Missing chord, p.3
Missing Chord, page 3
“He pleaded guilty,” Kashira went on with apparent relish. “Probably was drunk or high, but he got a slap on the wrist. Famous folks always get off light. Anyhow, he has a ton of community service to do and we get a piece of him.”
I wanted to say I bet Griffin hadn’t been drunk. I’d never seen him drive impaired. But then, I hadn’t seen him except on a screen in twenty years. The music biz was notorious. For all I knew, she was right.
I told myself this news was a necessary reminder that Griffin wasn’t the same man who broke my heart twenty years ago. We were strangers, really, despite a tiny sliver of time when our lives intersected. This wasn’t my lost man with the wonderful hands and golden voice showing up back in my life. A felon on parole, or whatever he was, working off his sentence, was a whole different thing.
Although, if he was going to be around daily for weeks, we did need to talk. I wasn’t going to hide in my office for fear of running into him in the hallways. “What are his hours?”
“Nine to twelve every weekday. He said he’d keep concert days random, not announce in advance, so we don’t get crowds or whatever. The residents got a kick out of this morning. ’Course he’s close to their age, so they like his music.”
“He’s fifty-six,” I protested.
“Yeah, like I said.” Kashira tossed her braids over her shoulders with the disdain of a twenty-three-year-old. “Still not bad looking but, like, old. Which will go over good around here.”
I gave protest up as a lost cause. At forty, I was closer to Griffin in age than to her, but I wasn’t about to remind her of that. “What will you have him do tomorrow?”
“Reading and board games, I figure. Maybe he can keep Nancy from wandering the halls during the laundry run, keep her busy. I can always use more help.”
Isn’t that the truth? The nursing home was always short-staffed, one reason I still worked here, years after my sister had passed. I couldn’t abandon my coworkers or the residents. I’ll probably be too busy to see much of Griff anyhow. But my mouth went ahead and asked, “Do you have his contact info?”
“The director has his file. I just have his phone number in case we need to get hold of him.”
“Right. Sure. Um.”
“Do you need it?”
“Huh? No, not really.”
“Are you a fan?” A teasing smile curved her lips. “Is he the hot silver fox of your dreams?”
I kicked her foot under the desk. “His music’s okay. I have no real interest.” Memories of a day spent lounging on a blanket reading, blue skies overhead, while Griffin played his guitar like a woodland god mocked me… hours of joy when the melodies wound in and out of my head, until he set the guitar aside and reached for me. He was always special.
But then, he’d made plenty of money out of those songs later, without a backward glance.
She pushed to her feet. “As long as we don’t get paparazzi types making trouble, it’s a win. No rest for the weary. I need to go collect the audiobooks before lunch.”
I waved to her as she left my office and turned to my screen, but the words danced in front of my eyes. Was that hyperthyroid or hypothyroid, and what medical office still had handwritten notes? With a muttered curse, I saved and closed the screen, clicked into my timesheet to take my lunch break, and opened a browser.
What are you doing, you fool? He’s none of your business anymore. You have half an hour to eat and get a little walk in the fresh air.
Ignoring the sensible part of my brain, I searched for Griffin’s name and “car accident.” Plenty of articles came up. The first ones were full of salacious guesses. Was he drunk? Was he high? Had he been livestreaming on social media, pandering for likes and followers as he killed someone? There were photos, too, of Griffin outside his arraignment and bail hearing looking shocked, his eyes blank in a shadowed face. I swiped past those.
Interest died down pretty quickly when Griffin was only charged with distracted driving and the drugs and drink angle went away. A bit of faux-outrage over a coverup replaced the drunk driving rants, but between a plea bargain and lowered charges, the media stopped caring. A couple of recent stories mentioned his sentencing. Since I was already being an icky stalker about this, I clicked on those too.
Griffin looked older in the most recent video, and he just said, “No comment,” to every question. Hearing his voice, even on video, started an uncomfortable echo in my chest and I clicked the sound off. The woman walking next to him seemed to be a lawyer. There’d been no mention of his family or a partner in any of the stories. The last thing posted was video of him trudging into an apartment building, a reporter shouting questions at his averted face. Nothing from Wellhaven today. If any of the staff had filmed his singing, the videos hadn’t gone viral.
Yet.
Well.
I closed the search window. Not my circus. Not my monkey.
I’d made it without thinking about Griffin more than occasionally in the last nineteen years. I was nothing like the young twink he’d dated once upon a time. I felt sorry for the woman who died, sorry for Griffin whose crime fell under there, but for the grace of God, go I. But in however many months it would take for him to work off his sentence, he’d leave Wellhaven and go back to the concert circuit. He’d be fine. I wished him well.
Lunch. I’d brought a sandwich. I could eat at my desk and work, make some progress. Walking was overrated anyway.
Sandwich in hand, I pulled up the medical record I’d abandoned and decided that everything pointed to hyperthyroid, based on her clinical signs. I put the appropriate note in the patient’s problem list with an asterisk just in case. In that case, I should run across Iodine 131 treatment at some point in confirmation. I swiped on to page thirty-one. I was a professional with a job to do and no time to get maudlin about the past.
Chapter 3
Griffin
Without my guitar, the other bus riders didn’t pay me much attention— a weekday morning crowd whose heading-to-work, wish-I-drank-more-coffee expressions matched mine. We avoided each other’s gazes. I missed my car, or rather my right to drive it, but at the same time, I didn’t miss the new nauseous swoop in my gut every time I’d gotten behind the wheel. The chicken part of me that’d had to be forced to drive again after the accident through sheer willpower was relieved to sit back and let someone else do the job.
How I’d feel about that come winter might be a different story. No more than I deserved, of course.
The bus let me off in front of the nursing home. I guess a bus stop right there made sense. As I turned in at the front walk, a familiar guy with a camera sprang out from the bushes by the entrance doors and shoved the lens in my face. “Griffin Marsh, you gave an unexpected performance for Wellhaven residents yesterday. Are you playing again today? Do you think it’s fair to your paying fans to offer free concerts they can’t go to?”
I managed to keep What the actual fuck? off my lips. Never respond to press provocation, they will always twist it. I wanted to say, “If those fans develop health problems bad enough to land them in Wellhaven, they can listen too,” but that would be far too easy to make into a nasty soundbite.
Instead, I said, “I’m not singing today.” I figured that was important to get out, so the nursing home wouldn’t have to cope with stray groupies showing up. Not that I had actual groupies these days, but I still had some fans. “If I play and sing again for the folks who live here, it will be rarely and unannounced.”
“Didn’t the judge sentence you to hundreds of hours of community service? How does that fit with only rare performances? Isn’t that a violation of your sentence?”
You think the only thing I can do for someone is sing to them? To be honest, I’d lived alone for so long, that wasn’t far off the mark, but I was determined to make myself useful in other ways. “No comment.” I stepped around him and headed into the building. He followed me back up the walk asking more inanities but didn’t come past the doors, turning away with his phone in hand, thumbs busy. I guess I wasn’t important or responsive enough to waste more time on. Good. Maybe he’ll quit dogging me.
I reached the lobby through the code-locked double doors and looked around. The common room space was big enough for a group, with chairs scattered around, but could’ve used more natural light. A grand piano sat in the far corner. I’d noticed a faint layer of dust on the keyboard when I’d sat on the bench to play guitar yesterday. Maybe I could do a little piano music sometimes. It wasn’t my best instrument, but I knew enough to offer up some old favorites for these folks.
Today, though, I was hunting for the entertainment director. She’d said she would find work for me to fill my morning. I liked Kashira. She’d seemed like a force of nature, full of energy, rounding up folks to haul chairs into an impromptu concert audience and herding the residents into them kindly but firmly, pushing wheelchairs into the gaps with a little flourish. She’d grinned brilliantly yesterday when she’d had my twenty or so elderly spectators seated.
This morning, a few residents sat or dozed in the armchairs dotting the lobby space. One of them waved to me as I crossed the room, but the others seemed oblivious or unimpressed.
You’re really not that special, Marsh. I waved at the elderly woman in return, then headed down the first-floor hallway. As I passed a couple of open doors, hesitating at each one, I realized I was bracing for a sight of Lee.
If that was Lee yesterday.
Twenty years had passed since I’d driven away while he yelled at me from the sidewalk. Lee had been a lean, angular young guy then, still growing into his frame, cleanshaven with a head of red curls he despaired of and I loved. Liked. Whatever.
The man I’d glimpsed yesterday was a bear of a guy, or at least a cub. Bulky and padded, with strong arms and half his face hidden by a full beard. Nothing like the Lee I remembered. But when our eyes met across that room, my recognition had been visceral, a jolt right down to my core. Lee Robertson. I’d stared into those eyes, kissed the tip of that nose. His full mouth might’ve been framed by a new auburn beard, but my lips remembered his.
I’d stuttered, lost a note, and glanced down. When I looked back up, the guy was gone.
After I’d finished playing, I’d chickened out on asking Kashira. That would lead to questions I had zero desire to answer. The big man had been in scrubs, meaning he worked here, so if it was Lee— I know it was— we’d no doubt run into each other at some point. Then I’d find out if he wanted to punch me, hug me, or act like he couldn’t quite remember my name. Any and all of those were possible.
And what do I want? I shoved that question away. I was the one who’d left, chasing a dream that had me on the road for the next two decades. If we ended up back face-to-face now, Lee would be the one calling the shots.
Kashira turned my way from her desk when I knocked on her open door. “Right on time. Come on in and let me punch your timeclock.” She clicked through computer screens as I sat in the chair across from her. “Why do people call it ‘punch’ anyhow? Like, they got mad at the clock?”
“I think there was a paper card you put in and maybe a handle to punch? Or it punched a hole? I’m not that old either.”
She laughed. “Right. Got you logged in.” The terms of my parole meant my hours had to be confirmed by the nursing home staff at both sites. I was glad Kashira made it no big deal. “Now I have some options for you today. Lots of residents don’t get regular visitors and some of them aren’t interested in our group activities or are confined to their beds.” She pulled out a list. “Here. Reading aloud to Mary. Playing checkers with Tom.” She leaned my way and lowered her voice. “He cheats, but pretend you don’t notice. He gets a kick out of being sneaky, and there’s not much else makes him smile these days.”
“I can do that. Although my checkers skills are rusty.”
“Even better. He’ll enjoy winning. Then showing a video for Lisa. She can’t work a remote and needs to take breaks for her eyes. You stop it when she asks and then start it again when she’s ready. And a crossword for Mr. Harrington. His eyesight isn’t up to it but he’s sharp as can be. He’ll be answering the clues faster than you can read them. And most of our folk like to chat. A little time with someone new is a treat.”
“I can do that.” I took the list she held out, noting that she’d written down where to find books and checkers and crosswords. Impressively organized. “How do I know whether to call a resident by their last name or their first?”
“Look at their door whiteboard, hon. We encourage first names. It’s homier, more like family. But some of our folks, they prefer the respect of Mr. or Mrs. so we do what they want.”
“Makes sense.” I stood and hesitated. Don’t ask about Lee. Don’t. “What about the nursing staff. I don’t want to be in anyone’s way. Is there a schedule?” Will I run into him?
“If they need you to move, they’ll let you know. Can’t be shy and work this job.”
“Right. Of course.” Lee had never been shy. “I’ll go, um, start reading then.”
The morning passed more quickly than I expected. Mary was halfway through a Tony Hillerman book I was almost sorry to set aside when her half hour was done. She made me promise to come back tomorrow and I did. I would let Kashira know that needed to be one of tomorrow’s list items.
Tom was a roly-poly Santa of a guy with a wicked gaze, and a fast left hand. I saw him move a piece illegally once but pretended not to. My skills were bad enough he won fair and square three times.
He huffed. “Letting the old guy win, huh? Where’s the dignity in that?”
“No letting about it.” I stared down at my decimated pieces. “I suck at this game. Maybe you should give me some pointers instead.”
That brightened his expression and I sat through fifteen minutes of a checkers lesson with as little fidgeting as I could manage.
The end of my morning was twenty minutes away and I was reading to Carol, who appeared to have fallen asleep, when a voice I’d never forgotten said behind me, “Griffin?”
I put a bookmark in the novel, set it aside, took one breath, and turned.
Lee stood in the doorway wearing blue scrubs and black sneakers, a stethoscope draped around his neck. He gestured to me to follow him, and I eased away from Carol’s bedside. Ten feet down the hall, Lee stopped at the empty nursing station and leaned an elbow on the counter, his eyes on me. “So, here we are.”
“Um, yeah.” I tried a tentative smile, then let it die when he didn’t smile back. “How’ve you been? You’re looking good.”
He huffed like he thought I was lying, but said, “I’m fine.”
“You work here now?” Oh, that was smooth.
Sure enough, his lips twitched and he flicked the stethoscope. “Wow, you figured that out?”
“I just meant…” I let the words die because I just meant I had no clue how to talk to Lee right now. “It’s good to see you.”
His expression didn’t lighten. “We should probably talk.”
“I can ask my parole officer if there’s a way to change the home I’m doing my hours in,” I offered.
Lee waved me off. “Having you here has already brought us some publicity, and we have more visitors today than a normal workday.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s good. If folks are coming to see their family members in the hope of a Griffin Marsh moment, that still means they’re visiting. A side benefit. And Tom told me you’re the worst checkers player he’s met in the last ten years with an ear-to-ear grin.”
“You’re enjoying my humiliation,” I mock-grumbled before thinking that might be too friendly for how we were now.
But Lee smiled. “You bet your ass I am.” Then his cheer faded. “You’re off in half an hour, right? Do they give you a lunch break?”
“Two hours. I have to get a bus to the other residence.”
“I usually take a half hour. I’d just as soon not say whatever we have to say in—” He cut himself off as a middle-aged woman in scrubs hurried up to the desk, grabbed a clipboard with a “Hey, Lee,” and a glance, and rushed off. “—here,” he finished. “No privacy.”
“I can see that.” I stepped aside for an aide trundling a cart of linens past us.
“There’s a park down the block with benches, some nice fresh air. The corner store by it sells sandwiches, if you didn’t bring a lunch.”
I hadn’t. Eating in the middle of the day had degenerated to a bag of chips or a candy bar. My appetite was still crappy. “You want to meet there?”
“Twelve-thirty? Can you make that work?”
“Sure.” As long as it was a short conversation, so I could make the bus, but I didn’t have hopes for anything more.
“Right.” Lee gave me a firm nod with far more gravitas than he used to have. “See you there. And… I’m sorry you’re here.”
He strode off, leaving me staring at his back. Thank you? I think? I’d have to wait an hour to find out what exactly he was sorry for.
Except as I was getting ready to clock out with Kashira, my phone rang. Parole Officer. One call I always would take.
“Excuse me.” I swiped green. “Yes, sir?” Respect never hurt.
“Griffin? We have a bit of a situation with your afternoon hours. I need you to report to my office.”
“Uh, now?” I was about to meet Lee.
“Half an hour. Can you manage that?” Officer Daniels’ voice was always gruff, so I couldn’t read much into it.
If the buses cooperated, I’d be okay. “Yes, I think so. I might be a bit late, though. The fourteen bus tends to run behind schedule.”
“When you get here, then.” He took enough pity on me to add, “We’ll work it out. It’s just a hiccup, not a disaster.”
“I’ll be quick as I can.” I hung up and cursed under my breath.
