Mom said, “Did you tell him not to drive up to the gate?”
“I’ll be down there at ten to twelve,” I said.
It had been two days since my encounter with Nevada. I hadn’t even told Nick who Mom was working for. She didn’t think it was right to give out his address.
“If you tell them Mr. Nevada lives here, be sure to warn them that it’s private information,” Mom said.
“I will. They’re cool.”
I changed my clothes, grabbed some paperbacks from my stash, and tucked them into my knapsack with a towel and some suntan lotion.
Then I headed down to the gate, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, just to be sure.
I was standing there about five minutes when Franklin appeared in the Range Rover.
The rottweilers were up on their hind legs snarling and barking, so Franklin had to shout to be heard.
“What’re you doing, Lang?”
He didn’t need the dogs to alert him. The security cameras at Roundelay were always on.
I explained that I was waiting for a ride, and he began shaking his head even before I’d finished.
“Mr. Nevada doesn’t want anyone loafing around here, Lang.”
“I didn’t think I was in camera range.”
“Everything is. Wait down the road a piece.”
“How far down?”
“See that line of oak trees?”
“Way down there?”
“Way down there,” he said. “Mr. Nevada is getting ready to leave too. Don’t let him catch you this close.”
Nick was late.
I stood there in the hot sun, waiting.
About five minutes after twelve an old Ford roadster paused by the gate on its way from Roundelay.
It looked like something out of the thirties. White-wall tires with wire wheels. Black with a white canvas top. Pinstriping going the length of the car back to the rumble seat. Running boards and a spare tire attached to the rear.
I knew Nevada was behind the wheel. I saw he was wearing a black cap. I turned my back on him so he wouldn’t think I was watching him.
He just sat there in the thing.
Another five minutes and Nick appeared in a dark-green Saturn, going slow. I got out in the middle of the road and waved my hands, and he came up to me and stopped.
One of the side doors opened, and Brittany said, “Hi! Hop in.”
As we headed away, I looked through the rear window and saw Nevada following us.
“Did you see that car?” Nick said. “It’s a thirty-four Ford! It’s a classic!”
“It’s no secret who lives there,” Allie said as we stretched out on Main Beach. “Out here we know where all the celebrities live. Nobody bothers them.”
“What’s he like, Lang?” Nick asked me.
I told him about the one time I’d run into him by accident.
“He bought that place for Cali Coss” Brittany said.
“‘Pained over it,’” Allie said. “Wasn’t that what she always said?”
“I thought it was ‘Pain’s over,’” Nick said.
We didn’t talk about them long.
They asked me about Sob Story. It was popular with kids because weekend nights after the kitchen closed, they featured hot new groups like The Failures. They were already booked. Brittany said she’d kill for tickets to see Cog Wheeler, Failures’ top dog. (“Hint hint,” she said, nudging me.)
Nick and Allie began slathering each other with suntan lotion, giggling and cooing to one another, and Brittany turned over on her stomach with her face down in her arms.
I took out a copy of Understanding Shakespeare and tried to concentrate on it.
Then Nick and Allie went off to be alone together, and I switched to lighter reading, a Michael Nava mystery featuring his gay lawyer, Henry Rios.
When Brittany came awake, she flipped over to her back and asked me if I knew the words to any of Nevada’s songs. She said he was a real poet.
I said I only knew the ones to “Flame.”
“I’m a fire. Oh, yes.”
“I probably know others, but never knew he wrote them. I’ve heard a lot about ‘Heart in My Mouth.’”
“My favorite,” she said. “Do you know the words?”
“I just said I didn’t.”
“Don’t! Please! Don’t get that tone, Lang!”
“I’m sorry.”
“You seem to be always right on the edge with me.”
“I’m not on the edge!”
“You should hear yourself. What is it with you?”
“It isn’t anything…. How does ‘Heart in My Mouth’ go?”
I thought she’d probably recite the words, but she just sat up straight and began singing.
I’d never heard her voice, never knew anyone that good who didn’t want to be a singer.
“You in my eyes bring my heart
To my mouth, bring the words
To my lips, feel my blood start
To race, singing of birds,
With the lifting of wings,
Heart in my mouth, spilling out things.”
I clapped.
“You have to like Nevada,” she said. “Someone who can write a song like that.”
“How about someone who can sing a song like that?”
“Thanks, Lang.”
I noticed some people on nearby blankets watching us. They were smiling. One boy put his hand up with the thumb and first finger making a circle.
“I guess they think I was singing you a love song,” Brittany said. “I would if you could get me in to see Cog Wheeler. Aren’t they playing at Sob Story in July?”
“I work in the kitchen, Brittany.”
I was thinking, What if it had been Alex singing to me? And I was remembering the night at Adieu, Adieu.
Coming toward us on the beach, arms wrapped around each other, Nick and Allie stopped to kiss.
“Do you miss me at all, Lang?” Brittany asked me.
“It’s just easier without you.”
“What is?” She sounded really angry.
“My peace of mind. My goddamn life!” I snapped.
Allie had come back to the blanket with Nick.
“Oh, I hate couples who argue, don’t you, Nick?”
“I hate it!” Nick said. “It’s such a bore!”
That night at Sob Story I had a sunburn and a new duty. All the wine they sold arrived in the kind of waxed-cardboard containers milk comes in. I had to funnel it into empty bottles with
