Chapter

7

“I don’t see what the point was of you schlepping down here if you’re not even going to listen,” Peter said crabbily.

Nancy rubbed her eyes. Peter’s handsome face swam into focus. “Peter, please,” she said wearily. “I haven’t slept, and I risked death and abduction last night. Spare me the attitude.”

“I very much doubt that anyone was trying to abduct you,” Peter said with a sniff. “I mean, why would they? You’re having delusions of grandeur. Do I need to brew some coffee, or can you stay conscious long enough for me to run this new song order by you?”

“Hit me with it,” she said, dragging herself to her feet. “I’ll stand. Easier to stay awake.”

“Good idea,” Peter said. “My thought was to put ‘Glory Road’ at the top. Hit ’em with everything we’ve got, bada-bam-bada-boom. Once we’ve got their attention, ‘The Slippery Slope.’ Then Enid’s a cappella intro to ‘The Far Shore.’ And then, we’ll put…”

Despite her best efforts, Peter’s voice faded into background noise. Nancy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thinking of Liam’s eyes when he left her. It made her want to bawl. But she couldn’t throw her whole life into the air and leap into his pocket. She couldn’t.

She shook the memory away, keeping her eyes fixed on Peter’s refined, ethereal good looks that had so attracted her back in college. They had met freshman year and formed a band: Peter on lead vocals and guitar, herself on acoustic bass, Henry on drums, Chad on keyboards. She’d worked herself to the bone finding gigs, planning spring-break tours. She’d fancied herself in love with Peter, and he loved her, too. At least, he’d assured her that he did, even on the day that he and Henry and Chad had sat her down and told her they were looking for a new bass player. Someone with more natural rhythm.

“We need somebody with a jazz background. Someone who can lay down a really killer bass line,” Peter explained earnestly.

“Oh,” Nancy squeaked, trying not to cry.

“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, Nance!” Peter encouraged. “You should be the band’s business manager!”

“Yeah?” Nancy sniffed.

“Yeah! We can’t do without you!” Henry said eagerly. “It’s like, 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. Like the way you find gigs. That’s what we need! Bassists are a dime a dozen. We can find a bassist anywhere!”

Peter patted her shoulder. “Come on, Nance, be a sport.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” she said dully.

Yes, she’d tried to be a sport. She’d tried again, years later, when Peter fell in love with Enid. He’d used almost the same words as when he’d dumped her as a bassist. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he’d said, patting her shoulder. “It’s just a different kind of love. The love I feel for Enid is, like, she sets a match to my heart, and poof! I go up in flames. A match to my heart. Cool image.” He began to hum, and stopped when Nancy burst into tears. “Oh, God. Don’t do this to me,” he begged. “It’s not like we had this grand passion, you know? Come on! Be a sport.”

She had choked back her tears, and been a sport for Peter and Enid. She’d been a sport again, when Ron dumped her for Liz. And damned if she hadn’t been a sport yet again, for Freedy, when he jilted her for Andrea. She was a professional sport. A real trouper.

How crushing the loss had felt then. How far away, how insignificant it felt now. After losing Lucia. After facing death in a nylon mask and a switchblade. After making love to Liam.

Ron, Freedy, Peter. They were like dimly remembered games of hopscotch and tag from kindergarten. She blinked. Peter was yelling her name. “Nance! For God’s sake! Are you having an epileptic seizure?”

“I’m fine,” she said faintly.

Peter’s frown became a pout. “I need your feedback, and I don’t feel like you’re there for me! Listen while I play the new order for you.”

Nancy braced herself for the raucous burst of percussion that opened “Glory Road.” Halfway through “Devil’s Bargain” she zoned out again, staring at Peter’s ethereal beauty. It struck her as effeminate and insubstantial. Liam’s stern masculine beauty was imbued with strength, whereas Peter’s had an air of fragility. In fact, her instinct had always been to protect Peter from harsh reality, to buoy his confidence. To manage his career so he could make a living doing what he loved.

There was nothing fragile about Liam. She would never have to make sure his socks matched. She would never need to find work for him. Strange. All these years, she’d been so busy frantically trying to earn what love and attention came her way. It had never even occurred to her how immensely sexy self-sufficiency was in a man.

Her revelation brought her no pleasure, however. If anything, it made her more miserable. He was so angry and hurt by the fight they’d had. He probably never wanted to see her again.

The final strains of “The Road to You” were dying away. Peter was staring at her expectantly. “So?” he prompted. “What do you think?”

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

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

“I need a nap,” she said. She flung herself onto the couch, and slid instantly into sleep. Peter’s scolding babble faded to black.

At some point during her nap, a vivid dream came to her. 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, she knew the lovely tune was for her. She woke up smiling, into Enid’s face. Enid knelt by the couch, waving a cup of coffee under Nancy’s nose. Nancy’s smile faded, and she struggled into a sitting position and grabbed the coffee. “Thanks, Enid.”

Peter walked briskly into the room. “Sorry to drag you back to the real world,” he said. “But it’s eight-ten, and you’re going to have to move your butt to get those liner notes redone in time before we head up to meet with Shepard.”

The familiar pressure settled on Nancy’s chest—and suddenly, she thought about the dream. Something clicked in her mind.

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 girl’s priorities. “Not,” she said, sipping her coffee.

Peter and Enid glanced at each other. “What do you mean, ‘not’?” Peter asked, his voice cautious.

“‘Not’ meaning that you and Enid have to move your butts, not me. As of this moment, the liner notes are no longer my problem.”

Peter’s face was blank. “What are you talking about? We have to deliver the layout to Shepard this morning, and if we don’t—”

“You, Peter. Not we. I’ve revised those notes three times. The disk is in my purse.” She dug it out and handed it to him. “Change it on your computer. Deliver it to Shepard yourself. I can’t go today.”

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

“You could always leave the album order like it was, if you get desperate,” she suggested. “It was fine before.”

“You’re not coming?” Enid’s limpid blue eyes widened with outrage, to the point of bulging, Nancy noticed with detached interest. “What’s gotten into you? What are we supposed to say to Shepard?”