God, why did he bring me to The Farm? I stare at the wives, and something about how they cluster and cling to the circle makes me shudder inside.
“So, what do the girls do at The Farm?” I ask.
“We get fucked…” Linda lifts her glass. “…and we get fucked up. This is guy world, Chrissie. That’s all there is. Fucking and getting fucked up. There aren’t even phones here. Alan thinks it interferes with their focus. No phones. Not even TV. They have music, their bullshit stories, getting fucked and fucked up. But all we’ve got is getting fucked, fucked up and kitchen duty. Thank god there’s a cleaning girl who comes twice a week or we’d be mopping floors, Chrissie. The ERA hasn’t reached here yet.”
That comment makes me laugh even though it’s repulsive. Linda is funny, even when she is being coarse and vulgar.
“Dinner!” Linda shouts, in a voice the shakes the rafters.
By the time I’ve filled my plate and left the kitchen to join everyone sprawled in the living room eating, there isn’t an inch of empty space near Alan. I don’t really want to be near any of them, I don’t fit in and probably never will, and my anxious glance searches the room for somewhere to sit apart safely.
“Come here, little kitty. Come sit with me.”
My startled gaze shifts to find Len Rowan patting a floor cushion beside him and studying me in a very peculiar way. Oh yuck, I don’t really want to sit all cozy on the floor with him, but I can’t just ignore him and walk away.
I smile and let Len take the plate to set it on the low table in front of him. He puts his hand on my arm to guide me down beside him. I almost pull away, but I forcibly stop myself.
It’s just a friendly touch. Nothing more. Don’t be an idiot tonight, Chrissie. I grab my fork and start to cut into an enchilada.
“You OK?” Len whispers.
I look to find Len quietly probing with his gaze, as if trying to figure out something I must have let show on my face.
“I’m great.” I fill my mouth with a forkful of Mexican. He’s still staring, expectant. Shit, why is he doing that? “Linda is a great cook.”
Len smiles. “Linda’s a great girl. You need anything, you go to her. Linda won’t ever steer you wrong. The rest of them…” He doesn’t finish and reaches for his beer. “So, what is Jack thinking about all this?”
Oh god, from totally ignored girl to let’s have heart-to-heart girl. And what does he mean by all this? I flush and I look at Alan. Thankfully, he’s absorbed in Linda’s overly animated chatter.
“Nothing to think,” I say quietly, evasively.
Len laughs. “OK. I get it. Mind my own business.”
He nods, smiles, and places a light kiss on my cheek, to my great surprise. I realize he wasn’t being invasive; he was being concerned. I peek at him as I eat my dinner. By the time I’ve finished my meal, I know I read Len Rowan all wrong.
Len may be an ass on the surface, but there is a shrewd sensitivity to him that I think most people miss. It suddenly makes sense that he’s with Linda. They are the balance in this strange cluster of personalities: Linda with the girls and Len with the band. They’re the glue that somehow keeps everyone together.
After dinner, everyone just lounges around talking and laughing. The minutes turn into hours and it’s starting to feel like this evening is never going to end. I’ve spent the better part of four hours listening to an endless stream of industry talk and gossip, there is nothing of the substantive world here. There’s meaningless dialogue occasionally spiced with a quick anecdote about Jack, which feels weirdly inserted into the conversation as a polite attempt to include me. Nothing could be less polite. Every time Jack’s name comes up in passing, I tense. I can’t even imagine what the fallout for this will be when I go home.
Never before have I done anything that would test the boundaries of Jack’s tolerance or his approval. In all moments, I work desperately hard to remain as close to perfect—or at least if not perfect, then privately a mess—so as not to tip the strange balance of our totally careful father-daughter relationship. I’ve always been so afraid to tip the balance.
I stare down into my wine. Well, Chrissie, you better come to terms with the fact that you have tipped the balance. For some reason as I analyze this, it’s anger I feel flooding my tissues instead of my familiar apprehension and worry. I’ve fucked up your image of me big time and this time in a public way, Jack. Are you going to ignore this?
I study the strange herd of dysfunctional people I’ve fallen in with. It’s like a public service announcement. Even Jack couldn’t move past this with his ’60s axioms and nonparenting for parents bullshit.
By the time the group starts to break up, there is breathing into life inside of me, a carefree sense of not giving a shit what anyone thinks about anything—not Jack, not them, not anyone. I fell in love. I let a guy love me. What’s fucked up about that?
I tilt my head to find Alan crouched down beside me. It’s strange, but we passed the entire evening not even together. Those mesmerizing, penetrating black eyes are slowly absorbing the details of my expression, and then he takes my face in his hands, his fingers spreading across my cheeks.
I’m just starting to lean in for a kiss when he stops me. “Are you OK?”
I laugh, frustrated. “God. You’re like the tenth person to ask me that tonight. What’s up with that?”
Alan laughs and shakes his head. “Just checking to see if you’re angry with me again. I’m tired, Chrissie. Take me to bed and be good to me.”
I make a face, lips turning downward in simulated pouting. “Don’t count on it,” I tease.
He shakes his head just enough for the dark waves to dance. “No?”
Beneath his unreadable surface I feel just a smidge of silly Alan in there.
“Nope.”
He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. The staircase is old, the wood creaks while we walk, and there is something in the creaking sound that is strangely comforting to me. I can see the moon through the round windows, high on the wall, and there is the lovely sensation again that we are alone even though I know perfectly well there are people in every upstairs bedroom. The staircase is narrow and dark we’re in a magical transition away from them to only Chrissie and Alan again.
Alan pauses at the door and flips on a switch before he pulls me in behind him. The room is simple and dominated by a charming, antique brass bed invitingly arranged with hand sewn quilts and country check pillows. The furniture is heavy and old and spotless, and the windows are dual-paned and framed with patches of swirling blue stained glass.
With easy grace, Alan reclines on the bed and stares up at me. Those black eyes are alive with tenderness and lust. It’s a disarming mix. I swallow and lean back into the door. It would be so easy to forget all the questions in my head when he stares at me like this.
“I thought you said you weren’t angry with me,” he murmurs softly.
There’s a sweet kind of smile on his face now, cajoling and affectionate. I feel my body respond.
“Depends on why you brought me here.”
He pretends to be confused. “To The Farm? Or the bedroom?”
I sink on the bed beside him, settling my chin in the upturned palm of my hand. “What’s going on here, Alan?”
He leans into me, long fingers closing on the fastenings of my overalls. He gives me a full mouth kiss that I feel all the way down to my toenails. It leaves me breathless and just a touch angry. So Alan, you don’t want to answer my questions.
I stare up at him, completely committed to being resistant. “You’re lying to them and I want to know why, since you’ve made me a part of it.”
He lies back on the pillow, irritated.
“I’m quitting,” he says, just when it was looking like he wasn’t going to answer me. “You know that. But I’m not a solo act, Chrissie. I can’t walk out in one day. For a lot of reasons, most of them legal and involving lawsuit settlements, I’m doing the tour, I’m doing one more album with the band, and then I’m through. Will you kiss me now?”