A Girl by Any Other Name (58 page)

everyone tiptoed around me, doing their best to avoid me as if I could fly off into another volatile

rage again. I wouldn’t now. It was a waste of breath. I was alone.

“Cal, you’re really scaring me. You’re scaring everyone,” Mandy said, putting her hand on my

knee.

“I’m sorry.” I patted her hand. She’d lost her best friend too. She didn’t deserve my crazy on top

of that. “Will you play something for her? Maybe sing?”

“What should I play?”

“Something happy. Something she will like.” Mandy stared at me hard. I knew she hadn’t missed

that I’d used present tense, but she nodded and smiled reassuringly anyway. I refused to use past tense

when it came to Sylvie. I would see her again.

I wiped the tears that were running down Mandy’s cheeks. She embraced me. After a while, she

stood up and made her way to the piano.

Matt Sampson took my sister’s vacant seat. It surprised me he didn’t want to stay the hell away

from me like everyone else. I found some weird comfort in his company, though. He knew what I was

going through on some level.

“I loved her too, you know,” Matt said, bringing me out of my morbid silence.

I wanted to be angry at him, but somehow it made me feel good to know someone else loved her.

“I should knock your teeth out for that, but I won’t.”

“It wasn’t the same way you loved her, but I did. We were lucky, Cal.”

“How in the hell were we lucky, Matt?”

He waved his arm around the room. “We both knew how special she was. Most of the people in

this room never will.”

The man had a point.

Mandy started playing
Only the Good Die Young
by Billy Joel. I smiled, remembering Sylvie

and Mandy rearranging the music and words to work for the piano. It was definitely the most

inappropriate song for a memorial service, especially one in a small southern Methodist town. The

lyrics were shocking and maybe even blasphemous.

No one sang along this time. I didn’t give a fuck. Sylvie was one of the few people who would

appreciate Mandy’s musical choice.

I hoped she was listening.

Chapter Eleven

Present day

After Sylvie’s alleged death, I’d changed. I’d felt like part of me had disappeared with her.

Momma had made me go to therapy. I drove forty miles each way since we had no therapists in

Prairie Marsh. Dr Arnold had interesting books and a stuffed doll of Freud on his shelf. He’d

suggested I couldn’t let go of Sylvie because I was feeling guilty that I hadn’t saved her that night.

He’d called it damsel-in-distress syndrome or some shit.

In a way, he’d been right. I did blame myself. I should have picked her up and carried her away

sooner. I should have stood in the line of fire. I should have covered her body again. There were a lot

of what-ifs from that night, but my guilt extended far beyond the should-haves and what-ifs. It was the

present and what I should have been doing that worried me the most. She was out there and she didn’t

have anyone to help her, protect her, love her, care for her.

In the end, I’d decided I needed to go to college and get a job. After all, how could I help her if I

had no money?

I’d never planned a career in teaching. My first choice had been to play college football and

eventually go pro, but even as a cocky sixteen-year-old, I’d known that was a long shot. My second

choice had been to enter the police academy like my father and have a career in law enforcement. My

third had been to sign up for the Marines and defend our country. My physical and mental injuries

precluded all those professions so I’d settled for the only other thing I was good at. Reading. I’d

majored in English Lit and it became the only career choice left to me.

As I stared at Sophie Becker, I wondered if it was all worth it.

She looked so different than she had in my class, but it was definitely Sophie. I sucked in a deep

breath, drinking in the sight of her. It was Saturday and I’d decided to go an extra mile today, ending

my run at the Wicker’s Cove farmers’ market, affectionately referred to as the WC by the locals.

Ironically, I’d thought it would help clear my mind of her, but here she was in front of me like a scar

that wouldn’t heal.

She wore a white billowy top that I was pretty sure girls referred to as a peasant blouse and cut-

off jeans. Judging from the uneven frayed edges they were true cut-offs, not factory made. Her long

cinnamon-colored hair hung down in waves of luxurious curls that looked so inviting, my hand

actually twitched with a feral need to touch them.

I swallowed hard as my eyes slowed to her choice of footwear. Cowboy boots. Most men

preferred high heels, and I was no exception, but there was something so incredibly sexy about a

woman in cowboy boots. The softened and scuffed leather made it clear they were well-worn. I knew

Sophie Becker was a pretty girl even with the baseball hats and plain clothing, but seeing her like this

made me wish I wasn’t wearing sweats. Not the best choice of attire when your dick decided to stand

at attention.

She looked so much like Sylvie, but different too. I was mesmerized. She hadn’t spotted me so I

decided to do the most stalkerish thing I could and follow her.

I had never been here, but Molly always said such great things about the WC so I’d decided the

extra mile would be worth it to check it out. The WC farmers’ market was much more than a place to

buy fruits and vegetables. It was part produce stand with all the offerings of local farmers, part flea

market with numerous vendors selling handmade wares and part carnival midway with a few groups

of musicians strategically aligned down the path. Sophie Becker wove in and out of the crowd

effortlessly, often chatting with merchants, which told me she came here often. I watched as she

bought a burlap sack filled with red apples. She knelt down, handing one to a little boy, before

darting back into the hordes of visitors.

I kept pace with her, oblivious to the other sights and sounds surrounding us. I only had eyes for

her. When she stopped, I stopped, but kept enough distance between us so it wouldn’t be obvious.

When we were toward the end of the street that comprised the WC, she paused to listen to a band, one

hand shoved in her pockets, tapping her boots to the music. They played a mix of modern and folk-

type stuff. A large crowd gathered around them, especially children.

After they finished the song, the lead singer, a guy with a Peter Frampton look and ZZ Top beard,

smiled appreciatively at the crowd before he spoke into the microphone. “Sophie Becker, come up

here and sing with me,” he said, gesturing to her. She shook her head vehemently. “Okay, folks, I’m

going to need your help. My friend Sophie here is a great singer. Would you like to hear her sing?”

Everyone hooted and hollered in encouragement. “Come on, Sophie, the people have spoken.”

He grabbed her hand and led her into their makeshift stage area. She was reluctant but allowed

him to do so. He whispered in her ear and she nodded. I felt a pang of sudden jealousy at the

intimacy, which was ridiculous since I had no right to that emotion. One band member took her bag of

apples, while Mr Hippy ZZ Top shoved a tambourine in her hand. She looked at it with hesitation, but

took it. “You know the rules. Everyone plays an instrument,” Mr Hippy ZZ Top said.

They started playing. I didn’t recognize the tune until they laid into the chorus since it was a

different arrangement.
The Weight
by The Band is definitely a toe-tapping song, even for a guy. Her

voice was pure innocence with the perfect hint of sexy rasp that only some girls could achieve. But I

was no audiophile and it was difficult to tell if it was a match for Sylvie.

The next song took a while to recollect too, but when I did, it brought a smile to my lips. They

played a more folksy, almost country version of
Save Me, San Francisco
by Train. They didn’t even

pause as they continued on to
Jane Says
by Jane’s Addiction. It was not a song I expected to hear on a

Saturday at the WC, but somehow they made it work.

After the third song, she handed Mr Hippy ZZ Top back his tambourine.

“A pleasure as always,” she said with a mock curtsy. I made my way to the front, hoping to hear

more of their conversation.

“You should play with us all the time.” There were people between us and the mic was turned

off, so I had to strain to hear her.

“Why, because my tambourine skills are so impressive?” she asked with a healthy dose of

cynicism.

“I’ll get a piano out here for you.”

She patted his round belly. “You’re gonna drag a piano out here? You’ll need to eat more apples

if you’re going to do that,” she said, shoving an apple into his hand.

“Naw, a keyboard.”

She laughed as she walked away from him, rubbing an apple against her blouse before biting

into it. “No, thanks.”

“How ’bout a keytar? You know the keyboard with the strap so you can play next to me. That

would be cool, right?”

She turned, staring at him, walking backward. “Are you going to get a time machine too?

Because I believe those went out in the Eighties. See you next week, Gus.”

I scrambled not to lose her in the crowd. She slipped into a coffee shop at the point where the

market ended and businesses began. I followed her inside. I’d just found out Sophie Becker sang,

played the piano and, judging from the splatter paint at the hem of her shorts, I assumed she painted as

well. This was too coincidental for comfort.

I allowed myself one more minute of gawking at her beautiful backside as I stepped behind her

in line. She smelled good, like vanilla and roses. That shiny brown hair with touches of gold was just

calling to be touched, or caressed…or pulled.

Fuck—I was hard. I took a deep breath and drew mental images of Mona Simms in her swimsuit

at the community pool. It was enough.

“Hello, Miss Becker,” I greeted finally.

Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of my voice. She turned and gave me a nervous smile.

“Hello, Mr Tanner. Strange meeting you here.”

“Please, call me Cal.”

I heard her give her simple order of black coffee. “Please allow me,” I replied, paying for her

drink and ordering the same for myself.

“You don’t have to do that,” she objected, but I waved her away.

“You can repay me with your company,” I said, gesturing to a comfortable area with two

overstuffed velvet chairs.

“I was just going to go home with it.” She looked uncomfortable.

“I would like to have a word with you. I promise it won’t take long.”
Yeah—just the rest of my

life, please.

She looked around, but gave me a slight nod, walking over to a vacant small table with two

overstuffed velvet chairs.

I set down our drinks on the table. “Is this the place you complained about in your unsent letter?”

She gave a slight laugh. “No, I stopped going to that place.” Her head circled around the room as

she avoided my gaze. “Isn’t this against the rules?”

“What rules are those, Miss Becker?”

“You’re a professor and I’m a student. I thought the college would frown on personal

associations.”

“As I’ve stated, I’m not a professor, and you can relax. I want to discuss your grades. I happened

to see you here and thought it was the perfect opportunity. There is nothing inappropriate or

underhanded about that.”

“Do you give all your students this kind of personal attention?”

“Just the ones who aren’t working to their potential. Your unsent letter wasn’t the emotional

response I was looking for. Your essay on
The Raven
was deplorable. And you missed my exam.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” she stammered, shifting in her seat. It was apparent she wanted to end

the conversation.

“I heard you singing.”

She flushed red and twirled a strand of glossy hair around her delicate finger. “Oh, that’s

embarrassing.”

“You were very good. My sister insists I’m tone deaf so I’m definitely not a qualified expert, but

the crowd seemed to enjoy it.”

“I should go.” She made a move to pick up that stupid bag of apples she’d been toting

everywhere, but I grabbed it and put it beside me. My sudden movement left her speechless.

“Please indulge me for a few more minutes.”

“I have somewhere to be.”

I sighed, not wanting to end the conversation. “I was wondering if you wanted to do that as a

career—the singing.”

“No, it’s just for fun.”

“You play the piano as well?” I asked, drawing on anything to keep her in my company.

“Yes, just as a hobby.”

“Where are you from?”

“Are you this curious about all your students?” she asked.

“I’m just curious about people. Not all good stories originate from the written word.”

“Well, my story is very boring.”

“I would love to hear it in any case.”