy. Finishing school after that was a lot more of a challenge, and for most of it we were ships passing in the night. The schedule reduced us to roommates balancing our duties. One day I realized I was numb, and my future felt more like a hamster wheel than a destination. The day I gave Bryce back his engagement ring would be seared into my memory. Even now I get a little lump in my throat when I think of how devasted he was. A man of good moral character, he stood by me even when I broke his heart. His only failing in my estimation, his ambition that took precedence above all things. Motivations that captured his heart, never quite leaving room for the passion one might have for a lover and wife.

“Are you okay?” he was eyeing me carefully.

“Me? Yah, why?” I wonder aloud.

“Well, Olivia has mentioned that you were crying,” he observes my reaction carefully, “Do you need money?’

“Oh my God Bryce!,” I scoff, “No, you already give me too much as it is!”

“Scarlet, you know I’m here for you if you need anything, It’s not just about Olivia,” he’s very serious.

“A friend of mine died in a car wreck,” I assure him.

“I assume that would be the estimable ‘Jacksom’ I heard so much about,” an eyebrow raised.

“The same,” I avert my eyes.

This is not an area I want to traverse with him. Still scanning me in his lawyerly way, he allows a brief pause suspended in between us before continuing on. I’m hip to this move so I say nothing more.

“You know you are welcome to join us at my parent’s for Thanksgiving?” he offers.

“I have plans already,” a partial lie.

He gently squeezes my shoulder, always the consummate gentleman. Waving as he pulls out of the driveway with Olivia, I am filled with a sense of relief. The Holidays have always been hard for me since my parents’ ugly divorce. This year has the added bonus of my personal life being in utter shambles. I am looking forward to a few days of peace and quiet, that is until a phone call from Chrissy changes everything.

***

Apparently no one had informed Chrissy about the awkward scene at my house. Barely listening, I was just about to tell her I had to go, as she prattled on about Mullet Boy and the band.

“Can you believe it?” she exclaimed, “A national tour!”

“Wait, what?” I stop her.

“Yes, isn’t that exciting? They leave right after the show on Black Friday!” she effuses.

“What show? Where?” I press.

“At Kannon’s, the 23rd,” she reveals.

“Keaton has been cleared to play?” sounding a little lawyerly like Bryce.

“I think so, he’s definitely going, They have a huge tour bus and everything!” she asserts.

“Chrissy, I’m sorry, I have to call you back, Bryce is on the other line,” a fabrication.

Hanging up, I grab my day-planner, flipping through until I find the number. It rings five times and the call goes to voicemail.

“It’s me, please call me back,” I hang up.

Pacing around the room, I start to formulate a plan to confront the situation head on. If he thinks he’s leaving on tour without giving me at least a chance to explain, he’s nuts.

***

My plan was to show up at Kannon’s early because I knew he would most likely be the only one there setting up. For a show like this he usually loaded-in his drums early in the afternoon. When I arrived at the club, the front parking lot was a ghost town. I swung around back to find a giant tour bus, box truck, and Keaton’s truck all parked next to the rear exit. Even I had to admit the bus was most impressive. There was no sign of anyone else. Parking a short ways away, I waited for him to come back out of the exit. I didn’t have to wait very long. Jumping out of my car, I quickly closed the distance between us. He didn’t see me until I was close.

“Hey,” I call.

He looks up and spots me, his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he answers back.

He places some empty drum cases back into the truck, turns, and starts back into the club. I follow right behind him.

“I left you a couple messages,” a little more confrontational sounding than I had planned.

We make our way through the club to the stage where he has all but finished his setup. He stops for a moment, his gaze falls on me for the first time. Although he has said nothing, he cannot hide everything. In his eyes I see the true emotion of someone conflicted about his feelings. Was it hurt? My insides twist into a knot.

“I wasn’t home, I was at my grandmother’s wrapping things up for my Dad before I leave,” he responds calmly.

“I wanted to have a chance to explain,” I plead.

“Okay,” he leans casually against the stage giving me his full attention.

I take a deep breath and jump in, “Last summer I worked at the Atrium where Taff was the General Manager, we had a little romance, and at the end of the summer we had a brief affair, it only happened once, and he left on tour, I never thought I’d see him again.”

“Did Jackson know?” he asks directly.

“Taff asked me not to say anything, I felt conflicted, and hadn’t figured out how to explain it without feeling like I was breaking a confidence,” I reply honestly, “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.”

He contemplates this for a few seconds.

“I wasn’t going to leave without calling,” he reaches out a clasps my hand.

A cloud of butterflies quiver inside me.

Gently squeezing his hand in response, I reassure him, “I will never lie to you, but I know this complicates things with Taff.”

“Managers come and go, I don’t put all of my eggs in one basket,” he imparts, “Besides, you are way cuter than he is!”

“Oh really?” I chuckle, “Cute huh?”

“Seriously I don’t think Taff will be an issue,” he strikes a confident tone, “Bottom line, he needs the band to be successful.”

“I suppose the Taff I know, is very pragmatic that way,” I allow, “But he has that English way of not giving too much away, it’s hard to tell with him.”

“I’m not worried about it, I want to show you something,” a slightly evil grin on his face as he changes the subject. He leads me out of the club locking the door behind us. Pulling a key ring from his jean’s pocket, I follow him over to the giant tour bus.

“No way!,” I exclaim climbing the steps, “I have never been on one of these!”

The first few feet of the bus is appointed with leather seating, a fancy kitchenette, and a booth with a table. Better quality than my own kitchen currently. There are sections here that extend out to create more space when the bus is parked. The center portion is lined on either side with bunks floor to ceiling, three on each side. Each bunk has privacy curtains. After the bunks is a small door to the right. There is a bathroom complete with small sink and shower. Straight back, a door that opens into a small bedroom with a queen size bed.

“Pretty sweet huh? There is even a media center in here,” he flips on the radio in the wall next to the door. Music spills into the space from a speaker on the wall.

And just like that his cheerfulness envelopes me again. Equilibrium in the universe is restored. I’m infused once again in his upbeat disposition. What is it about him that every time I am around him, the world seems a little more vibrant and healthy? When his eyes settle on me it’s like warm spring sunshine all over again. I wonder what he sees of me from his perspective? Then I notice it’s quiet and neither of us are talking.

“This is amazing,” I splutter, “I’m so happy for you!”

Impulsively, I throw my arms around him. His arms slowly close around my waist. Taking a deep breath I can smell his clean scent. My heart starts racing, and my tummy does a little spin. Tilting my head back our eyes lock. His expression filled with longing and veneration.

“So are we going to make this official?” he quietly asks

Boldly my eyes are riveted to his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I proclaim huskily through my lashes.

His lips claim mine in consummation, a physical manifestation of his closing argument. The jury is in, and I am one hundred percent guilty as charged. Greedily, my hands un-tuck and slide up under his shirt. He then removes it altogether, reaching back and flipping the lock on the door, it clicks loudly as it engages. His shoulders are broad, his arms long, and muscled. Reaching out I trace the pattern of the black and red tribal tattoo on his left forearm.

“I had the urge to touch this the very first night I saw you,” I remark absently, “But then that girl was all ‘gaga’ for you.”

“I would have preferred you touched it,” he confesses with a dark chuckle, “I was so pissed when I realized you were with Jackson.”

“Really?” I tease, “Good to know.”

Cradling my face in his hands his mouth touches mine again. This act a permutation of the moment from casual to inordinately heightened. There is almost an agony of the unrequited occasion from what seems like so long ago, but in reality was just a few months past. Every movement a transmission of his yearning. I’ve been kissed a fair amount of times in my life so far, but this was unique. My hands roam freely over his bare chest. His skin is flawless, like silk. Working my way down over the ripple of his abdominals, that flex automatically at my touch. I stop abruptly at the waistband of his jeans, looking up at him shyly. Why the hell am I feeling shy? Be bold Scarlet! I admonish myself.

 I begin unbuttoning my soft flannel shirt. It’s as if he has stopped breathing as his eyes follow my hands from one button to the next. Then, I unbutton my jeans and kick off my wool clogs. In one fluid motion my pants, socks and all, are gone. A visage in black lace bra and panties, I stand before him. He fully embraces me sliding his hands down under the lace on the roundness of my bottom. Gooseflesh quivers on my skin. Abruptly, he lifts me up and gently sets me on the bed before removing his jeans. For both of us now there is but one scant layer of fabric between us. Keaton lowers himself down next to me, rolling onto his back pulling me astride. My hair spills forward as I bend down pressing my lips smoothly on his. He reaches behind me and unhooks the tiny fasteners on my bra. I gasp as he precipitously reverses our position. He looms above me now, blonde curls dangling over his shoulders. I reach out and touch them.

“I’ve fantasized about this moment so many times!” he declares breathlessly.

“This whole time?” for clarification.

“Well, maybe not the whole time,” he amends.

Too late!. This insight proves to be a most seductive divulgence. I can think of few things more irresistible than the knowledge that someone is that captivated. Reaching for him, I pull his face to mine in answer to his provocative revelation. From this point our bodies are a montage of the collective poetry expressed between two lovers. Ardently we speak to each other in a language reserved only for the most intimate of messages. Transported to a new level of understanding, we move together in a metrical scheme analogous to the flow of prose in an epic romance novella. A slowly building ascendency betwixt our unclothed anatomy. At the apogee there is an awareness that all we had to say has been clearly articulated. Overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the ebullience of this tender moment, tears spring from the corners of my eyes.

“Are you crying?” he asks softly, concerned.

“Happy tears,” I interpret.    

He delicately wipes them away with the tips of his fingers. There in a rented tour bus he holds me closely as the sun sets. Deep purples and pinks painted across the sky give way to the shadows that eventually cloud the room as twilight advances. A growing ache in my incipient awareness that soon he would be leaving. The excruciating irony that upon our most fortuitous integration, soon there would be a swift and definitive separation. Gradually we initiate a search for our discarded clothing, and begin to dress.

“I can’t find my underwear anywhere,” I lament feeling around in the shadows.

Keaton reaches for the light, but the sound of a vehicle hums just outside. We freeze listening for a few seconds. The automobile passes by us continuing around to the front of the building. I abandon my search, pulling on my jeans without anything underneath. He reaches up to the media console and switches off the radio. Silently we leave the bus. Standing outside Keaton’s truck a sharp breeze catches me. My teeth begin to chatter.

“I have something for you, but it’s freezing out here,” he observes, “Are you coming to the show tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I affirm.

He takes me into his arms. We cling to each other for a minute shielding one another from the cold air. His fingers nestled at the nape of my neck, I look up at him. There in the dark his incandescence is ablaze. A calm comes over me as I realize that there is no amount of distance that could sever the bond we have just created. Somehow, we will figure this out, because life is too short. Presumably my feelings for this incredible man is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. Driving home I review the day in my mind and I speculate that I am on the frontier of a profound turning point in my life. Oddly I have no idea what it will be, or how it will look in the future. Truthfully, it doesn’t really matter as long as Keaton plays a part in it all.

***

I am back at the club a couple of hours later. The first set is well under way by the time I arrive. Chrissy is waiting for me at the bar. Keaton’s eyes locate me immediately, a wide grin spreading across his face. He tosses his right drumstick in the air, catches it, and continues on playing. Showoff! I giggle, winking at him. I quickly order a cocktail.

“You’ve been keeping secrets from me!” Chrissy glares, “You and Keaton?”

I sip at my margarita stalling.

“It just sort of happened,” I respond finally.

“As I recall, he was the first one you noticed that first night we saw them play,” she grants, “But that girl was with him.”

“Chrissy, so much has happened, I don’t even know where to start,” I confess.

I then launch into the whole story, one detail spilling out of me after the other. Chrissy sits rapt with my every word. It was liberating to get it all out. Before the end of the first set she had all the particulars. The only tidbits I omitted were the parts about Taff.

“Shit, I had no idea,” shaking her head.

“I wasn’t ready to talk much about it before,” I admit.

She gives me a hug.

“I’m hurt you didn’t tell me earlier, but I get it,” she squeezes me a little tighter.

“What happened to Jackson is heart-wrenching, and tragic, it also lead me to Keaton,” I confide.

“He would want you to be okay,” she permits, “Nick and Chris are totally cool with it.”

“That’s a relief!” I breathe, “We didn’t want them to feel weird.”

“Keaton was the one who knew him the longest I think,” she points out.

The set ends and Keaton is at my side. Nick and Mullet Boy are right behind him, both congratulate us. Taff joins our group with the new bass player. He’s a tall burly guy with reddish-brown hair. His beard is neatly trimmed short. Not an unattractive man by any means. Apparently his name is Thomas something, I didn’t catch his last name. The excitement about the burgeoning tour is palpable. Even Taff seems pretty chipper as Keaton predicted. I’m cautiously optimistic. We all have a toast to the future success of the band.

The rest of the night was more of the same. Home town guys getting a proper send off from their local crowd. In the early hours of Saturday morning they are all packed and ready to hit the proverbial road. They will get some rest in transit to the next gig. We pair off into a more private corner of the empty club. Keaton is holding a gift bag in his hand complete with coordinating tissue paper.

“This is for you,” he smiles.

“Extra points for presentation sir,” I joke.

Inside the bag are two wrapped parcels. I unwrap the smaller of the two, a dainty jewelry box. I open it carefully to find a tiny antique silver locket. Obviously for a child.

“It’s for Ollie,” he suggests, “It belonged to my Grandmother.”

“It’s beautiful,” I remark.

“Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to her in person?” he appeals.

“Maybe I should hold onto it until you come back?” I offer.

“That works too,” he smiles, “Now open the other one.”

Carefully I unwrap the second parcel revealing the leather bound volume of Gone With the Wind seemingly from Emmaline’s house.

“Is this your Grandmother’s?” I ask in shock.

“She would want you to have it,” he insists, “She always wanted a daughter to share in her love of writing and literature.”

“This is too valuable, I can’t…”  shaking my head.

He folds my fingers over the book, “This is how special you are to me.”

“I’ll read it while you’re away?” I submit.

“Six weeks,” he states.

“Six weeks,” I affirm.

“Oh, and I rescued these for you,” he pulls my missing lace panties from his pants pocket.

“How chivalrous!” I giggle, blushing fully.

“Taff found them in his room, but he wasn’t sure which one of us was the dirty Dan!” he snickers, “I retrieved them on the sly.”

“Wait, that was his room?” I gently smack him on the shoulder, “Did you know that earlier?”

“I may have,” he accedes.

“Evil!” I reprimand.

***

Later that night I climb into bed alone. Memories of Keaton climbing the steps of the bus, waving goodbye from the inside buzz around in my consciousness. How tightly we clung to each other for those last moments. The memory of his last kiss, full of intention, full of meaning burned into my recollection. Wiping the corners of my eyes, I fetch the lovely leather-bound volume from my bedside table. Inside the front cover, a folded piece of parchment glides into my lap. Upon closer examination it appears to be Emmaline’s personal stationary, with a handwritten message. It reads:

“When I first met you, I thought: There is a girl in a million. She isn't like these other silly little fools who believe everything their mammas tell them and act on it, no matter how they feel. And conceal all their feelings and desires and little heartbreaks behind a lot of sweet words. I thought: Miss O'Hara is a girl of rare spirit. She knows what she wants and she doesn't mind speaking her mind–or throwing vases.” -Rhett Butler, Margaret Mitchell’s, Gone With the Wind

  Scarlet,

Every show I play will be one show closer to being together again. I will miss you every day. Enjoy the book! Six weeks.

All my love, Keaton XO

***

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” was one of my mother’s favorite sayings. That was her version of you win some, you lose some. More accurately it roughly translates to good fortune is often followed by misfortune. Sometimes it can be hard to discern which one is which. Bryce arrived with a sleeping Olivia in his arms the next night.

“Maybe I can  put her right in her bed, I need to talk to you about something important,” he whispers.

Bryce follows me up the stairs, helping me tuck our sleeping daughter into her bed. His large hands gently placing her tiny limbs under the covers. This visual reminds me of the fact that he is such a dedicated father. Although I had broken his heart, I have always comforted myself with the knowledge that Olivia was one thing that enriched his life beyond any measure. The father-daughter bond between the two of them has always been something I have lauded. Our eyes meet and he smiles nervously at me. Quickly we make our way back down stairs.

“What’s up?” I start.

He clears his throat like he’s about to begin his opening argument in a case. Always the lawyering with this one.

“I have some very good news,” he proffers, “I’ve been offered a possible partnership in a firm.”

‘That’s great!” I congratulate him.

“Thanks, but it would mean a move,” he warns.

“What kind of move?” I frown.

“A big move,” he admits, “But I want you and Olivia to come too.”

“A couple hours in the car move, or a plane ride move?”

“A plane,” he levels.

“I can’t just up and move Bryce,” I argue.

“Of course you can,” he contends, “I will cover the moving costs, you won’t have to worry.”

“How soon?” I take a deep breath.

“I need to make a decision quickly,” he concedes, “An older partner had to retire abruptly for health reasons, I need to make a move within the month.”

“A month!” I raise my voice.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but I don’t want to be too far away from Olivia,” he lowers his voice, “Please think about it Scarlet,” he grasps my hand pleadingly, “I will make it worth your while financially.”

“It’s not about the money, I have a life too you know,” I gripe.

“I know,” he acknowledges, “Just think about it, that’s all I ask.”

“I’ll think about it,” I relent.

The visual of my mother sitting at her kitchen table with her mug of coffee, and lit cigarette permeates my memory. The irony of her words punctures my orb of optimism.

“Blessed is a mother that would give up part of her soul for her children's happiness, once you are a mother Scarlet, your choices are no longer your own,” she portends.

Feeling ever torn in two, I’m not sure I can refuse him.

The End