Rock Bottom (36 page)

“Yes,” she said, though she sounded uncertain.

Another said, “Tell us why you left
Rock Bottom
.”

Oh, damn. “I was never part of the show.”
That’s it. Play it cool.

“But why did you leave so abruptly?”

She stepped to the side, but they swarmed close, worse than pit bulls. “My editor needed me here. Excuse me.”

“What about Jet Trently? Weren’t you having an affair?” The woman shoved the mic at Billie.

“I said excuse me.” She pushed past, but knew her burning cheeks would fuel wild speculation.

Coming home, Billie thought, meant greater freedom. No more being stuck in the cottage, having to trail the bimbos.

But now, paparazzi made her feel imprisoned in her apartment. Each time she opened the door, they sprang to life, boom mics arching over reporters, flashes blinding her. She lay low for a few days, relying on takeout.

Zinta smuggled her other necessities, dodging their questions, but smiling sweetly at the cameras.

Billie hustled her inside. “You’re a godsend.” Coffee without cream didn’t cut it.

“What insanity.” She unpacked the bag, then turned, hand to hip. “Any word from Jet?”

Billie’s insides tightened. “No. I didn’t expect to hear from him.” She told herself that every time the phone rang.

Zin clucked her tongue. “He’ll call.”

False reassurances would only prolong the pain. Everett had taught her that.

Making her tone airy, she set the milk and yogurt in the fridge. “He’s moved on. So have I. I have an interview on Friday.”

Delight filled Zin’s face. “Where?”

“Some new startup alternative.” She stirred her yogurt. Too early to get excited. She wasn’t even sure she wanted the job.

“A newspaper?” Doubt curdled her creamy tone.

“Yeah. Better brush up on my journalism skills. I’m hoping they’ll assign me some entertainment features so I don’t stray too far from doing what I love.”

“Is that what you want?”

She stabbed the spoon into the yogurt. “I honestly don’t know anymore.”

“Everything will work out.”

Billie nodded. “One way or the other.” If fate followed its usual path, it would be the other.

* * * *

Reconnecting with the band reenergized Jet. Despite their differences, he’d missed these guys. At their first gig, he and Chalmer shared the microphone with the camaraderie of brothers. No, Chalmer would never replace Jeff. But Jet’s voice mixed with his like they shared DNA.

Kirk whaled on the drums with new passion. Steve’s fingers flew across the keyboards, and Marlin’s bass helped provide the grounding backbeat.

Yeah, maybe the band had needed a break. Their sound was tight, like they hadn’t taken a six-month break.

And the audience ate it up. At every concert, women flung their underwear onstage. Chalmer hung a bra from the fret of his guitar like a flag.

Jet just wished Billie was there. Finally getting the number of
Strung Out
, he called from the road. The dippy receptionist gave him the runaround. After he left his number for the fifth time, he searched for her home number. How many Billie Prescotts could there be in Philadelphia?

None, apparently. Lots of Prescotts, some only listed their first initial. None listed
B
.

He cornered Stu. “What city do we hit next?”

“San Antonio, then we work our way east.”

His nerves tightened. “East to where?”

“Memphis, Nashville, a few gigs in Florida.

“Book Philly.”

“I looked into it, but--”

“Book something in Pennsylvania. Soon.” Even if he played within a few hours of the city, he’d track her down.

* * * *

After the interview, Billie knew she would hate the job if she took it. She’d been with
Strung Out
almost since the beginning, and didn’t want to duplicate the experience of another new publication. Always struggling to keep up with the others, outscoop them to build a readership, a reputation. She’d built her own readership, she told herself, and brought a lot to any table. She could afford to take her time.

Being out of the apartment--away from prying zoom lenses--made her hesitant to go back. When a tabloid photo of Jet and Julie, smiling, caught her eye, she lost her giddiness and wanted to retreat.

Ignoring the calls of the reporters, she strode silently inside. Her answering machine blinked, and her stomach clenched. Had she missed Jet’s call?

She punched
play
, and her mom said, “Billie? It’s Mom. I hope you’re all right. I really wish you’d come for a visit. A long one, if you want. I know you quit your job. It would be nice if you’d come home for a while. I love you.”

“How did she…” No use asking. Mom always knew. And she was right--Billie needed to go home. To the farm. The one place she could relax, regain her perspective. Take a breather. Remember what was important. Philadelphia no longer felt right. At least for a while, she’d leave the city. That way, she could stop expecting Jet’s call.

* * * *

Driving over Peter’s Mountain invigorated Billie. Even in rain or snow, she didn’t mind the steep climbs and winding curves. They brought her closer to home.

Towns grew more sparse, thinning to farmland, climbing ever higher up. Passing an Amish horse and buggy, she knew she’d come home. Wild orange daylilies lined the long drive. She parked near the barn beside her mother’s Cherokee, so old the finish had faded on the hood. The barn too needed a fresh coat of paint.

A spot of yellow moving through the garden caught her eye. Mom stood, a basket of tomatoes in her hand, and waved.

Leaving the car door open, Billie rushed to hug her mom. A rush of emotion choked her words.

With a squeeze, her mom released her. “Let’s get you a drink.”

Sniffling, Billie followed, scooping up a cat near the fence. “Who’s this?”

“Barn cats had a new litter.” Mom headed to the side door, the old summer kitchen in the days when people used such things. Another reason Billie loved the old house--its history predated them, and would outlast them.

Setting the basket on the counter, her mom ran the tomatoes under water. “Tom and Amy and the kids are coming over for dinner. I hope you don’t mind. It’s been so long since we’ve shared a meal.”

“That’ll be great.” Though inwardly, she groaned. Tom would wag his finger and his tongue would keep time. Amy, who’d rarely ventured outside Berrysburg, would smile, and tend to the kids, who would likely squabble the entire time.

“How old are Jimmy and Alicia now? Five and seven?”

“Six and eight.”

“Good thing I checked.” Tom would’ve had another grudge to hold.

Wiping her hands, her mom frowned. “You look tired. Why don’t you lie down a while?”

“Maybe for a little while. Must have been all the driving.”

“You’ve been through a lot lately.”

Too much. When she climbed the stairs and went down the hall to her bedroom, she bit her lip. The bed linens appeared worn but laundered. Sun spilled in the room, made a dull sheen on the wooden floor. Her white shelves held her boom box and some old CDs she’d left when she went to college. Fingering through them, she found Jet’s first recording. The cover photo showed a younger, blonder Jet with Jeff and the other band members, arms locked around each other’s shoulders, laughing. Next to that CD stood the second, with a similar photo. The third had been the last Jeff worked on, and he’d died before its release. The black-and-white shots reflected the somber mood of the band after his death.

Studying the young Jet, it all seemed surreal, as if she’d gone back to a high school dream for a few months. She must have been delusional to believe it could last. With a sardonic laugh, she shelved them and curled onto her bed.

The next thing she knew, children’s squeals sounded from the yard and the sun had circled behind the house. Stretching, she lay there and listened. Their laughter made her ache with something unnamable.

She rose and went down to the kitchen where Tom stood against the counter drinking a bottle of beer.

“Well, there’s Princess Billie.” He grinned.

“Hey, Tom. Sorry I slept so long, Mom. I meant to help you.”

Mom waved a dish towel to shush Tom. “You needed your rest. But now that she’s up, Tom, you bring in her things, will you?”

“Yeah, I don’t do much to work up an appetite all day.” He took a last swig of his beer and set the bottle on the counter.

A rub already. She knew how hard he worked his farm. “I’ll help.”

Outside, Amy sat on the stairs watching the kids play tag. “Hey, welcome home.”

Billie hugged her. “Nice to see you. Hey, guys.” Jimmy and Alicia ran up and threw their arms around her.

Carrying a box, Tom grunted in passing.

She got the hint. “I have to move some things.”

Amy enlisted Jimmy and Alicia’s help, and soon all the contents of Billie’s car sat in piles in her bedroom.

Billie tousled Jimmy’s hair. “Great teamwork.”

“Dinner,” Mom called from the dining room.

The kids scrambled down the steps, Amy calling for them to slow down.

With any luck, Billie thought, they’d have a peaceful meal, no arguments. When she saw the chicken casserole in the center of the table, her throat thickened.

“What’s wrong?” Tom plopped onto his chair.

“Nothing.” Billie sat and sipped her milk, pushing away thoughts of the last night she’d eaten this casserole. In California.

Mom’s shoulders slumped. “I thought you loved this dish.”

“I do.” Billie loved the person who last shared it with her more. “I can’t wait to have some.”

Tom smirked. “Probably got too used to that fancy Malibu food.”

“How long will you be home?” Amy asked.

“I’m not sure.” However long it took to find a job, but she wouldn’t open that can of worms for her brother. He had his own lifetime supply of worms with her name on them.

Tom scooped casserole onto his plate. “It’s about time you came to your senses.”

“I’m taking a break, Tom. Not abandoning civilization.” The food tasted too spicy tonight.

“Don’t act all hoity-toity. You’re lucky to still be alive, living in the fast lane.” He swigged his beer.

“My life isn’t an Eagles song. I’m not headed for a crash and burn.”

“Can’t tell by your looks.” He shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth.

“Shush. That’s enough,” Mom scolded.

Her brother shrugged. “I can’t help it she looks like hell.”

“And I can’t help it you have no brains.” At least he had a normal name. Not a nightmare name like Willamina. Still, he had the ability to make her feel nine again.

“I said enough. Things will work out, Willamina. They have to. I’ve decided to sell.”

“What?” Not the farm, not her home. Nowhere else on earth did she feel safe. If she still had an income, she’d offer to buy it. Not that she could have afforded hundreds of acres.

Her mom went on. “It’s too much for me. I’d love to work here until my dying day, but the township raised taxes again, and I can’t find a decent farm worker.”

“Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry.” Beyond her own sorrow, her mother’s had to be triple. She’d lived here for fifty years.

Tom knit his brows. “You could subdivide.”

“What about Mr. T?” Billie couldn’t let him go to a slaughterhouse, but at twenty-seven, it seemed unlikely anyone else would buy him. Losing the horse would be as hard as losing the farm.

Amy turned to Tom. “We could take him, couldn’t we?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Glancing pointedly at Billie’s plate, her mother asked, “You’re not hungry?”

“Sorry. Maybe the news made it a little hard to digest.”

“You shouldn’t diet,” Tom proclaimed. “You could stand to gain a few pounds.”

“Tomorrow I’ll work up an appetite helping Mom, okay?”

Leaning back, he rubbed his stomach. “Hope you work off some stress too. You’re more testy than usual.”

Billie shot imaginary daggers in his direction.

Her mother rose. “Who’d like a nice glass of sangria?”

Giggling, Alicia said, “Me!”

Amy tickled her. “No, but I’d love one.”

“I’ll have another beer, if you don’t mind.”

“Billie?” Mom paused in the doorway.

“A small one, thanks.” She caught her mom’s curious frown.

“Let’s go out on the porch. It’s such a nice evening.” Despite her airy tone, Mom moved with the slowness of one who carried too many burdens.

On the porch swing, Billie took in everything: the scent of newly mown grass, birds swooping to their nests to settle for the evening, their song filling the air. The sinking sun’s rays painted brilliant gold and orange streaks across the sky behind the outbuildings. The paint on the house was cracked, and a shutter had come loose. With each passing year, her mother kept up with less and less. She needed help. Billie wished she could give Mom whatever she needed. First, she had to find a way to take care of herself.

* * * *

Much as Jet loved touring, the grind worked against his nerves. At least he’d made it to the same time zone as Billie. For the umpteenth time, he dialed
Strung Out
. If the receptionist put him off again, he’d ask for fucking Everett if he had to.

When he asked for Billie, the girl said, “She no longer works here.”

Jet’s grip tightened on the cell. “What? Where did she go?”

“Sorry,” came her response.

“Do you have her home number?”

“We’re not allowed to give that out, sir.”

This couldn’t be happening. “Can’t I speak to someone there who can help me?”

“It’s company policy, sir. We can’t give out personal information.”

“But this is urgent.” Did he have to pretend to be dying?

Chalmer, Steve and Kirk approached. “We’re up, dude.”

The crowd in the stadium chanted, “Jet, Jet, Jet.”

Fuck. He powered down the cell. Now what?

Passing Stu in the wings, he grasped his shoulder. “What do you have in Pennsylvania?”

“I’m working on it.”

Jet pointed before taking the stage. “Work harder.”

* * * *

A few days later, Zinta called, breathless. “Billie.”