The grandparents looked at this in awe. Tom, Mary, and Cindy all realized the musical ramifications of what they were seeing. “She’s cooing that in key!” Mary exclaimed. “Well ... almost in key anyway. You’re singing in E-minor, Jake and she’s damn near following along.”
“And she’s definitely keeping in time,” added Tom.
“Well, it helps that I’m singing with her,” Jake said, pausing the tune so he could take part in the discussion. Caydee immediately began to fuss and squirm when the music stopped. She began to coo out the syllables again, this time with an insistent, demanding tone. Her communication was quite clear. Play the fuckin’ song some more, Dad!
Jake began to play and sing again and she settled down immediately. She cooed out the chorus syllables right on time and mostly in key. When he finished up, she started to fuss again, but he had learned he could keep her calm by simply continuing to strum the guitar. It did not matter what he strummed—it could be anything from Old Macdonald Had a Farm to War Pigs—as long as he was playing some kind of organized melody, she would remain copacetic.
“Does she do that with any other song?” asked Mary.
“Not to that extent,” Jake said, continuing to absently strum while he talked. He was currently playing out the melody to Highway Star by Deep Purple, the acoustic version that was considerably slower in tempo than the radio version. “She does it a little bit on a few other pieces like Stairway to Heaven, Behind Blue Eyes, and Going to California, but it’s hit or miss and not with the same enthusiasm.”
“She likes to hear the ‘I love you’s’,” Laura said with a smile.
“You know, you used to do the same thing, Jake,” Tom said.
“Really?” he asked.
“It’s true,” Mary said. “When we would play music for you when you were a baby, you would always try to sing along, even before you could talk. That’s when we started to realize that you were going to be a singer.”
“That’s why we had you doing voice lessons while you were still in grammar school,” Tom added. “I think maybe little Caydee here is going to have herself a pretty good voice.”
“She already does,” said Celia, who was looking warmly at the little center of attention in her grandmother’s arms.
Jake was about to say something else, but the phone started to ring. Tom and Mary looked at each other expectantly, their non-verbal communication quite clear. Both were asking “are you going to get that?”.
Tom lost the battle. With a sigh, he stood up and walked across the room to the cordless handset sitting in its charging base. He picked it up. “Hello?” He listened for a moment. “Hey, Paulie, how are you doing?” Another pause. “Yes, he’s right here. He was just showing us how Caydee likes to sing along with him to Nights in White Satin.” A chuckle. “Yes, it is pretty amazing. Anyway, I’ll get him for you.” He turned to his son. “It’s for you, Jake. It’s Pauline.”
Jake wondered what was going on now. Pauline was not in the habit of calling him just to shoot the shit, particularly when he was out of town on a holiday weekend. He stood up. Caydee immediately began to fuss again. He handed the guitar to Celia. “Here,” he said. “Play something for her.”
“Right,” she said, taking the instrument from him. She immediately began to strum out the melody for Dreams, by the Cranberries. Caydee quieted back down in an instant.
Jake took the phone from his father and then stepped out of the room and into the kitchen before putting it to his ear. “Hey, Paulie,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Hey, bro,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt family time, but I just got a call from Meghan.”
“Meghan?” he asked. “About what?”
“She tried to call you but all she has is your cell phone number and it just went to voicemail.”
“I turned it off and put it on the charger when I got here,” Jake said.
“I figured,” Pauline said. “In the future, I’d suggest that you give Meghan a list of numbers where you can be reached when you’re out of town.”
“Point taken,” Jake said. “What’s going on?”
“Apparently Jack Fenton—he’s one of the sleazeball celebrity reporters at the Watcher—got in touch with Meghan’s mother today. I’m reciting this all thirdhand at this point, so take it with a grain of salt, but he told her mom that he has information that Meghan and you and Teach are more than just employers and employee, that he has even heard suggestions that Meghan is not entirely free to leave the situation if she wants to, and that he wanted to interview Meghan to get her side of the story before the Watcher publishes it in next week’s issue.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jake said, shaking his head. “Where do they come up with this shit?”
“I’m going to guess that they’ve been talking to the locals again and getting their speculations,” Pauline said. “I know there is no basis in fact for this tale, so maybe we have something going for us here.”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked. “We’ve been down this road many times. They can print whatever they want. As long as we cannot prove it is not true there is nothing we can do about it.”
“That’s always been the case before,” she said, “but the times are changing a little bit. The standards for defamation lawsuits are starting to slide a little more in favor of the defamed.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Ever since Carol Burnette successfully sued the National Enquirer there have been a handful of other cases that have come up. Most of the time, the tabloid wins, but in a few, they have lost and been hit with pretty significant punitive damages.”
“You’re saying that we sue them if they print this?” Jake asked. “How does that help anything? Meghan’s name still gets dragged through the dirt and it would be years before we would even get to tell our side.”
“True,” she said, “but that’s not where I was going with this.”
“Where are you going with it?” he asked.
“Maybe nowhere,” she said. “I would still brace Meghan for the worst if I were you. But I’m going to make a few phone calls and try to get something other than second and thirdhand information. I’m not going to issue any statement to the reporter just yet. Maybe I can do something with what I gather.”
“That doesn’t sound all that hopeful,” Jake said.
“It’s not,” she said. “But it’s what I can do. Why don’t you call Meghan and talk to her—she’s kind of upset—and while you’re at it, get me her parents’ phone number. I think I need to talk to her mom as well.”
“She’s not going to want to talk to you,” Jake warned.
“I’m sure she won’t,” she said, “but that’s okay, because I don’t really want to talk to her either. But it has to be done.”
Pauline was sitting at her desk in her home office. She was wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Her hair was a mess. Obie was in the living room, watching something on the TV. Tabby was in bed. They were supposed to head out for the airport in less than twelve hours. She sighed as she picked up the phone to dial the Zachary’s home number. It was now just past nine o’clock at night on the eve of a holiday weekend. Well past the reasonable hour and day for discussing business such as this, but she wanted to get it done. She had instructed Meghan to call her mother and prepare her for this phone call. At least there was that.
She took a little sip of the white wine she had sitting next to her open legal pads. It was only her second glass of the night and she was reasonably sober for this. She dialed the San Luis Obispo number and listened to the phone ring on the other end. On the third ring, it was picked up and a female voice said, “hello?”