“I assure you, race is not the issue. There’s someone else. Someone I haven’t gotten over yet.”
“I see,” Bubba said.
“No, you don’t.” Rodney laid his hands on the table. “I may be flat broke right now, but I swear to you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your daughter’s and grandson’s needs are met.”
The older man rubbed the back of his hand across his sweating brow. “Well, that’s all I can ask. Thank you.”
After they finished their beers, Bubba’s cheerful smile returned, and Rodney was glad to leave the heavy conversation behind them. They walked outside to a beautiful twilit evening. Well, actually, Bubba walked. Rodney hobbled with two old mops as makeshift crutches.
As they made their way toward the boat, Rodney noticed a Confederate flag hanging from someone’s deck railing. He grinned because it reminded him of his debates with Dee.
“That must be the third flag I’ve seen around here today,” he told Bubba. “How do they make you feel?”
“None too good,” the older man replied. “The folks who live there are all right, but some of the ones displaying those flags aren’t.”
“It must be a challenge for you, living in the Deep South,” Rodney said, ambling along.
“Lived here my whole life,” he said gazing up at the moss-draped trees. “Wouldn’t feel comfortable anywhere else. People mostly get along. When I see those red flags, though, it’s like a caution sign to me. Tread carefully.”
Rodney nodded, finally getting Dee in a way he never had before. When he got his own houseboat, he would not display one of the flags because he wouldn’t want to make his neighbors feel uncomfortable. Breeze was different because people had a choice to listen to their music or not.
Dee… How he wished she were here. She’d like Bubba.
When they turned a corner, Rodney spotted yet another flag on a small building called Buster’s. “What’s that, another bar?”
“Yep, the white one.”
It reminded him of honky-tonk joints where the band had played starting out.
“I think I want that second beer, after all,” he said.
“Go ahead.” Bubba waved a hand. “I’ll wait out here.”
“Oh, come on,” Rodney insisted “No one will give a damn.”
“When I said we all mostly get along, it’s because I don’t go sticking my head into places like that.”
“If there’s a problem, we’ll leave. How about it?”
Rodney didn’t relish making his host uncomfortable, but the temptation to try out his disguise on familiar turf was too much to resist. Maybe he needed to breathe a whiff of his old life to prove he could really get along without it.
The interior was similar to Salty’s Place. Dark, smoky, and loud. Instead of a musician, the entertainment consisted of a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Rodney chose a table with a good view of it. It would be even better than a newspaper for filling him in on current events.
Unfortunately, they drew several unfriendly stares. No one seemed to notice Rodney at all. The looks were directed at Bubba.
“See what I mean?” Bubba asked, nervously rubbing his arms.
But Rodney was too busy watching the TV. He couldn’t believe it. Breeze was about to perform. While some stranger held a guitar, a man with a bandaged face and his arm in a sling stood in his place at the microphone. He even twirled it like Rodney used to.
Was Jack out of his mind? His face wasn’t even healed yet. They’d just had the memorial service. If they’d had his dead body, it wouldn’t even be cold yet. He’d assumed the band would mourn for a while before resuming. Maybe even end altogether.
But he knew his brother. He wouldn’t let Breeze die until every ounce of life had been sucked out of it.
I’m Rodney! Not him. Me! Me!
The urge to jump up on the table and shout it to the whole bar overwhelmed him. Luckily, his broken ankle stopped him.
“Can we get out of here?” Bubba asked the same time as a waitress arrived to take their order. “I’m feeling mighty uneasy.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rodney said, struggling back to his feet.
He may have let Jack take his place, but damned if he’d sit there and watch it.
Chapter Seventeen
Charleston, South Carolina
After almost dying in a plane crash, Jack couldn’t believe he was standing on a stage again. The doctor said his first facial surgery had gone so well he didn’t need another, but he wore bandages, just in case, under one of Rodney’s black hats. Tonight would be the true test.
Eric, the new guitarist, stood to his right, and the rest of the gang was here—with various accommodations for healing injuries. Cliff had a drum machine to supplement his good arm, and Mitch sat on a stool instead of jumping around. They’d simplified the base lines due to his stiff fingers. Drew, who usually sat at his keyboard, had to stand because of his sore belly.
“Rodney! Rodney!” the crowd chanted. It was the best music Jack had ever heard. It made him feel so damn good, he almost came in his jeans.
He held his hands up in the air while applause thundered through the concert hall. He felt like a messiah.
Act like Rodney. Sound like Rodney. He couldn’t let his disguise slip for a second. Wearing black was the easy part.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “Our plane may have gone down, but Breeze will never die.”
Screams filled the hall. Didn’t everyone have a secret desire to defeat death? Without strumming a single guitar note, he’d struck a chord in everyone. If he ever got tired of music, maybe he should be one of those television evangelists.
The applause showed no signs of stopping, so he gestured to the band to start, anyway. They launched into their most classic song. Their two backup singers waved Dixie flags around. Hopefully, the extra one would wipe out people’s memories of his brother’s interracial relationship.
By the time the show ended, his voice
