The Governor's Lady (20 page)

No minister was present. Mickey had recoiled from the idea of saying a few words, so Cooper spoke.

“Daddy loved the earth. He found beauty in small things like crickets and fish.” Her smile drew easy laughter from the gathering. “He relished the warm months, when things came to life and then flourished and finally blazed with color. He knew about nature, about how plants and animals follow the rhythm of seasons. He showed me, and he talked about it, and when he did, he gave me gifts of beauty and imagination.”

She paused and looked out over the raw cut of the pond to the trees beyond. “I can imagine this when it’s finished. Can’t you?” Knowing nods. “I can imagine coming here and being at ease, as Daddy would have done.” She looked at Mickey for a moment, then the others. “I don’t know how you feel about the separation of body and spirit, whether there’s anything here of Daddy besides a casket and remains. But that’s not so important. I think Daddy would have loved this quiet place. Maybe he does.” Her gaze swept the crowd. “He took the greatest joy in you who are his friends, who asked nothing and offered nothing but your friendship. I hope you’ll come here often and enjoy the quiet of this place. If you find anything else here, that’s to the good. But I think just marveling is enough.”

TWELVE

The phone was ringing when she opened her apartment door, home from work a week later. Woodrow, no doubt. Mickey had found him a job in Arkansas, working in another Senate campaign, and he had left two days after the funeral. She didn’t want to talk to Woodrow. She got a beer from the fridge, opened it, propped herself on her bed with a cushion of pillows, and stared at the phone. It kept ringing. She felt a tightening at her temples, first twinge of a headache.
Woodrow, please …

“I just wanted you to know I’ve been thinking about you,” Pickett Lanier said.

She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Mr. Lanier.”

“Pickett.”

“Pickett.”

“Had dinner?” he asked.

“No.”

“Can I pick you up in thirty minutes?”

Another breath, and then before she knew it: “Yes.”

She heard the beep of an odd little horn and looked out her upstairs window to see a motorcycle rumble up to the curb, Pickett Lanier astride it, long black case strapped to his back. She raised the window as he killed the engine, kicked down the kickstand, and unfolded himself from the seat. He was leaner, lankier than she remembered. He pulled off his helmet and shook loose his dark brown hair. It had grown longer since she last saw him. He wore jeans, an untucked Rolling Stones T-shirt, black boots with buckles on the sides. He looked up to see her in the open window—gape-mouthed, she realized. He grinned.

“Where’s your car?”

“This is it.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“Not much of one. It has vapor lock.”

“What?”

“The fuel line gets too hot, and the gas turns to vapor, and a car won’t run on vapor. So it’s in the shop, has been for a couple of weeks. I told ’em I wasn’t gonna come get it until they solved the problem.” He shrugged, then another grin. “But the bike’s more fun. What are you wearing?”

Cooper looked down at her sensible summer dress. “I’ll change.”

“Jeans,” he said. “And a light sweater. Might be a little cool coming back.”

She started to close the window, then: “What’s that on your back?”

“Guitar.”

“What for?”

“I play in a band. Well, something resembling a band.”

“You’re taking me to work with you?”

He laughed. “Oh, ma’am, it ain’t work. It’s art.”

“I’m not in the mood for a loud evening with a band.”

“Maybe we’ll play some Mozart.” He lifted his arms imploringly. “If you don’t go, it’ll break my heart, and those of all the other band members I’ve told you’re coming.”

“You’re pretty damn sure of yourself.”

He made a sweeping bow. “Your humble servant.”

Cooper closed the window and stood rooted to the floor of the living room.
This is crazy. I’m crazy. Why am I doing this? I can’t do this. I’m not going to do this
. She looked down again at him, now sitting sidesaddle on the bike, legs stretched across the sidewalk. He was holding the guitar case across his lap, fingers drumming on it, swaying slightly from side to side, head bobbing. He looked so … what?
Physical
. He glanced up at her and twirled a finger in the air. And then she thought about the prospects of a long evening alone in her apartment.
All right, all right, I’m going to do this
.

He fiddled with the helmet, tightening straps, then handed it to her.

“Where’s yours?”

“This is my only one,” he said.

“Isn’t that—”

“Reckless, irresponsible, foolish. Here, let me help you.” He took the helmet, eased it onto her head, smoothing her hair and tucking it in back. His fingers lingered at her temples for an instant. Then he backed away, picked up the guitar case, and held it out to her.

“What do you want me to do with that?”

“Hold it.”

“I’ll fall off.”

“You won’t,” he said solemnly. “Trust me.”

They rode east, the setting sun making long shadows in front of them. Past the university campus, on to the edge of town. He took it slow, clicking smoothly through the gears, the bike making an easy rumble beneath them. One arm around his waist, the other cradling the large end of the guitar case, the small end under his arm and resting on the handlebars. Her hand sensing the hard muscles of his midsection through the T-shirt. She tried to keep her touch light, but when they made a turn or eased off from a stop, she instinctively tightened her hold.

When they stopped at a traffic light, he asked, “Comfortable? Everything okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“It’s all right to hold on tight,” he said. “I won’t break. I work out. Five-thirty in the morning, six days a week.”

“You stay fit, but you’re not wearing a helmet.”

“A two-wheeled dichotomy.”

They were past the edge of town now, a scattering of houses and then pine forest crowding the roadsides. Their route ran alongside the river, flashes of late sun on water through the trees. He sped up, the bike leaning into curves, warm wind whistling at the edges of her helmet. She had a sudden urge to close her eyes, lean her head against his broad back. That wouldn’t do, of course, but she felt that if she did, it would somehow be okay.

They rode for twenty minutes. The road curved away from the river, and then the cycle slowed and turned onto dirt and gravel heading back in the direction of the water, the way barely wide enough for two vehicles, pines tall and close on either side. She felt the throb of music before she heard it. And then instruments began to surface out of the throb—guitar, mandolin, fiddle, bass, keyboard.

They rounded a curve, and the road gave way to a gravel parking lot jammed with cars, trucks, motorcycles, a dune buggy, a couple of ATVs.
Mouth-watering smell of barbecue smoldering over hickory, the music coming from somewhere beyond. Pickett eased the motorcycle to a stop at the edge of the lot and held it steady while she climbed off.

“Was it okay? The ride?”

“I think so. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

“You’re kidding. You did great. You were leaning with me.”

“What?”

“Into the curves. Some people ride on the back of a bike, they get all stiff, and when you turn, it’s like they’re fighting it. But you were loose, going with it.” He unbuckled her helmet and lifted it carefully off.

She shook her hair loose. “What is this place? There isn’t a sign.”

“Cicero’s.”

She felt her eyebrows go up. “Oh.”

The scene of legendary no-holds-barred brawls, it was notorious, so much so that the university had some years before declared it officially off-limits to students, who ignored the edict in droves. Anybody sporting a black eye or missing tooth on campus was said to have a Cicero, whether it came from the place or not.

“You’ve never been here?”

“Not the kind of place for a governor’s daughter.”

“Or the kind of place Mr. Bannister would frequent.”

She tried to imagine Woodrow at Cicero’s. Not a chance. If it was officially off-limits, then it was off-limits to Woodrow. He’d never risk it. And then, too, he had that one-beer rule. Cicero’s didn’t look like a one-beer place.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “And thirsty.”

He grinned. He seemed to have an endless supply of grins. “I can fix that.”

Cicero’s, it turned out, was a good deal tamer than its reputation.
It consisted of a small, unpainted cinder-block building where the cooking was done, and beyond it, stretching out toward the riverbank, a broad expanse of deck, some of it sheltered, mostly open, crammed with picnic tables crowded with people, all of it lit by bare light bulbs strung from towering pines.

She sat at a long table with wives, girlfriends, band members’ families. They were friendly and welcoming. They mentioned her father’s passing, but nobody made a fuss over her. The band had already started, but before joining the rest of the musicians on the small stage, Pickett brought her a plate of barbecue, hush puppies, baked beans, and coleslaw and the sweetest iced tea she had ever tasted. She ate with relish and then pushed her plate away. Pitchers of beer arrived. She sat back and gave herself to the music.

It was the first time she had really seen him, seen the whole of his person wrapped up in something—the music, the intimate business of man and guitar. And in all the years to come, she could never look at him without picturing him in just this way, wrapped around the guitar, caressing it, easy slide of left hand on the fret board, dancing fingers of the other on the strings, a slight smile softening the angles of his face, all of it of a piece, the easy, graceful essence of him.

The band was all over the map musically—the Eagles, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, Tom T. Hall, an intriguing instrumental that
did
sound vaguely like Mozart, only much hipper. The band members—five men and a young woman with a clear, strong alto—took turns with the vocal leads, while the rest added harmonies. Pickett sang James Taylor’s “Steamroller Blues.” He didn’t have a great voice, but it seemed honest, muscular, earthy, and he didn’t try to do things with it that didn’t fit. When he finished, he looked straight at her and flashed an incredible smile that made her blush and grab for her beer cup. She finished the beer in a gulp, poured another from the pitcher, and decided to let it all slide.

The band played for the better part of two hours. During a couple of short breaks, the musicians crowded in at the table, Pickett at her elbow, the talk loose and easy, the night soft and warm. By the time they finished playing, she was pleasantly tipsy and decidedly mellow, the anguish and stress of the past weeks fading beyond the edge of her consciousness. The others packed up and headed off, leaving Cooper and Pickett at the table. Cicero himself came out and sat with them awhile. He was short and round, a middle-aged, bald fireplug with a big laugh. “Stay as long as you like,” he told them. The last of the crowd drifted away, leaving just the two of them on the deck, a faint breeze murmuring in the pines overhead, the river nearby. Pickett got the guitar out of its case and played and sang a couple of things he had written himself—one funny song about a pot-bellied pig, the other a soft, sweet ballad about falling in love in a dream and waking up to find the dream come true.