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Authors: Jessica Topper
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turned her eyes up toward the darkened glass.
No doubt telling her about the barmy git on the bus,
Rick mused.
How the poor sod had discovered his late wife had saved every postcard he’d ever written her, preserved in a hatbox, before he left on tour. And now he can’t stop talking about her.
Correction: Now he can’t stop talking
to
her.
The hollows of his own dark eyes reflected back, startling Rick into real-time.
“Riff, stop fannying about up there!” Adrian’s voice drifted back onto the coach. Small footfalls followed; Abbey loved any excuse to explore the interior of the band’s home on wheels, nosing behind the curtains of the bunks and snacking on whatever chips and goodies the crew left lying about.
“Hiya, Bee.”
“You’re coming with us to the lake.”
Rick dropped a pair of sunglasses on. “Says who?”
“Adrian,” Abbey stated, her nasally American vowels slightly grating. In the four years Rick had known her and her mother, he had never once heard either refer to his bandmate as Digger. Evidently, stage personas never made it past their front door. “And he said to stop fannying about.”
“Is that so?” Rick enjoyed the eight-year-old’s mastery of British lingo, even if she flattened it with her accent. He also admired her quest for anything chocolate-flavored. It reminded him of his twin boys at that age, always nipping Cadbury Buttons from the secret stash Simone had kept in the butler’s pantry back home.
“Yes. Is this your bunk?”
“The middle one. On the right.” Rick watched as she inspected the row.
“Underwear!” she squealed.
“That’s what you get for peeking in Sam’s bunk,” Rick said with a laugh. “I bet Adrian has a treat for you in his. Third one down, take a look.”
Her legs, long and stork-like, stretched as she stood on tiptoe. “Ooh, Cadbury!” She held up a Flake bar as her pilfered bounty.
“The real kind, too.” Rick informed her. “Imported.” He reached into his bunk, quickly glancing the length of it. Like a man about to jump from a sinking ship, he grabbed what mattered most: his rucksack and his notebook.
“We’re busting you out of this rock and roll circus!” Kat shaded her eyes with her hand, smiling at Rick as he emerged with Abbey in tow. She turned to the others. “I hope you guys don’t mind; I’m stealing your guitarists for a couple of days.” Digger—
No, make that Adrian,
Rick mentally corrected himself—slid his arm around her waist as she added, “Two days off in a row, and so close to the lake house. I couldn’t resist.”
“Nor could I refuse,” Adrian murmured, rubbing his neat goatee of gray and gold against her cheek, eyes closed.
Jim lit a cigarette and mashed his free hand into his jeans pocket. “Cool.” The drummer exhaled. “Wish Maryland was a bit closer for me. Soon enough, I guess.”
Sam had returned from his lavatory excursion and sputtered in mock outrage. “Riff? At least choose someone worth his salt, Kat!”
“Sam, sometimes the freak show needs a break from the clowns,” Rick stated, as slow and dramatic as his descent down the bus stairs.
“Meaning . . . meaning?” Sam echoed like an empty canyon. Everyone else just grinned and looked elsewhere.
“Ah, Kat.” Rick leaned to kiss her cheek. “You are the only reason I’d get up at”—he lifted his shades to examine his watch—“stupid o’clock in the morning.”
He wasn’t sure whether she would consider his compliment a backhanded one. But the way she lobbed a kiss back onto his scruffy cheek told him she didn’t—or she didn’t care.
“Wait until you see our lake. You may just have one more reason.”
* * *
“Now this,” Adrian remarked as the screen door slammed behind them, “this I missed.” He inhaled deeply, and Rick did, too. A mix of odd odors hit him: acrid metallic rust from the old porch screens, earthy clay from the jumble of discarded shoes by the door, and the sharp dewy scent of
No doubt telling her about the barmy git on the bus,
Rick mused.
How the poor sod had discovered his late wife had saved every postcard he’d ever written her, preserved in a hatbox, before he left on tour. And now he can’t stop talking about her.
Correction: Now he can’t stop talking
to
her.
The hollows of his own dark eyes reflected back, startling Rick into real-time.
“Riff, stop fannying about up there!” Adrian’s voice drifted back onto the coach. Small footfalls followed; Abbey loved any excuse to explore the interior of the band’s home on wheels, nosing behind the curtains of the bunks and snacking on whatever chips and goodies the crew left lying about.
“Hiya, Bee.”
“You’re coming with us to the lake.”
Rick dropped a pair of sunglasses on. “Says who?”
“Adrian,” Abbey stated, her nasally American vowels slightly grating. In the four years Rick had known her and her mother, he had never once heard either refer to his bandmate as Digger. Evidently, stage personas never made it past their front door. “And he said to stop fannying about.”
“Is that so?” Rick enjoyed the eight-year-old’s mastery of British lingo, even if she flattened it with her accent. He also admired her quest for anything chocolate-flavored. It reminded him of his twin boys at that age, always nipping Cadbury Buttons from the secret stash Simone had kept in the butler’s pantry back home.
“Yes. Is this your bunk?”
“The middle one. On the right.” Rick watched as she inspected the row.
“Underwear!” she squealed.
“That’s what you get for peeking in Sam’s bunk,” Rick said with a laugh. “I bet Adrian has a treat for you in his. Third one down, take a look.”
Her legs, long and stork-like, stretched as she stood on tiptoe. “Ooh, Cadbury!” She held up a Flake bar as her pilfered bounty.
“The real kind, too.” Rick informed her. “Imported.” He reached into his bunk, quickly glancing the length of it. Like a man about to jump from a sinking ship, he grabbed what mattered most: his rucksack and his notebook.
“We’re busting you out of this rock and roll circus!” Kat shaded her eyes with her hand, smiling at Rick as he emerged with Abbey in tow. She turned to the others. “I hope you guys don’t mind; I’m stealing your guitarists for a couple of days.” Digger—
No, make that Adrian,
Rick mentally corrected himself—slid his arm around her waist as she added, “Two days off in a row, and so close to the lake house. I couldn’t resist.”
“Nor could I refuse,” Adrian murmured, rubbing his neat goatee of gray and gold against her cheek, eyes closed.
Jim lit a cigarette and mashed his free hand into his jeans pocket. “Cool.” The drummer exhaled. “Wish Maryland was a bit closer for me. Soon enough, I guess.”
Sam had returned from his lavatory excursion and sputtered in mock outrage. “Riff? At least choose someone worth his salt, Kat!”
“Sam, sometimes the freak show needs a break from the clowns,” Rick stated, as slow and dramatic as his descent down the bus stairs.
“Meaning . . . meaning?” Sam echoed like an empty canyon. Everyone else just grinned and looked elsewhere.
“Ah, Kat.” Rick leaned to kiss her cheek. “You are the only reason I’d get up at”—he lifted his shades to examine his watch—“stupid o’clock in the morning.”
He wasn’t sure whether she would consider his compliment a backhanded one. But the way she lobbed a kiss back onto his scruffy cheek told him she didn’t—or she didn’t care.
“Wait until you see our lake. You may just have one more reason.”
* * *
“Now this,” Adrian remarked as the screen door slammed behind them, “this I missed.” He inhaled deeply, and Rick did, too. A mix of odd odors hit him: acrid metallic rust from the old porch screens, earthy clay from the jumble of discarded shoes by the door, and the sharp dewy scent of
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