A Light in the Dark Page 7

  Jordan raised a questioning brow at me, but I turned away, not wanting to see the knowing look in his eyes. He and Tom were close, and if anyone else knew that Tom still had a thing for me, it would be Jordan, although he’d never said a word to me. Probably more out of respect for Tom than out of any sensitivity toward me and my feelings, though.

  “I’m okay, Mom. Just grieving a little about the changes coming. Tom leaving, Ani thinking about Italy again. You know, growing up and all that nonsense.”

  “I know, Tish.” Mom patted my cheek, too, and I leaned into her hand. Her palm wasn’t smooth and soft like most women her age, but that was because Mom worked in the small botanical gardens at the local museum. She spent her days up to her elbows in dirt and water, and no amount of lanolin or bee balm could completely rid her hands of their slight sandpaper texture. Mom didn’t mind. She loved her job, the tranquility of spending the day beautifying her little piece of the earth, as well as the opportunity it provided her to share her love of all planty things with anyone who would stop and listen. I had a feeling getting this woman to retire would be a task Dad might not be able to accomplish alone. But that was still years away. And her hands, rough skin and all, were beautiful to me.

  “Sorry about the noise. It’s Jordan’s fault. He stole my bacon.”

  Mom filled a glass with water from the sink, then leaned against the counter and took a long sip. “You didn’t wake me,” she said, shaking her head. I could see frown lines between her eyebrows. “I had a long talk with Beatrice Clark earlier and my heart is just hurting for her and Ron.”

  Jordan flinched noticeably. I eyed him curiously, but he was watching Mom with narrowed eyes.

  Mom continued, her voice heavy with emotion. “She received a Mother’s Day card from Savannah today, but it was simply signed, nothing personal. Savannah has always written something on her cards, even if only a few sentences. This time, it was just her name, and even that was barely legible, like she’d been in a mad rush or something. They worry so much about her.”

  “Wow. How awful.” I studied my own mother who was about the same age as Mrs. Clark, and it struck me how much younger my mom looked and acted, in comparison. “Do they have any idea where she is these days?”

  Mom shook her head slowly, a mother hurting for another mother. “It’s been almost two years already, can you believe it?” It had been the news of the hour for Midtown. Savannah Clark, seventeen, the daughter of a local pastor, had crawled out her window in the middle of the night, the day before she started her senior year of high school, and disappeared. She’d left behind a note stating she loved her parents deeply, but that she did not want to be found. Savannah was an only child, doted on by her parents, and her running away from home had been a terrible shock to all who knew her.

  The Clarks lived at the end of our block, and even though I’d known Savannah, she was a few years younger than me, so we never hung out much together. But that didn’t seem to bother Savannah. She was pleasant and sweet to everyone she came in contact with, a serene little half-smile on her face at all times. Granted, the smile seemed more habit than any expression of any inner joy—her eyes often had a far-off look to them, an emptiness that made it hard to know if she was all there. She was home-schooled to boot, the only kid I knew who was, and I always thought she was just the slightest bit off, if you know what I mean. The fact that she ran away seemed so incongruous with what I knew of her personality.

  “The police have found nothing?” Jordan stood nearby, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, his question oddly intent. I tried to catch his eye, but he was watching Mom, his own brow furrowed in a frown.

  “No, Jordan. She’s a legal adult now. Between her age, the fact that she left a note, and that she sends postcards home every couple of months, the police have stopped looking for her. They say she’s not technically missing or even a runaway anymore.” Mom’s voice trembled a little. “Whenever she does write, it’s in her handwriting and she assures them she’s alive and well. But there is never a return address and the cards are handmade and untraceable, and the postmarks change with each one. The police believe that although she wants to put their minds at ease, she still quite clearly doesn’t want to be found, and as an adult, that’s her choice.” Mom sighed deeply and pressed her nearly-empty glass to her cheek. “Ron and Beatrice simply can’t accept that, and I don’t blame them. And now Beatrice says this last card feels different somehow, like something is different, even wrong, and she’s just sick with worry for her baby.” She smiled sadly at me, her eyes drinking in my features in the low light. “I can’t even imagine losing you like that, Titia, sweetie.”

  “No wonder you’re not sleeping.” I stood up and went to her, wrapping my arms around her, thankful for my happy, healthy parents. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  My parents were active members of the church where Pastor Clark preached. The Clarks weren’t from Midtown; they’d relocated here after our old pastor had retired. Although the Clarks were quiet and conservative compared to our family, my Mom had reached out to Mrs. Clark when they first moved into our neighborhood and she liked the woman well enough, from what I could tell. Mom called her a gentle soul, a perfect counterpart to her scholarly and impassioned husband. After Savannah left, however, Mrs. Clark had withdrawn quite noticeably in her grief. Mom said it was a little like watching someone shrink from the inside out.

  “Well, Dad and I are playing tennis in the morning. I’m going back to bed. Night, Mom, Squeak.” And with that, Jordan headed back to his room.

  “Crabby pants,” I muttered.

  “Says the girl who’s not getting up in less than seven hours,” Mom teased. She rinsed out her glass and left it sitting on the counter. “Don’t stay up too late, okay? And wash your plate. Don’t leave it in the sink. Ant season.” She kissed the top of my head and left me to my own thoughts.

  Several minutes later, I climbed into bed, my belly full, teeth brushed, and wearing an old INXS T-shirt I’d stolen from a box of my dad’s high school memorabilia stored in the attic. I set my phone on my bedside table and rolled over to look out the window at the night sky filled with stars.

  A moment later, I reached back, picked up my phone, and texted quickly before I lost my nerve.

  JollyRockerTBird: Don’t worry. It’s you. I’ll call you on Saturday to make it official.

  SebastianJack: I’ll be waiting.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On the fourth ring, I let my thumb hover over the red button. I wasn’t going to leave a message. But just as I was about to end the call, he picked up.

  “This is Sebastian.” He sounded winded, like he was working out, and I smiled, my curiosity about this guy growing.

  “This is Tish,” I replied. “Is it a bad time? You jogging? Or do you have company?” The last word came out in a suggestive, sing-song tone. Ugh. Where had that come from?

  After only a moment’s pause, he replied, “It’s not a bad time. I’m not jogging. And I don’t have company. Any other questions?” His voice reminded me of driving with the windows rolled down, the wind whipping my hair around my face; a little wild, a little reckless. A thrill ran up my spine and I felt my cheeks grow warm at the thought.

  “You feel like coming over and making some music with me?” Gah! And where had that come from? I sounded like I wanted to get it on with him!

  He paused again and I lowered my forehead to my palm, disgusted with my ineptness, dreading what he might say in response.

  “Yes.”

  That was it? Yes? “Okay.” I scowled at my reflection in the mirror over my dresser. The mirror Tish looked a little excited around the eyes and it ticked me off. “When can you come over?”

  “Now?”

  “Now? It’s not too early for you?”

  “Nope. Been up for hours.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I had no clue what else to say. “Now it is, then. You know where I live. See you soon.” I hung up, not waiting for him to respo
nd.

  Nine o’clock on a weekend morning and he was up for jamming? Had been up for hours? I wasn’t usually even awake at this hour on a Saturday, no less could I sing without sounding like I’d been inhaling a pack of Marlboros daily for the last ten years. Especially after a gig at Taylors. We were the unofficial Taylors house band and we played at the club the first and third Friday of every month.

  Could he sing in the mornings? Something inside me admitted that I wanted to hear him try.

  A show at Taylors was always mad fun, because we played hard for several hours to a very appreciative audience. By the time we got home in the wee hours of the morning, we were always exhausted, and last night had been no different. I’d said a quick, heartfelt prayer for the Clark family as I lay there in the dark, then drifted off to sleep thinking about how much I was going to miss Tom, and Ani, too, and about how quickly things were changing for all of us. I dreamed about Sebastian… and my mom? I abruptly stopped trying to remember the details. Ew.

  For whatever reason, though, I’d opened my eyes at just after seven this morning and couldn’t fall back to sleep to save my life. I grabbed the latest Captain Julius Cramer book from my bedside table—I loved me some Steampunk pirates—and read for more than an hour before finally climbing out of bed. I’d taken a long, invigorating shower, and then called him.

  But now my hair was wet and wrapped in a towel, turban-style, I was in my bathrobe, and I needed some coffee. I had some hustling to do before he showed up.

  Sebastian arrived fifteen minutes later while I was getting dressed, and Mom beat me to the front door. I could hear her talking politely and warmly to him as I hurried down the stairs, running my fingers through my still-damp hair.

  “Good morning. Are you here for Jordan? Or Titia?” Mom just assumed people were here to see one of us. “I’m Stella, by the way. Please, come in.”

  “Sebastian Jeffries. Thank you.” Okay. I really liked the sound of his voice in the morning. “I’m here to see Tish.”

  “Oh! Are you—?”

  “I’m here, Mom. Thanks.” I hurried to her side and gave her forearm a quick squeeze. “Sebastian’s going to work on some music with me. He might be replacing Tom, but we still haven’t decided for sure.” I couldn’t help it. I grinned cheekily at Sebastian who still stood on the front stoop. He smiled back at me, his eyes on my face, scanning my features in a pleasantly surprised way. It occurred to me that he was seeing me without a spot of make-up on. I self-consciously reached up and tugged on a strand of hair behind my right ear, an old habit from childhood, something I only did when I was nervous. Mom must have noticed.

  “I see,” she said in a rather serious tone. “Well, Mr. Jeffries, I hope you brought your mad skills with you. My daughter is one wicked—”

  “Mom. Seriously?” She did it just to tease me, pretending to be cool, but I was secretly grateful for it this morning, even though I rolled my eyes at her. For reasons I didn’t want to explore right now, the smile Sebastian flashed at me had made me completely lose my train of thought, but Mom’s ribbing set me at ease a little. “You’re too street for us. We can’t keep up.”

  She made a gangster hand gesture that bordered on inappropriate and I saw Sebastian’s eyebrows go up. “Mom!” I grabbed her fingers and squeezed. “Stop it. You’re going to scare Sebastian.”

  Mom leaned over and hugged me tightly. “I hope so. The way he’s looking at you kind of scares me.”

  “Seriously, Mom?” Okay, now she was embarrassing me!

  But Sebastian let out a burst of laughter, and then held up his hands, palms forward, in surrender. “Call me scared, Mrs. Ransome. If that will ease your mind, you can definitely call me scared. I promise to treat your daughter with the utmost respect and appreciation.”

  “Stella,” she corrected him. “Tish’s friends call me Stella.”

  His gaze landed on me. “I’d like to think I fit in that category. Stella, then,” he said.

  I stood there, wanting to bury my face in my hands, enjoying Sebastian’s quick wit and easy camaraderie with my mother, but also mortified at the exchange. I’d seen the way his eyes had taken me in; I’d felt the pull, but I thought it might be all in my head. Apparently it wasn’t just me, if Mom had picked up on it.

  And Sebastian hadn’t denied anything, either.

  ***

  I accompanied Sebastian out to his little Nissan Sentra and took the Breedlove for him while he wrangled his Strat out of the backseat.

  “I didn’t bring an amp,” he said, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the frame of the open car door.

  “No problem. You can use one of mine. I have an older model Randall that will make Alejandro weep for joy.”

  He grinned appreciatively over his shoulder at me, but didn’t say anything.

  “So does this one have a name?” I patted the case of the acoustic I held.

  His response wasn’t exactly rude, but rather cryptic. “She isn’t really mine to name.” He locked up his car, took the acoustic from me, and nodded toward the house. “Lead the way.”

  I tried not to be affronted by the shutdown. His tone had been gentle, but the words left no room for more discussion about the Breedlove. Which, of course, made my imagination run amok. If it wasn’t his, why did he have it? And whose was it, then? I bit back the questions, but I felt a little like Alice trying to find her way through Wonderland when I was with him. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought to myself.

  We said little else, other than “This way,” or “You first,” to each other as we headed back inside, through the living room and into the kitchen toward the door that led to the garage we’d commandeered for our studio. Mom was washing spinach leaves in the sink and stopped us before we passed by.

  “Hold up, kiddos. Have either of you eaten breakfast?” She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a huge tray of eggs. Our groceries were always purchased in bulk sizes. “Dad and Jordan will be back from playing tennis any minute, and Ben and his family are coming over, too. Impromptu get together. There’s a new water feature at the gardens, and I’ve been promising to show them and the kids around. I’m just getting started on a brunch: egg casserole, hashbrowns, pancakes, the works. Would you two like to join us?”

  I furrowed my brow and gave her a slight shake of my head. The last thing I wanted to do was to subject Sebastian to a meal with Dad, Mom, and two of my nosiest brothers. “I’m fine, Mom. I’ll just have some coffee.”

  To my dismay, Sebastian hesitated. Only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Mom to notice, set the hook, and reel him in. I don’t know what kind of thrill she got out of cooking for all of us, but it seemed to make her sparkle every time we said yes to her.

  “I see that look, Sebastian. It’s settled then. You two go get started and I’ll call you when we’re ready.” She shooed us off, waving her hands out in front of her.

  Sebastian grinned, clearly pleased at how things were turning out, and I narrowed my eyes at him over my shoulder. “Don’t get too comfy, Mr. Jeffries. Remember you’re on probation this morning. If I don’t like what you can do….” I let the words trail off ominously.

  Sebastian chuckled low in his throat and I stiffened slightly at the delicious sound. Oh, blimey, blimey. This private jam session was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

  ***

  I felt his eyes on me as I led the way, I was certain of it. The nape of my neck tingled with awareness the way it had a hundred times last semester. I hoped my backside didn’t look huge in the plaid leggings I wore. I glanced covertly over my shoulder as I pushed through the garage door, but his eyes were on my face, not my backside. Pleasantly surprised, I smiled tentatively. Points for Mr. Jeffries.

  Sebastian grinned back, that slightly hungry look in his eyes again, the one I’d described to Ani, and I ducked my head as I held the door to let him pass by me. Grateful that the studio’s darkened interior would hide my blush, I reached for the dimmer switch on the wall, tur
ning the lights up slowly and not too bright. No need to give Sebastian any more reason to mock me.

  He paused just inside the door and let his gaze wander slowly around the small mixing room. As I saw things through his eyes, I felt oddly embarrassed by our mishmash of stuff. The feeling bothered me, because I’d always been proud of the way we’d put together this studio over the years.

  “Behringer,” I said, pointing to the mixing board on the counter below the plate glass window that looked out into the music room. “Nothing fancy, but it works well for us.”

  He nodded, the corners of his mouth still lifted a little, as though the smile wasn’t quite ready to leave his lips, but I couldn’t read the expression on his face. The counter the mixing board sat on was actually a salvaged door from a construction site Tom had worked one summer back in high school. It rested across two mismatched filing cabinets, and was anchored to the wall by a couple of industrial strength L-brackets underneath. Cords and cables from the computer, the monitor, the Behringer, and various other electrical gadgets all plugged into power bars that had been threaded up through the doorknob hole at the back of the makeshift counter.

  “The whole studio is pretty budget, pieced together a little at a time as we could afford it.” I waved at the comfortable, but ugly rust-colored sofa, the odd collection of artwork hung over walls covered with carpet remnants. “Garage sales, holiday blow-outs at Guitar World, Classifieds, going-out-of-business sales, the works.”

  “It’s great. Perfect.” I couldn’t tell if he really meant it or not. I hated not being able to read him the way I could Tom. How on earth were we going to make this work?

  I pushed through the narrow door into the music room and once again held it open for Sebastian to go by, his hands still occupied with both his guitars. Once again he paused just inside the door, less than a foot away from me. I looked over to find him, eyes closed, breathing in through his nose, his nostrils flared. Was he smelling the room? Or me? I was a little nervy, palms sweaty kind of thing, but I’d just showered; it couldn’t be me.