Page 68 of Caught in a Storm

“Maybe they ordered food?” Aaron says.

“We just ate,” says Robyn.

A voice, footsteps. “Oy! ’Ello. Black man approaching in the nighttime. Nothing to fear. Just popping up for a chat.”

“Can we help you?” Aaron asks.

A man wearing black jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt, and a leather jacket climbs the short flight of stairs to the deck. His handsomeness registers first, followed by how perfect his teeth are. They’re as white as his T-shirt, like they’ve been color coordinated. Then Robyn realizes who she’s looking at. A month ago, this would’ve been shocking to the point of absurdity. Now, though, it makes total sense.

“Oh,” says Aaron. “Right.”

“How lovely,” says Lawson Daniels. “A fire. Don’t mean to disturb you. A little bald bloke from a music shop sent me here. I’m looking for Margot Hammer.”

Chapter 39

Margot wrote the lyrics to “Power Pink” on the back two pages of her Western civ notebook her freshman year at NYU. It was the first song she’d ever finished.

“You wanna see something I wrote last night?” she asked Nikki, hands shaking.

Nikki sat across from her at a bar near campus that played things fast and loose with IDs. “What, like, a song?” When Margot flushed red from her collarbones up, Nikki pushed her beer aside. “You wrote a song, you bitch? Yeah, I wanna see it.”

“It’s not…”

“Gimme, Ringo! Now.”

Margot handed over her notebook.

“Ha,” said Nikki. “Western civ. I can’t wait ’til we drop out.”

Margot watched her friend’s eyes as she read, and then as she slowly started to smile. “Shit, rock star. I could make this sound fucking rad.”

The song sat, though. Nikki was the band’s lyricist, and by the time they were ready to record their debut album she’d written ten bangers. At the last minute, though, Axl said he wanted eleven songs because ten songs “is too predictable—too even numbered.” By then Nikki was tapped out. She hated quick-turn songwriting, and deadlines made her nervous. “Wait,” she said. “Margot, you still have that pink song you wrote, right? From your notebook?”

“Power Pink” was an immediate hit, but an accidental one. More importantly, it was a one-time thing. Nikki was Burnt Flowers’s songwriter, Jenny was the guitarist, Anna was the bassist, and Margot played drums. That was the arrangement that had made them all famous. Margot explains all this now to Billy, who’s sitting at the Steinway.

“Yeah, but that was then,” he says.

Margot slides her boots off, finds one of her beers in the fridge. “Why are we even talking about this, anyway?” she asks. “Are we seriously not gonna discuss what just happened over there?”

Dinner dispersed quickly after Robyn’s miniature, weirdly composed meltdown.

Billy taps out the opening bars that he came up with earlier. “Honestly, I’d rather play your song.”

“Jesus, I told you, it’s not a song.”

Billy closes the lid over the keys. “You know what? You’re right,” he says. “This is rock and roll. We should do it on the guitar.” He takes the electric Fender from its wall mount, plugs it into the amp by the piano.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you know how to play guitar?”

“Of course I know how to play the guitar,” she says. “I can play anything.”

“Well,” says Billy. “La-dee-dah. Check it out. These feel like power chords to me up front.” He sets his fingers, strums twice, and starts singing Margot’s words.

It’s hard to stay annoyed with someone while they’re singing, particularly if they’re singing badly. He stops after the first verse but keeps strumming.

“It’s dark, right?” he says. “It’s about being lost. Maybe? But maybe it’s about being found. It’s as dark or not dark as you want it to be. That’s why it’s good.”