“I’m going to be busy with the shop,” she said. “Grace’s mother has arrived, there’s a fever in the air as they try to pull together a wedding in just over a week. Troy’s family will descend on the town and everyone will be busy. I’m going to do as much as I can to free Grace.”
“I bet she’s so grateful you stumbled into her life,” Matt said.
“That makes two of us. I love her flower shop. What will you do this weekend?”
“Me?” he asked. “Oh. There’s stuff to do. I’m needed on the farm.”
Six
Ginger had to string together a series of lies in order to have the weekend she planned, a weekend that could bring disastrous results. But she had to do it, had to. There were things she had to know.
She was driving to Portland where she would stay one night with her parents. She planned to have an early dinner with them on Saturday night then, she told them, she was going to meet a couple of girlfriends she hadn’t seen in a very long time. She said she probably wouldn’t be late. She cringed to see how happy her parents were to hear this! She looked better, said she felt better and now she was putting her life back together with old friends. Her mother’s eyes got teary and her chin quivered.
Ginger wasn’t meeting girlfriends. The idea actually appealed and she made a mental note to pursue that in the not-too-distant future. She’d get in touch with those few friends who had nothing to do with Mick or with the baby. She might have to reach all the way back to high school or maybe even junior high, but it was a worthy notion.
But on Saturday night she dressed to go to Roy’s Theater. It was part club, part dance hall, part theater. For big acts they could open the whole place up and seat more than a thousand. For popular dance bands, they could accommodate a couple hundred and a large dance floor. And for entertainers somewhere in between, especially those with a strong local grassroots following like tonight’s act, it could be as many as three hundred in their nightclub.
Mick was performing. Roy’s had always been one of his favorite venues. He was bringing a backup band and singers. Ginger knew that was not a traveling band. It was made up of friends he jammed with and he’d give them a couple hundred bucks each. That meant his set list would be deep, including songs he was known for twenty years ago. And of course his own songs, which were only appreciated by his die-hard fans. His most popular performances were the classic artists—James Taylor, Eric Clapton, Gordon Lightfoot, Bruce Springsteen, Harry Nilsson. He even had a Josh Groban piece with a guitar accompaniment that she had heard on the radio from time to time. It was actually cleverly done.
She had seen him twice since the divorce. Once when the baby was born, once after the baby died, but not for the funeral. Mick had had a gig on the day of the funeral. When he showed up a few weeks after the funeral there was nearly a brawl when her brothers, outraged by the fact that he’d played the dead baby card at his last several concerts, threatened to beat him to death. A long time, then. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him that things were good between them. Sometime before she was pregnant.
She probably should’ve worn baggy jeans and a paint-splattered shirt. She didn’t. She wore the purple dress with gold piping.
“You look so beautiful,” her mother said. “I should get Ray Anne to take me shopping, she’s that good.”
“I really love this dress,” Ginger said. Do I hope to make him notice me? she asked herself. Because it was unlikely he would even know she was there. She’d find a secluded place away from the house lights. She was in no way reaching out to him. She just had to know one thing—after all they’d endured, did she still feel anything at all for him?
There was a line to get into the theater. It wasn’t long, but there were some people who wanted to get there early for Mick so they could have seats close to the stage. She even recognized some of them; she’d seen them over the years. They weren’t exactly friends, though some had shown up at her house when there was partying or jamming going on. She’d see them at various concerts. It had been a long time and thankfully no one spoke to her. It was possible she wasn’t recognizable. Also possible she’d only blended into the background of his celebrity, no more important than part of his crew, a mostly volunteer crew. She caught a whiff of marijuana. Several people held beers and since the club wasn’t open yet, they were obviously brought from home.
Once inside there were lots of options and she knew each one. There was theater seating in front of the stage for those dedicated enthusiasts. Then there were booths and tables for general music aficionados. And at the back of the room, a couple of long bars, for those live music fans who had nothing better to do on this Saturday night.
She found a small table for two at the far left end of one of the bars. It was a dark little table and when someone asked if she needed that extra chair, she gave it up happily. She ordered a glass of white wine and one ice water. Then she blew out the candle on her table. The waitress relit it and when she was gone, Ginger blew it out again.
It seemed to be a very long time before that rush ran through the crowd, the anticipation of his appearance when the house lights went down. Her wine was half-gone. She couldn’t even summon a memory of the way it had felt years ago when she’d drive for hours to be one of many, heart fluttering in excitement because he was going to sing! Then afterward they’d party with some of the superfans. He’d like to smoke a little pot, and after a long, long night he’d take her to bed and make love to her. She never failed to feel like she’d gone to heaven in his arms.
Where was it? The rush? The thrill? She expected to at least feel some nostalgia. Instead she felt only embarrassment, but she wasn’t sure for what. For being caught up in his charisma? Hell, she was hardly the only one—he had quite a following of young women. Sadly for Mick, he didn’t have quite enough charisma to make him famous.
He finally strode onto the darkened stage to the roaring applause of his audience, especially those down front. One lone spotlight shone on him. He carried his guitar and sat on an ordinary wooden stool, his microphone wired to him. He looked good in his signature jeans, ordinary T-shirt, suede vest. He wore cowboy boots but no hat—he wasn’t a country singer, though he had some great country numbers and his biggest sale of original songs had actually been to a country artist. But he was too vain to cover up that silky, thick, honey-colored hair. He wore it just a little long, but he always said he wasn’t the hippy-dippy type—no ponytail. He’d chosen blue eyes from the optometrist. Startling blue eyes that were, without the contacts, ordinary hazel. He was damn fine-looking, she could admit with complete objectivity.
“I bet she’s so grateful you stumbled into her life,” Matt said.
“That makes two of us. I love her flower shop. What will you do this weekend?”
“Me?” he asked. “Oh. There’s stuff to do. I’m needed on the farm.”
Six
Ginger had to string together a series of lies in order to have the weekend she planned, a weekend that could bring disastrous results. But she had to do it, had to. There were things she had to know.
She was driving to Portland where she would stay one night with her parents. She planned to have an early dinner with them on Saturday night then, she told them, she was going to meet a couple of girlfriends she hadn’t seen in a very long time. She said she probably wouldn’t be late. She cringed to see how happy her parents were to hear this! She looked better, said she felt better and now she was putting her life back together with old friends. Her mother’s eyes got teary and her chin quivered.
Ginger wasn’t meeting girlfriends. The idea actually appealed and she made a mental note to pursue that in the not-too-distant future. She’d get in touch with those few friends who had nothing to do with Mick or with the baby. She might have to reach all the way back to high school or maybe even junior high, but it was a worthy notion.
But on Saturday night she dressed to go to Roy’s Theater. It was part club, part dance hall, part theater. For big acts they could open the whole place up and seat more than a thousand. For popular dance bands, they could accommodate a couple hundred and a large dance floor. And for entertainers somewhere in between, especially those with a strong local grassroots following like tonight’s act, it could be as many as three hundred in their nightclub.
Mick was performing. Roy’s had always been one of his favorite venues. He was bringing a backup band and singers. Ginger knew that was not a traveling band. It was made up of friends he jammed with and he’d give them a couple hundred bucks each. That meant his set list would be deep, including songs he was known for twenty years ago. And of course his own songs, which were only appreciated by his die-hard fans. His most popular performances were the classic artists—James Taylor, Eric Clapton, Gordon Lightfoot, Bruce Springsteen, Harry Nilsson. He even had a Josh Groban piece with a guitar accompaniment that she had heard on the radio from time to time. It was actually cleverly done.
She had seen him twice since the divorce. Once when the baby was born, once after the baby died, but not for the funeral. Mick had had a gig on the day of the funeral. When he showed up a few weeks after the funeral there was nearly a brawl when her brothers, outraged by the fact that he’d played the dead baby card at his last several concerts, threatened to beat him to death. A long time, then. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him that things were good between them. Sometime before she was pregnant.
She probably should’ve worn baggy jeans and a paint-splattered shirt. She didn’t. She wore the purple dress with gold piping.
“You look so beautiful,” her mother said. “I should get Ray Anne to take me shopping, she’s that good.”
“I really love this dress,” Ginger said. Do I hope to make him notice me? she asked herself. Because it was unlikely he would even know she was there. She’d find a secluded place away from the house lights. She was in no way reaching out to him. She just had to know one thing—after all they’d endured, did she still feel anything at all for him?
There was a line to get into the theater. It wasn’t long, but there were some people who wanted to get there early for Mick so they could have seats close to the stage. She even recognized some of them; she’d seen them over the years. They weren’t exactly friends, though some had shown up at her house when there was partying or jamming going on. She’d see them at various concerts. It had been a long time and thankfully no one spoke to her. It was possible she wasn’t recognizable. Also possible she’d only blended into the background of his celebrity, no more important than part of his crew, a mostly volunteer crew. She caught a whiff of marijuana. Several people held beers and since the club wasn’t open yet, they were obviously brought from home.
Once inside there were lots of options and she knew each one. There was theater seating in front of the stage for those dedicated enthusiasts. Then there were booths and tables for general music aficionados. And at the back of the room, a couple of long bars, for those live music fans who had nothing better to do on this Saturday night.
She found a small table for two at the far left end of one of the bars. It was a dark little table and when someone asked if she needed that extra chair, she gave it up happily. She ordered a glass of white wine and one ice water. Then she blew out the candle on her table. The waitress relit it and when she was gone, Ginger blew it out again.
It seemed to be a very long time before that rush ran through the crowd, the anticipation of his appearance when the house lights went down. Her wine was half-gone. She couldn’t even summon a memory of the way it had felt years ago when she’d drive for hours to be one of many, heart fluttering in excitement because he was going to sing! Then afterward they’d party with some of the superfans. He’d like to smoke a little pot, and after a long, long night he’d take her to bed and make love to her. She never failed to feel like she’d gone to heaven in his arms.
Where was it? The rush? The thrill? She expected to at least feel some nostalgia. Instead she felt only embarrassment, but she wasn’t sure for what. For being caught up in his charisma? Hell, she was hardly the only one—he had quite a following of young women. Sadly for Mick, he didn’t have quite enough charisma to make him famous.
He finally strode onto the darkened stage to the roaring applause of his audience, especially those down front. One lone spotlight shone on him. He carried his guitar and sat on an ordinary wooden stool, his microphone wired to him. He looked good in his signature jeans, ordinary T-shirt, suede vest. He wore cowboy boots but no hat—he wasn’t a country singer, though he had some great country numbers and his biggest sale of original songs had actually been to a country artist. But he was too vain to cover up that silky, thick, honey-colored hair. He wore it just a little long, but he always said he wasn’t the hippy-dippy type—no ponytail. He’d chosen blue eyes from the optometrist. Startling blue eyes that were, without the contacts, ordinary hazel. He was damn fine-looking, she could admit with complete objectivity.
