I’m sitting in the window seat in what was once to be Amelia’s room…I mean the guest room. I have to start thinking of it as the guest room. Raindrops dribble down the fogged-up glass pane. My computer rests on my lap and Bailey is asleep by my feet.
The world outside the window is quiet, other than the wind playing in the trees and the splash of tires from the occasional vehicle driving past the house.
I turn my attention back to writing Angelique’s story, but my thoughts refuse to focus on the words. They drift to Pushing Limits and the festival, and a nagging thought keeps pestering me that I’m forgetting something.
I pull up my web browser. I’m usually good at staying off the Internet while I’m writing, but I allow myself this one exception and do a Google search on the band.
Article after article talks about their latest singles and the individual band members. There’s nothing yet about how they’ve canceled their appearance in the festival. I read a couple of short news stories about the freak car accident involving a stray dog that put Tomas York temporarily out of commission. The dog is okay. She found a forever home as a happy result of the accident.
It’s not until I dive deeper into the older online articles that I discover the information I’d previously read. I saw it shortly after Troy told me Pushing Limits had offered to headline for the festival.
Tomas York wasn’t the band’s original drummer. That would be Mason Dell. He left the band five years ago and has become successful doing other projects—including composing movie soundtracks. He won an Academy Award for best original song and a Grammy nomination for his work. He has a wife and two young children. None of the articles explain why he left the band.
I keep searching for more information about him. It doesn’t sound as though he split on bad terms. I locate a more recent photo of him with the other members. They were at the same charity event, and a photographer snapped a photo of them together.
I stare at their smiling faces for a few moments. Would Mason be interested in possibly reuniting with the band for the festival?
Or maybe they’ve already asked him and he said no. The thought floats there on a slow sigh.
I close the browser and return to my story. But the words don’t flow like they normally do. Not when there’s a tiny chance this information about Mason might save the festival.
I dial Troy’s number.
He answers immediately. “I’m on my way.” The words rush from him so hard and fast that my body jerks in surprise.
He thinks something bad has happened to me.“No, no,” I hurry to say, “nothing’s wrong, Troy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“No more messages? No one’s trying to get into your house?” The question comes out on a slow breath, as though he’s calming himself after an adrenaline rush. I wince at how wound up he is from all the stress he’s dealing with. Stress I inadvertently keep adding to.
“No, but I found out something about Pushing Limits that might change things with the festival. It’s a long shot, but there might be a way they can still participate. If they want to…” As long as Stephanie wasn’t right and the real reason they canceled was because I was linked to the event.
“I’ll take whatever I can get. A long shot is better than no shot.”
My feelings exactly. I tell Troy what I found. “Mason hasn’t performed with the band for about five years, which means he wasn’t involved with their newer albums.” The words tumble out; I’m too excited to slow them down. “But maybe he’ll be happy to help this one time. Or not. I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.”
Stunned silence echoes through the line for a long beat. Troy’s probably attempting to make sense of my landslide of words. Or he thinks I’m losing my mind and is searching for a polite way to tell me that.
“You don’t think the band might have already asked him?” His tone doesn’t come out like he believes I’m an idiot for not thinking of that possibility. It’s more like he’s wondering the same. Wondering if it’s possible the band hasn’t asked Mason if he would perform with them at the festival.
“I really don’t know,” I say, drawing a heart in the condensation on the window. “But you won’t know for sure unless you ask them.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.” A warm smile fills his voice and sets off unexpected goose bumps along my arms. “Thanks, Jess. I love you.” He ends the call, not waiting to see if I’ll say it back to him.
“I love you too,” I whisper to the dead phone line.
My mind flashes a sweet picture of Troy and Olivia and Nova together on the beach as a happy family. And I wipe my fingers over the heart on the window.
Distorting it.
50
TROY
September, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I endthe call with Jess and stare through the truck window at the framing my crew is working on despite the rain. There are no walls or ceiling or roof. Just a wooden outline of where those things will eventually be.
