I reached for her again. She continued to balk, licked moisture from her lips. Smiled faintly, as if enjoying a private joke. For a moment I thought she'd share it. Instead, she pointed to a brasserie two doors up the street and ran in ahead of me.
"Bonnie Raitt," I repeated.
We were at a tiny table tucked in a corner of the clammy brasserie. The restaurant floor was a grubby mesh of white tile and the walls were cloudy mirrors and oft-painted brown woodwork. A clinically depressed waiter brought us our salads and wine as if service was harsh penance. Rain washed the front window and turned the city to gelatin.
"Bonnie," she said. "Jackson Brown, Bruce Hornsby, Shawn Colvin, maybe others."
"Three-month tour."
"At least three months," she said, still avoiding my eyes. "If it goes international, it could stretch longer."
"World hunger," I said. "Good cause."
"Famine and child welfare," she said.
"Nothing nobler."
She turned to me. Her eyes were dry and defiant.
"So," I said. "You're an equipment manager, now. No more guitar-making?"
"There'll be luthiery involved. I'll be overseeing and repairing all the gear."
I'll, not I'd. One-vote-election, nothing tentative.
"When exactly did you get the offer?" I said.
"Two weeks ago."
"I see."
"I know I should've said something. It wasn't- it dropped in my lap. Remember when I was at Gold-Tone Studios and they needed those vintage archtops for that retro Elvis video? The tour manager happened to be in the next booth, watching some mixing, and ended up talking."
"Sociable fellow."
"Sociable woman," she said. "She had her dog with her- an English bulldog, a female. Spike started playing with her and we started talking."
"Animal magnetism," I said. "Is the tour dog-friendly, or do I keep Spike?"
"I'd like to take him along."
"I'm sure that'll thrill him to no end. When do you leave?"
"In a week."
"A week." My eyes hurt. "Lots of packing ahead."
She lifted her fork and pronged dead lettuce leaves. "I can call it off-"
"No," I said.
"I wouldn't have even considered it, Alex, not for the money-"
"Good money?"
She named the figure.
"Very good money," I said.
"Listen to what I'm saying, Alex: That doesn't matter. If you're going to hate me, it can be undone."
"I don't hate you, and you don't want it undone. Maybe you accepted the offer because I made you unhappy, but now that you've committed yourself, you're seeing all kinds of positives."
I craved argument but she didn't answer. The restaurant was filling, drenched Parisians seeking shelter from the downpour.
"Two weeks ago," I said, "I was running around with Milo on Lauren Teague's murder. Hiding what I was doing from you. I was stupid to think this trip would make a difference."
She pushed salad around. The room had grown hotter, smaller; scowling people crowded tiny tables, others stood huddled at the doorway. The waiter began to approach. Robin repelled him with a glare.
She said, "I've felt so alone. For a while. You were gone all the time. Putting yourself in situations. I didn't bring up the tour, because I knew you couldn't- shouldn't be distracted."
She rolled the side of a small fist along the table rim. "I guess I've always felt that what you do is important and that what I do is… just craft." I started to speak but she shook her head. "But this last time, Alex. Meeting with that woman, seducing her. Planning a damned date in order to- your intentions were good, but it still came down to seduction. Using yourself as a…"
"Whore?" I said. Thinking suddenly about Lauren Teague. A girl I'd known a long time ago, from my quiet job. She'd sold her body, ended up head-shot and dumped in an alley…
"I was going to say 'lure.' Despite all we've had together- this supposed enlightened relationship we've got, you go about your own business… Alex, basically you've built this whole other life from which I'm excluded. From which I want to be excluded."
She reached for her wineglass, sipped, made a face.
"Bad vintage?"
"Fine vintage. I'm sorry, baby, I guess it just comes down to timing. Getting the offer exactly when I was so down." She grabbed my hand, squeezed hard. "You love me, but you left me, Alex. It made me realize how alone I'd been for so long. We both were. The difference is, you enjoy going it alone- you get high on solitude and danger. So when Trish and I started talking and she told me she'd heard about my work- my reputation- and all of a sudden I realized I had a reputation, and here was someone offering me great money and the chance for something of my own, I said yes. Just blurted it out. And then driving home, I panicked, and said, What did you just do? And told myself I'd have to renege and wondered how I'd do it without looking like an idiot. But then I got home and the house was empty and all of a sudden I didn't want to renege. I went out to my studio and cried. I still might've changed my mind. I probably would've. But then you arranged that date with that tramp and… it felt completely right. It still does."
She looked out the rain-clouded window. "Such a beautiful city. I never want to see it again."
The weather remained gray and wet and we kept to our room. Being together was agonizing: suppressed tears, edgy silences, too-polite chitchat, listening to the rain tormenting the dormer windows. When Robin suggested we return early to L.A., I told her I'd try to change her ticket but I'd be staying for a while. That hurt her but it also relieved her and the next day when the cab showed up to take her to the airport, I carried her bags, held her elbow as she got into the taxi, paid the driver in advance.
"How long will you be staying?" she said.
"Don't know." My teeth ached.
"Will you be back before I leave?"
"Sure."
"Please be, Alex."
"I will."
Then: the kiss, the smile, trembling hands concealed.
As the taxi drove away I strained for a look at the back of her head- a tremor, a slump, any sign of conflict, regret, grief.
Impossible to tell.
Everything moved too fast.
CHAPTER 3
The break came on a Sunday- some young smiley-faced, ponytailed guy I wanted to punch, arriving with a large van and two paunchy roadies wearing black Kill Famine Tour T-shirts. Ponytail had a Milk-Bone for Spike, high fives for me. Spike ate out of his hand. How had the bastard known to bring the treat?
"Hi, I'm Sheridan," he said. "The tour coordinator." He wore a white shirt, blue jeans, brown boots, had a narrow body and a clean, smooth face full of optimism.
"Thought that was Trish."
"Trish is the overall tour manager. My boss." He glanced at the house. "Must be nice, living up here."
"Uh-huh."
"So you're a psychologist."
"Uh-huh."
"I was a psych major in college. Studied psychoacoustics at UC Davis. Used to be a sound engineer."
How nice for you. "Hmm."
"Robin's going to be part of something important."
"Hey," I said.
Robin came down the front stairs with Spike on a leash. She wore a pink T-shirt and faded jeans and tennis shoes and big hoop earrings, began directing the roadies as they loaded her valises and her toolboxes into the van. Spike looked stoned. Like most dogs, his emotional barometer is finely tuned and for the last few days he'd been uncommonly compliant. I went over and stooped to pat his knobby French bulldog head, then I kissed Robin, and recited, "Have fun," and turned my back and trudged up to the house.