Page 26

Chapter Seventeen

Nancy

“ G od, Nance. What was the point of you coming down here at all if you’re not even going to listen to me?”

I rubbed my eyes until Peter’s handsome face swam into focus. “Peter, don’t bug me. I haven’t slept. I risked death and abduction last night, so spare me the attitude.”

“I’m sorry you got mugged, but I highly doubt that anyone was trying to abduct you,” Peter said. “I mean, why would they? You’re having delusions of grandeur. Do I need to brew you some coffee? Or can you stay conscious long enough for me to run this new song order by you?”

I huffed out a breath and dragged myself to my feet. “Hit me with it,” I said grimly. “I’ll stand. It’ll be easier to stay awake.”

“Good idea. So anyhow, my thought was to put ‘Glory Road’ at the top. Hit ’em with everything we’ve got, bada-boom. Once we’ve got their attention, we go with ‘The Slippery Slope.’ Then Enid’s intro to ‘The Far Shore.’ And then, we’ll put ...”

Despite my best efforts, Peter’s voice faded into background noise. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, thinking of Liam’s eyes when he left me outside Peter and Enid’s apartment building. It made me want to howl.

But I couldn’t just throw my whole life up into the air and leap into his pocket. I’d worked too hard and too long for this.

I pushed the image of Liam’s desolate eyes out of my head and studied Peter’s face. Those refined, ethereal good looks that had so attracted me back in college.

We’d met our freshman year and formed a band: Peter on lead vocals and guitar, me on acoustic bass, Henry on drums, Chad on keyboards.

I’d worked like a maniac finding the band local gigs, planning spring break tours.

After a while, I’d begun to fancy myself in love with Peter.

He loved me, too. At least, he had assured me he did—even on that unforgettable day when he, Henry, and Chad sat me down and told me they were looking for a new bass player.

Someone with a more primal, savage rhythm. A more dangerous vibe.

“We need somebody with a jazzy, rockabilly background, Nance. Someone who can lay down a killer bass line,” Peter explained earnestly. “Someone who can really go wild with us.”

And I’d just sat there, trying not to cry. Feeling like a fool.

“It’s not that we don’t love you, Nance. What we’re trying to say is, everybody should do what they’re best at,” Henry coaxed.

“Yeah, and what you’re best at is finding gigs,” Peter said, in a bracing tone. “You should be the band’s business manager. That’s where you really shine.”

I’d dabbed at the tear-snot with a tissue, and stared at them, eyes blurred.

“For real, we can’t do without you, Nance,” Henry said earnestly.

“You take care of us, you know? Like how you always make sure that Chad’s shirt doesn’t clash with his pants before he goes on stage.

And the way you find us gigs. That’s total magic.

That’s what we need. Bassists are a dime a dozen. We can find a bassist anywhere.”

Peter patted my shoulder. “Come on, Nance. Be a sport.”

“Oh, I’m trying,” I’d told them, dully.

And it was true. I’d tried to be a sport. Tried very hard.

Then I’d tried again, a couple of years later, when Peter fell in love with Enid. Oddly enough, he’d used almost the same words as when he’d dumped me as a bassist.

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” he’d said, patting my shoulder. “It’s just a different kind of love. The love I feel for Enid … it’s like she sets a match to my heart, and I just go up in flames. Match to my heart. Huh. Cool image.”

He started humming, then let out an irritated sigh when I burst into tears.

“Oh, God, Nance. Please. Don’t,” he begged. “It’s not like we had this grand passion. Come on. Be a sport.”

So I’d choked back my tears and been a sport for Peter and Enid. Then I’d been a sport again when Ron dumped me for Liz. And damned if I hadn’t been a sport yet again for Freedy, when he jilted me for Andrea.

I was a real goddamn trouper.

The loss and the humiliation had felt so crushing back then. Strange, how it felt so insignificant now, after losing Lucia. After facing terror and death in a nylon mask, carrying a switchblade. After making love to Liam.

Ron, Freedy, Peter—they all felt like dimly remembered games of hopscotch and dodgeball from grade school. Kid stuff.

Peter was yelling my name. “Nance! Are you having a seizure, or what?”

“I’m fine,” I said faintly.

And in that moment, for the first time, I heard the words as I said them. I’m fine. I said it all the time, as a reflex. But it was a huge lie right now.

Peter’s frown was turning into a pout. “I need feedback, Nance, and I really don’t feel like you’re there for me. Would you please listen while I play the new order?”

I braced myself for the burst of percussion that opened “Glory Road,” but halfway through “The Slippery Slope,” I zoned out again, staring blankly at Peter’s profile.

It struck me as effeminate. Insubstantial.

Liam’s stern, masculine beauty radiated strength, solidity. Peter’s had an air of fragility.

My instinct had always been to protect Peter from harsh reality. To bolster his confidence. To manage his career so he could make a living doing what he loved. To make the magic happen for him.

There was nothing fragile about Liam. I would never have to make sure his socks matched. I would never need to find work for him.

Strange, how all these years, I’d been so busy trying to earn what love and attention came my way, it had never even occurred to me how sexy self-sufficiency was in a man.

My revelation brought me no pleasure, however. If anything, it made me more miserable. Liam was so angry and hurt. He probably never wanted to see me again.

The final strains of “The Road to You” were dying away. Peter gazed at me expectantly. “So?” he prompted. “What do you think? Do you get my idea?”

Exhaustion rolled over me. “It’s fine, Peter.”

His face fell. “Just fine? That’s all you can say?”

“I need a nap.” I flung myself onto the couch.

Peter’s scolding face faded to black. During my nap, a vivid dream came to me. Liam was sitting on a chair, lit by a beam of sunlight, playing a haunting melody on his fiddle. In the unaccountable way of dreams, I knew that the lovely tune was for me.

I woke up smiling, with Enid’s big blue eyes right in my face. She was kneeling by the couch, waving a cup of coffee under my nose. I struggled into a sitting position and grabbed the coffee. “Thanks, Enid.”

Peter walked in. “Sorry to drag you back to the real world, but it’s after eight o’clock, and you’ll have to move your butt to get those liner notes reformatted before we head over to meet with Shepard.”

A familiar pressure settled on my chest—and I thought about the dream. The sweet melody, still echoing in my head. The painful pressure lightened like magic.

This was not life or death. The liner notes, the meeting—they were insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Close encounters with sex and death did wonders to reorder a woman’s priorities. I took a leisurely sip of coffee. “No,” I said.

Peter and Enid exchanged alarmed glances. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Peter asked.

“You and Enid can move your butts, not me. The liner notes are no longer my problem.”

Peter’s face went blank. “The hell they’re not! What are you talking about? You said yourself that we have to deliver the layout to Shepard this morning, and if we miss the catalog deadline?—”

“You, Peter. Not we. I’ve revised those notes three times. The thumb drive is in my purse.” I fished it out and handed it to him. “Go ahead. Change it on your own computer, if you like. Deliver it to Shepard yourself. I can’t make that meeting today.”

“Are you nuts?” Peter looked horrified. “Nance, I don’t do desktop publishing. I’m an artist, not a secretary.”

“You could leave the album order as it is, if you get desperate,” I suggested.

“You’re not coming with us?” Enid’s limpid blue eyes widened with outrage, to the point of bulging, I noticed. “What’s gotten into you? What are we supposed to say to Shepard when you don’t show?”

“Deal with it. Call and reschedule, if you don’t want to go see him without me. Tell him that I’m having personal problems. God knows it’s true enough.”

“What personal problems could be more important than?—”

“Masked kidnappers, Enid.” I made my voice hard. “For starters. To say nothing of my mother dying in a home invasion a few days ago.”

“We were very sympathetic about Lucia, Nance,” Enid said, sounding wounded.

“So you don’t even care if the album gets into the catalog, then?”

“Of course I care. But I’m also tired. I’m done pulling rabbits out of hats for you. Peter, get your shoes on. You have to come back with me to my apartment. Right now.”

“Now? Why? Don’t be ridic?—”

“You owe me.” My voice was steely. “I work my ass off for you guys, and I almost got killed last night. I’m still shaky. I promised a friend that I would organize to have company for everywhere I go, and I mean to keep that promise. Which means you’re up to bat, buddy.”

“Your timing is absolutely?—”

“I also need some help getting Moxie’s pet carrier loaded into the car. I’m going up to Latham for a while. I’m not sure for how long yet.”

Enid and Peter exchanged horrified glances.

“Latham?” Peter’s voice cracked. “Now? But tonight’s the gig at the Bottom Line with Brigid McKeon! Plus the Shepard meeting, the liner notes, and we’re going on tour in two weeks, and The FolkWorld Conference is coming up!”

“Latham’s not far,” I assured him, patting his shoulder. I pulled up my favorite car service on my phone and texted my request for a car. “I’ll be in touch. Most of my business is conducted on the phone anyway, so why not do it from Latham?”

Peter accompanied me down to the car I had ordered, with bad grace, but I ignored his fierce sulking. It was turning into a beautiful morning. A brisk wind made the bits of garbage dance and swirl cheerfully over sidewalk grates.

Peter stared stonily out the window as the car service took us back to Avenue B. Peter usually required a lot of attention, but he wasn’t getting any from me today. I wouldn’t be capable of giving it to him if I wanted to.

Today, I couldn’t be bothered. After last night, I felt light, fizzy, floating.

I was going to pack up every part of my life that was portable, collect my cat, drive up to Latham, and throw myself on Liam’s mercy.

And a couple of other choice body parts, if I got lucky.

Doubt clutched at me. No way could it work. Not in the long run. A guy like him, with his mellow country lifestyle, his earth mother ideal. A busy, citified madwoman like me. I would drive him nuts. We would crash and burn. Probably sooner rather than later.

Maybe we already had. He’d been so angry at me this morning. And there were the armed abductors, the angry burglars. Add all the other crazy elements, and it looked like having Nancy D’Onofrio for a girlfriend, or hell, even just a casual fuckbuddy, was way too risky.

But at least I no longer felt like I would disappoint him in bed.

Oh, no. All my doubts were gone in that regard.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do to that big, strong body.

I thought about the look in his eyes when he gave me that gorgeous schtick about the beauty of the flower.

Sneaky, seductive bastard. He’d just reached right inside my chest, grabbed my heart, and squeezed it.

I had felt so seen. So real, and present.

I was going to Latham. And if I got my poor tender crushed-out heart squished into jelly, well. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But it would definitely be the worst.