The Lazy Lemon Sun Ch. 02

"We were wondering what your name is," Whitney said.

"Mark," I said, wiping my hands on the bar towel before reaching across and offering my hand. "Mark Roberts."

She shook my hand. Her hand was damp and the shake timid and too quick.

"And I'm Rebecca," the other one said.

Her handshake was, as i suspected it would be, firm and held for enough time to convey intimacy.

"Well, Whitney, Rebecca, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Thanks," Whitney said, her voice barely audible.

"The pleasure's ours," Rebecca said. "Where you from, Mark?"

"South of here."

"We know that," she continued. "But where south of here?"

"Way south of here."

"And when did you move to Grant City?"

"Couple weeks back."

"Where do you live?"

"In an apartment."

"Are you going to play this game all night?"

"What game?"

She gave me a long look, as if she were trying to make up her mind about something. She clearly wasn't used to men who didn't fawn all over her, but she didn't seem to fall back from the challenge, either. Her face softened into a grin of her own.

"Fair enough," Rebecca said. "I'm sorry for prying. We're just wondering if you're available."

"He's married," Whitney said, her eyes on my left hand where the dent from the ring was still visible.

For some reason, I was unable to look away from the pale woman. The look on her face said she expected it; disappointment and relief at the same time. But also sadness and a touch of blueing at the gills, like she was nauseous almost.

"That true? You married, Mark?"

I held up the ring finger in response. "It's a dent, not a ring."

"Divorced then?"

"Something like that."

"Done with it, or still going through it?"

I shrugged.

Whitney surprised me when she said, "Sucks, don't it?"

I turned to her and looked hard. "I would say, 'More than you can possibly imagine.' But I'm suspectin' I'd be wrong about that, right?"

If possible, she paled further, then gave a barely perceptible nod. Rebecca reached her arm around Whitney's shoulders and gave a brief squeeze on her upper arm. "Buck up, kiddo. There's lots more life to live."

She gave a weak smile in response and mumbled, "Sorry."

I tilted my head. "For what? Being in the same sinking boat I'm in?"

"My boat sank a little over a year ago."

"And you're still down?"

"She's just having problems getting back on her feet again," Rebecca explained. "The few guys she's seen since have pretty much been pigs. You a pig, Mark?"

I gave a broad grin at both of them and laid on the accent a bit thick. "Of course not. I'm a Southern gentleman, remember?"

"Exactly," Rebecca said, smiling back at me. Whitney managed to get some color back and give a bit of a smile.

"'Scuse me, ladies," I said, spotting some empty beer bottles hitting the bar and moving off to take care of business.

When I turned back, they were leaving.

"See ya 'round," Rebecca said with a little wave.

I gave a wave back and watched them go.

And tried to hide the first real hard on I'd had in weeks.

They were both intriguing in different ways, and images of a threesome filled my suddenly adolescent mind.

Can't blame a guy for fantasizing, can you?

* * * * *

The rest of the night was spent like most of the fourteen before it. Park down the street from Clarice Talbott's home, watch my little brother get dropped off and charge inside, go home and make a soup and sandwich, and play guitar while watching television.

I still couldn't figure out how to proceed. By now there was no doubt that little Schuyler Talbott was my brother; he looked exactly as I'd looked–and presumably my father had looked–at that age. Yet, just approaching Clarice and injecting myself into her life–and my little brother's life–seemed too jolting. On the other hand, I needed to get off dead center. In the meantime, I was satisfied to just watch the little mini me in the uniform that weighed nearly as much as he did.

Then my thoughts turned, as the usually did just before I got ready for bed, to Sandy. My folks and hers were banished to a dark place I kept suppressed lest my mood turn sour. I still had mixed feelings about Sandy, though.

Once the whole shock of everything had worn away, I was able to analyze our history more clinically. For example, her mood and absence for those three months I was busy righting the wrongs inflicted upon Napoleon Bonaparte Bonaroo. I now suspected–and was pretty much outright convinced–that she'd had an affair. The problem? I wasn't really sure how I felt about that. If she'd viewed the entire marriage as a scam–a scam she was convinced I was about ready to put an end to at the time–then how culpable was she? I mean, we weren't really married, were we? This one kept me going back and forth. I mean, hell, she'd apparently not hesitated even a second to end the probable affair once she'd seen the news reports carrying the coverage of Nap's newfound freedom. She'd immediately come back to me with sorrow and contrition written all over her face. And from there, our marriage had been fun and (I thought) loving and, at the very least, mutually satisfying.

I'd also spent hours upon hours replaying our marriage in my mind and couldn't come up with any clues that she'd had a passel of boyfriends on the side. To the contrary, our love life, her moods, our work hours, all of it was pretty even keel and steady the whole time we'd been together. If anything, it was better than ever after those three months of misery during the big appeal.

The final thing with which I endlessly wrestled was whether Sandy was aware of my ignorance. Looking back on it all–all the way to day one–I could recall hundreds of comments and expressions that, in hindsight, indicated she assumed I was fully aware of our parents' arrangement for us. Then again, she'd never really come out and said it. She'd never said, 'You know, I'm glad our parents talked us into getting married to help Daddy's campaign along, and I'm glad we gave it a go for more than a couple of years.' Thus the conundrum: Were her comments an assumption that I was in it with eyes wide open, or were her comments sly digs at my ignorance and the whole situation in which she found herself?

For the umteenth night in a row, I crawled under the sheets and stared at the ceiling wondering about the answers.

CHAPTER FIVE

The following Thursday saw me surprised twice. First, Rebecca dropped by for a drink after work sans Whitney.

"Gin and tonic with lime?" I said as she sat.

"Very good," she said, her smile a dazzling row of straight, bright teeth that almost buckled my knees.

Once the drink was in front of her and paid for, she said, "So, Mark, you got a last name?"

"Roberts."

Her eyes narrowed. "I've heard that name somewhere before. You famous?"

I swept my arms around the horseshoe-shaped bar. "Monday through Friday from eleven til six."

Her expression remained thoughtful, her lips pursed in concentration.

"Excuse me," I said after a moment, rushing off to get some beers for a gang of construction workers flooding through the door.

When I was done with that, I heard Ferlin swearing into the phone behind me. Turning, I saw him slam down the phone.

"Problem?"

"Fucking band," he said. "Golden Rodeo was supposed to play here tomorrow night. Nine to one. But their singer and bass player were in an accident last night. Banged up pretty good. They've gotta cancel."

I frowned. "Not good."

"No shit, Sherlock."

His blood pressure–never very low in the first place–seemed dangerously high and set to pop through the top of his head like a geyser. "Management company says the rest of their acts are fully booked. No replacements."

I nodded, gave it less thought than I should have, and said, "I can play if you want."

His eyes went narrow, then wide, then he laughed. "Yeah, right. You."

That hurt more than a touch. "I'm not kidding."

"Play what?"

"Guitar. And sing, too."

"Ever done it before?"

"Yeah. I was in a band all through college and law school."

"You still in a band?" he said, his eyes again narrowing and his face getting serious as he thought it over.

"Nope."

"Any chance of getting them back together on a day's notice?"

I shook my head, then said, "But I don't need to. I can just play guitar and sing along."

"What kinda music?"

"Whatever you wanna hear."

"None of that rap shit, right? Or heavy metal?"

"Little tough to do with one guy and a guitar."

He nodded, crossing his arms and scratching the stubble on his chin with his stumpy, thick-as-a-sausage forefinger. "Equipment?"

"I've got an acoustic. No amps, no mic, no electric guitar, no mixing board."

"And the acoustic plugs in? You can run it through speakers?"

I nodded. "Built in."

"And you say you can do this?"

I smiled. "What've you got to lose?"

That settled it. "Let me make some calls."

"For what?"

"I think I can get you some equipment. All of it."

"If an electric's coming along for the ride, I prefer a Telecaster," I said.

"You'll take what I can scrounge up," he said, turning his back to me and picking up the phone.

Turning around, a broad grin spread across my face, I saw Whitney sliding into the barstool next to Rebecca. Her eyes were on Rebecca's cell phone, and Rebecca was saying something to her. Then they both looked at me, Whitney's eyes wide.

Fucking technology, I thought, picking up a glass to make another gin and tonic.

"And you're an attorney, Mark Roberts," Rebecca said. "Apparently a pretty goddamned good one. And you were married to the Governor's daughter."

"And a Senator's son," Whitney shot in, continuing the broadside.

"So what's a Senator's son married to the Governor's daughter doing here tending bar instead of practicing law in Tennessee?" Rebecca said, then sat back to await my answer.

My lips tightened.

"Well?" Whitney prodded when it became clear I wasn't going to answer.

I looked from one to the other, unsure whether to answer. "Long story," I muttered.

Rebecca raised her eyebrows, and Whitney said, "Your marriage fell apart and you ran away up here?"

"Something like that."

"They know where you are?"

I hesitated, then shook my head.

"That's a pretty prickish thing to do, dontcha think?"

Not just the words, but the tone in her voice as well. Snippy and catty and judgmental. I saw red. Me? Prickish? After all the shit my family and wife had put me through?

"I don't know," I said through gritted teeth. "Wanna tell me all about your divorce and how you were perfect and it was all his fault?"

I almost regretted it before the words were out of my mouth. Whitney looked like I'd punched her in the solar plexus. Her mouth hung open, her skin blanched, and she seemed on the verge of tears.

Rebecca, too, was stunned, her eyes shooting from Whitney to me then back to Whitney again. "Jesus," she said, putting her arm around the object of my venom, "settle down. Both of you."

Rebecca recovered enough to shoot me a look that could've vaporized me on the spot. Fortunately, I wasn't backing down. Instead, I was struggling to control my anger. After only a few seconds, I turned my back on them and went to the other side of the bar, making busy cleaning dirty glasses in the washing sinks.

A few minutes later, I saw the door swing open and watched them both leave. This time there was no boner. Instead, my measured breathing was an effort to keep from throwing something and killing some poor schmuck on the other side of the bar. Given that the other side of the bar was mostly construction workers, I figured I'd only survive the first thrown bottle by about twenty seconds.

After a few minutes, someone called hey, and I turned to see who needed a drink.

"For fuck sake, Mark," one of the workers said with a lopsided grin, "what the hell you have to go and do that for? They were the only good lookin' tail in the whole fuckin' joint."

I tried to grin and shrug, failed and managed only to look like a brain dead spastic, and walked around the bar to refresh drinks.

When I got to the half-finished drinks left by Rebecca and Whitney, I almost swept up the napkin without seeing what she'd written there.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

Now I really felt like an asshole, something the construction workers didn't let me forget as I finished my shift and left for home.

* * * * *

Late the next afternoon I was still in a funk waiting for my shift to end so I could go home and crawl into a hole somewhere. I was snapped out of my thoughts at two thirty when Ferlin rapped his knuckles on the bar.

"Yeah?"

"Come on," he said. "Debbie'll watch the bar while we're gone."

"Where we going?"

"Pick up that equipment you need."

Aw fuck, my brain said to the rest of my body. I'd totally forgotten.

"You comin'?" he prodded when I stood there like an idiot.

I tossed the bar rag on the counter and followed him.

Ten minutes later, we turned onto a long gravel driveway and made our way toward a house that was neither new nor old, huge nor small. It was just nice. Off to the right was a field of mowed lawn with a few ancient oaks rustling their dying leaves in the breeze, at the end was a simple pole barn.

As we pulled up around the back of the house, the back door opened and a man walked out and toward us. A man I thought I'd seen before. He was walking toward us with a wide smile and stuck his arm out at Ferlin ten paces before reaching him.

"Hey Ferlin."

"Coop."

They shook hands, then the other fellow threw his arms around Ferlin's massive frame and gave him a tight hug. Once they broke, he turned to me and smiled.

"Hey. I'm Teddy Cooper."

I smiled and nodded. Of course, Teddy Cooper. Singer and guitarist for General Beauregard.

"Mark Roberts," I said, shaking his hand.

"Come on," he said, walking off toward the pole barn and calling back to Ferlin, "why don't you back the Jeep up to the shed?"

I followed him while Ferlin got back in the vehicle.

"Pretty much got your pick," he said when we entered. Flipping a switch, the big room was illuminated by harsh lighting that revealed a traveling band's full instrumental equipment register. Drums, bass guitars, keyboards and two pianos, acoustic and electric guitars, effects pedals, sound boards, mics, cables, wires, every goddamned thing except the light show.

"We practice here a lot before touring."

"We're not putting you out or anything?"

He smiled. "Not a bit. Just got back 'bout a month ago. We're all taking a break while Nick and Will and I work out some new songs and new arrangements."

I nodded. "You got any idea what I need?"

"Sure. I've played there before. Come on, give me a hand."

Teddy, Ferlin, and I loaded up a few amps, some patch cords, a small mixing board, and a mic with telescoping stand.

"Which guitar you want?" he said as we caught our breath."

"Whatever you got."

"Preference?"

"Telecaster."

He nodded his head toward the row of guitars to the side. "Pick one."

I looked. There were three Fender Telecasters amidst some Les Pauls, Stratocasters, a Paul Reed Smith, a Gretsch, and two Rickenbackers.

"These all yours?" I said, envying the hell out of him.

"Some are Nicks."

"Does it matter?"

"What he don't know won't hurt him."

I looked at him. "Still, if it's all the same to you . . . ."

He gave a chuckle. "Fine. Take this one."

He grabbed a white Telecaster from the row and walked over to a row of hardshell cases. He flipped the catches on one labeled "Nick," laid the guitar in, and closed it up.

"I'd really rather not– "

"Really," Teddy interrupted. "He won't give a shit. And that's the best one of the lot. Tons of special specs built in at his request, and easily the most playable. You're gonna do a one-man show, might as well have something with some teeth, right?"

I hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "Thanks."

"So you gonna be there tonight?" Ferlin asked as I loaded the guitar into the Jeep.

"Probably 'bout eight thirty. Gives me plenty of time to set him up."

"You don't have to– "

His look strangled the words in my throat. He was about the tenth person in the past twenty-four hours to look at me like I was daft. "You'll never get it right in that goddamned barn. I've played there before. I'll have you set up in no time."

"Fair enough."

He smiled and stuck out his arm. "Good. I'll see you then."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

* * * * *

Ferlin chuckled to himself half the drive back to work.

"What's so funny?" I finally said.

"You. Jesus, Mark. I know you recognized him, but you didn't even react. Like it was no big deal."

"I've met famous people before," I explained.

"Yeah? That famous? Like who?"

Oh, I don't know, I thought. People like the President and all manner of legislators and governors and entertainment bigwigs and shit like that. Hell, I got to play a guitar duet with Alan Jackson once, and he's pretty big, I wanted to say. But I didn't.

"Just famous people," I finally said.

"But after all that time–the whole time actin' like it's no big deal–you get all flustered when he offers to come help you get it all set up."

"Just didn't expect it is all," I said. "I mean, I'm sure he's got better things to do, right?"

"Nah," Ferlin replied. "Jenny and the kids are outta town. He's probably bored stiff 'bout now."

I was silent for much of the rest of the ride back. As we pulled into the parking lot, though, I said, "How do you know him? Teddy?"

"Everyone around here knows him. Most of the band, actually, but especially Teddy and Nick. I graduated a year ahead of them both. We all go way back."

"And they both still live here?"

"Teddy never left. Nick moved back around the time LeadFoot broke up and General Beauregard got formed."

"Wow."

He put the Jeep in park, shut it off, and turned to me. "You keep your eyes open and you'll see more than just them."

"What d'ya mean?"

"We're not that far from Chicago," he explained. "Far enough to be in the country, not so far that it's a major pain in the ass to get into the city. So there's a lot of pretty famous and powerful folks that live out this way."

"Like?"

He rattled off the names of a movie director, two writers, some coaches and players for the Bears, Cubs, and White Sox, and a few others.

"They all live around here?"

"All within ten miles."

"Where?"

He smiled. "You drive down a country road and see a long driveway disappearing into trees, chances are one of 'em's occupied by one of them folks."

Wow, I thought. This was almost like living in Nashville again. No wonder no one took it all too seriously.

Still, I had to admit that Teddy Cooper was about as down to earth as you can get.

And I was more than a bit nervous about him critiquing my playing and singing.

* * * * *

Teddy was as good as his word. Twenty minutes after he showed, the equipment was all hot and the amps all in balance. He ran me through the effects pedals taped to the floor next to the microphone stand, then gave a nod, wished me luck, and waded into the growing crowd to get a beer. Almost everyone clapped him on the back as he passed, and he stopped to chat with more than a few of them.

I heard a thunk on the tiny stage to my right and Ferlin said, "Move over, son."

I did.

He reached under the mic, flipped the switch, and tapped to make sure it was life. "Okay," he said to the crowd in his gravelly voice, "here's the deal. Couple of the fellas in Golden Rodeo went out and hurt themselves, so they can't play here tonight. Mark here said he could take their place."

There were some jeers and whistles, and I couldn't tell if it was derision or good natured teasing. Probably a mixture of both. A few faces were genuinely upset when they heard Golden Rodeo wasn't going to be playing.