Girl Meets Boy, concluded

Here's the end of the Girl Meets Boy chapter. I didn't write this one longhand, just sat down with the laptop on my lap and a beer at my elbow and typed it out. It took about 2.5 hours. Next, I want to finish up the Backstage Accident chapter.



True to his word, Ben arrived at Maura's house just before 8:00 the next morning. He found us in the kitchen, where Quill, wearing one of his mother's ruffle-trimmed aprons over jeans and a t-shirt, was flipping pancakes and singing opera at the top of his lungs. Maura watched over skillets of bacon and sausage. Thanks to my invalid status, I was in charge of the quiche, which was baking nicely without much help from me. I lounged in a kitchen chair with my foot up, sipping a Coke.

Ben entered the house without knocking, clearly at home there. He greeted his aunt with a peck on the cheek, then laid one on Quill. Though I had no right to be jealous, I was.

"Hey!" Quill protested, smearing pancake flour on his cheek as he wiped it.

"Sorry, little cuz, but I couldn't resist — you look so pretty," Ben laughed. To me he said, "I can't believe you drink that stuff for breakfast." Skirting the table, he delved into the fridge and helped himself to a Coke. He downed half of it in a series of gulps.

"You're going to regret that," I told him.

"No regrets, cherie. I need the caffeine." He lounged back against the countertop, barefoot again, crossed arms stretching the sleeves of a grey t-shirt bearing the logo of the South Atlanta Judo Academy. I noticed the athletic tape was missing from his right hand.

"Yeah, how late did the party go last night?" Quill asked.

"I gave up around 1:30, when the groom's brothers started the conga line around the pool."

"Dear dear," Maura tsked. "Roger's going to be in tough shape this morning."

"Maybe not too bad. He didn't actually drink that much. But he's going to be plenty tired. I brought extra Visine for the photo shoot." He patted the pocket of his faded Levis.

Quill had left off singing and was nodding at his pancakes, a faraway look in his eye. I knew he was thinking ahead to his own bachelor party and groom's dinner, still many months in the future. I had never known a man so eager to get married. Too bad his fiancée didn't seem to share his enthusiasm.

Quill roused himself from his reverie to say, "So you're driving the Jag today, Benjie. How's it running?"

"Purring like a big ol' kitten. Thanks again."

The kitchen windows faced the back of the house, not the driveway. I wondered how Quill had known what Ben was driving, so I asked him.

"I know the sound," he said simply.

"Ever since he was a baby, Quill has been able to identify everybody's cars by sound," Maura clarified. "It's part of that perfect pitch ear of his."

Ben added, "It also makes him an excellent mechanic. He tunes an engine like he tunes a guitar. Keeps all my vehicles running smooth. And that's saying something, because that Jag is as temperamental as they come."

Quill grinned. "My best classes in high school were choir and auto shop."

"Can I make that a trivia question on the blog?" I asked. The girls would go nuts visualizing grease under his manicured fingernails.

"Sure, why not," he shrugged, expertly flipping pancakes from griddle to serving plate.

"So Ben, what did you mean by 'all my vehicles?' Do you have a fleet?" I waited while he polished off his Coke with a satisfied sigh.

"Naw," he said. "Just the Harley, which is my runaround wheels, and the Jag, which I drive to impress clients and for special occasions, and the Honda, which is for being inconspicuous."

"Ben is the most sought-after private detective in Georgia," Maura put in. "He doesn't need that car to impress people. But it sure doesn't hurt." She heaped bacon and sausages, still sizzling, onto another platter.

"Aunt Maura exaggerates," Ben demurred.

"No I don't. If you Google him, you'll see for yourself. Oh, that sounds improper," she giggled.

I was a step ahead of her. In bed with my laptop, I had Googled Benjamin Shea thoroughly the night before while wishing I was in fact doing something else. Maura wasn't just boasting about her favorite nephew; Ben was highly regarded and highly successful. He was high-profile, too, specializing in corporate security and industrial espionage. No wonder he was fond of Coca Cola; the Atlanta-based cola giant was a client of his.

Changing the subject, Ben said, "Well, I didn't come here to talk business. I came to see how Kielle's ankle is holding up. Can I have a look?"

The oven timer dinged, signaling an end to my cooking duties.

"Why don't you get the quiche out instead?" I suggested, tossing him my oven mitt. "And no smart remarks about the eating habits of real men."

"Yes, ma'am." He pulled the baking dish from the oven, inhaling the aroma with pleasure, and placed it on a trivet to cool. "This needs to sit for a few minutes — just enough time for me to take a quick peek at your ankle. Shall we adjourn to the living room?"

Clearly I was not to be let off the hook, so I accepted his supporting arm and limped the few steps into the next room. His unshaven chin brushed against my temple as he helped me settle on the couch. He unwound the elastic bandage as deftly as he'd wrapped it the night before, quizzing me about how much I'd been walking and how much pain I'd had during the night. The answer to both questions was, "Not much."

"All right, then. This looks pretty good." He rotated my foot in all directions, testing the range of motion, then massaged my ankle and lower leg to ease the aches he'd awakened there. His strong hands knew what they were doing, finding tender places I didn't think anyone else would notice. I grew slightly mesmerized by the rhythmic squeezing and releasing.

He glanced up to find me memorizing the curl of his hair. His hands stilled, and for a moment we gazed at each other. Then one of us blinked, or maybe both, breaking the spell. Looking down again, he muttered, "That ought to do it," and began rewrapping the ankle.

Noting that he still held the fingers of his right hand out awkwardly, I nodded at them and said, "Where's your tape?" Up close, I could see that his ring finger was swollen.

"Dani didn't want me looking all rough in her wedding photos, so I took it off for today. And I'll shave at the church so I'm nice and smooth." He stroked his jaw absently.

"How'd you hurt your finger? On the mat?"

Disgust in his voice, he answered, "Yeah. Stupid. I had a poor grip on a stiff lapel and tried to compensate by using strength instead of leverage. Bad idea."

"Not always."

"In judo, it is."

"True enough." I'd done just enough judo myself to know he was right.

"Speaking of bad ideas, I don't like the thought of you walking all over the airport. It'll just cause swelling and slow the healing process. I want you to hitch a ride on one of those golf cart things."

"Those are for senior citizens," I objected.

"Senior citizens and people who can't walk far, and today that's you. Tell me you will."

Mockingly I sighed, "Yes, doctor."

"I mean it, Kielle." When we locked eyes again, his fierce expression was back. I like a man who's intense. If he's intense about me, so much the better.

"All right," I agreed. "I'll ride."

Ben finished his work just as Quill hollered for us to come and get it. We returned to a table piled high with the best breakfast I'd seen in weeks. Hotel bagels and muffins just did not compare.

Quill and Maura joined hands and reached out to us. Ben and I took their hands and each other's, completing the circle, and Maura intoned a brief but earnest prayer. It had taken me quite some time to grow accustomed to the saying of grace at every meal with the Caravaners. While I still wasn't entirely at ease with the practice, I had begun spending the interval on a moment of mindfulness of my own, and that wasn't all bad.

We ate at a leisurely pace. The cozy atmosphere, fragranced with peanut butter, honey, and cinnamon, made me miss Sunday mornings around the table with my family in my younger days. We'd spent some of our best times in those four chairs, talking and laughing just like this. Sunday breakfast had always been my favorite meal of the week, even though it meant getting out of bed too early on a weekend. But now that my sister and I had moved to different time zones and Dad had passed away, those days were never to return.

Sitting back, full, we enjoyed a few more minutes' relaxation before Ben glanced at the clock. Folding his napkin, he rose to leave. He had to report for the photo lineup at 10:00 and needed time to make the drive and change his clothes.

"I'd better take off," he said reluctantly.

"I want to see that impressive Jag before you go," I said. "Give me a hand out to the porch." Gee, that's not a lame and obvious excuse to be alone with him or anything, I thought.

I leaned on him more heavily than I needed to for the short trip to the front door. When we reached the porch, I didn't let go, and he didn't withdraw. Side by side, we gazed at the sleek black Jaguar convertible parked at a jaunty angle in the driveway.

"Nice. Very nice," I said admiringly. I could almost feel the wind in my hair.

"Yes." When I glanced toward his voice, he was looking at me, not at the car. "Next time you're here, I'll take you for a drive. When will that be?"

Oh Lord, he's asking to see me again. Now what the hell do I do?

"We've got a week off, then another week on the road. I'm meeting the company in Tucson for the start of the tour, but the bus will bring us back to Atlanta. So I'll be back in town two weeks from now."

He nodded thoughtfully, then turned to face me, still supporting my elbow. "I'm serious about the golf cart," he repeated. "I want proof."

"Such a mother hen," I teased. "Have you got a picture phone?" He nodded. "Give me the number."

He recited it, and I stored it away. "You'll get your proof."

"Good. Uh, I'd better go. But I just need to apologize one last time for knocking you into the pool."

"It's history. I'm glad we got to meet in person. And thanks for taking care of my ankle."

And then we just stood there for a minute, awkward teenagers at the end of their first date, trying to decide whether to shake hands or make out. I knew which option I'd prefer, but now really was not the time to start anything.

Finally I said, "All right, give me a hug and get going. You don't want to be late."

I went up on tiptoe to slide my arms around his neck. His fit across my back just where they ought to. We held the embrace for a long moment, and I felt him sigh.

Then he pulled away and bounded down the steps to his car. He hopped into the driver's seat without opening the door, revved the motor, and tossed me a cocky salute. Then he was gone.

A couple hours later, I used my picture phone to send him an image of myself perched on the back of an airport shuttle cart. Fifteen minutes after that, I received one of him in his tuxedo, clean-shaven and grinning, giving the thumbs-up sign. I would, of course, remember the picture, so I didn't need to save it. But I did.

the plot thickens?

I thought up an interesting plot twist in the shower this morning. I’ll have to chew it over for a while and see if it works. If it does, it’s going to make me very happy, but I can already name at least three people who will be personally offended off by it. To which I say, Man up, girls. It IS about you.

Also, Ben Shea needs a dog.

a bad backstage moment

This bit occurs about halfway through the book. Remember "Quin's audioblog" a few posts ago? This comes right before it. There's another scene I want to squeeze in between them, too, but I ran out of time to do it tonight. I'll try to catch up this weekend.

It's been a while since I watched ER, so please forgive — or better yet, correct — the medical errors, eh?

Normally I'm the first one backstage at intermission, shining my mini-flashlight for the performers in case there's no house crew there to guide them safely around the inevitable backstage obstacles. That night, however, an audience member snagged me by the elbow when I was about three quarters of the way down the aisle — not just snagged, but grabbed. I don't like being grabbed, but I paused for a few moments of make-nice. Singers swept past me on their way offstage.

The crash and thump and shout didn't register over the crowd noise at first. It could have been feet stomping the bleachers and fans hollering for more. But as I rounded the corner into the dim alley to the green room, I saw that this wasn't the case.

Quin Kelly lay sprawled on the concrete floor, blood pooling beneath his head.

His brothers were stopped dead, staring. I shoved past them to drop to my knees beside Quin, already fumbling for my phone. I thrust it into the nearest hand — Mason's — and told him to call 911. I yanked the flashlight out of my pocket and shone it on the scene

Quin was unconscious but breathing normally, bleeding steadily from a jagged gash near his hairline on the right side of his forehead. Running my hands over his scalp, I found no other cuts, just a growing goose egg where his head had hit the floor. I whipped the pocket square out of his breast pocket and folded it into a compress. His eyelids fluttered when I clamped down on the wound with pressure, but they did not open.

I glanced up at the half-circle of faces staring down at us.

"Blankets. Towels. Something to keep him warm," I said. "Check the green room." Someone hurried away.

Quill knelt on Quin's other side, repeating his brother's name in a strangled voice. I grabbed his hovering hand and pressed it in place of mine.

"Hold this tight. Tighter," I instructed. "Keep his head still."

I straightened Quin's arms and legs and loosened his tie. The pulse at his throat was strong.

"Kielle?" A tentative voice behind me inquired. Before I could shush it, Sarah gasped.

"Oh my god!"

I glanced over my shoulder to follow her gaze, then did a double take. Phillip slouched against a wall in shadow, staring in dumb fascination at his left arm. His sleeve glistened wetly. A dark puddle was spreading at his feet.

Quentin reeled against Mace, almost knocking the phone from his hand. Bill stepped in to peel his nephew away and lower him in a heap. Not to be outdone, Nancy announced that she was about to faint, then did so with great precision into Jimmy's waiting arms.

I bolted to my feet, to Phillip's side, leading with the light. I got my first clear look at Phillip's arm as he sank slowly onto his heels. His jacket and shirtsleeve, and the flesh beneath, were ripped from elbow to wrist. Blood welled with every heartbeat, suggesting that a major vessel had been nicked — but not, I hoped, severed.

Shy arrived with some towels from the bathroom, surveyed the scene, and went back for more.

"Kielle?" Phillip's voice was distant, dreamy. "I'm kind of dizzy." He started to list to one side. As I tried to keep him from tipping into the small lake he was creating, he threw his injured arm around me in an effort to rise. I felt liquid heat seep through my shirt. It took me a moment to calm him again. Mace came over to brace his shoulder while I peeled away his ruined sleeves and wrapped a towel around his forearm.

Less than two minutes had passed.

Mace reported that an ambulance was on its way and dispatched and dispatched a stagehand — where had he been a minute ago? — to guide the EMTs to us. Voices clamored, praying, soothing, asking what happened, what happened, is he going to be all right, what happened?

I swept the area with my eyes, recording the whole scene click click click. I'd have time to analyze it later.

Quin began to stir. I called to Quill to keep him quiet. He blinked away tears of relief, causing his disoriented brother to complain that it was raining.

Nancy showed signs of coming around, too, prompting Jimmy to whisk her away to the dressing room. Quentin, glassy-eyed with shock himself, made his unsteady way over to clasp Quin's hand and pray. We stayed like that for another few minutes until we heard the approaching siren and the clattering of metal wheels in the hall.

The EMTs took over with brisk efficiency, shooing us all out of their way. After quickly evaluating the injuries, they strapped Quin to a backboard. Phillip, no longer able to stand, was likewise scooped onto a gurney.

We all followed them up the corridor toward the waiting ambulance. Was anyone coming with the victims? the lead paramedic asked. The Kellys both stepped forward, but Bill barred their way.

"Kielle will go," he decreed. "You two stay." He muffled their protests with "It'll be fine" and "The show must go on," but I could see they weren't buying it.

Mason tossed me my phone as the ambulance doors swung inward. "I'll call Darius!" I shouted just before they clanged shut.

The ride to the hospital, though brief, was long enough to let me start worrying. Quin remained disoriented, mumbling nonsense, and Phillip continued to lose blood, albeit at a slower rate than before. I could not tell how seriously either of them was hurt, and the EMTs were careful not to make any definitive statements. Unreassured, I worked on calming my breathing.

We burst into the emergency room with minor fanfare, me trotting between the gurneys trying to comfort both men at once. A nurse stopped me outside the treatment area and thrust two clipboards into my hands.

"Your friends are in good hands. You can stay with them as long as you're not in the way," she said. "You can help by filling in the paperwork and making any phone calls that need to be made." Then she moved on, and for a few minutes, the three of us were alone in the swirl of ER activity.

The sterile, bustling atmosphere did not suit Phillip. Eyes wide, he murmured, "No. No I have to go. 'Scuse me." He swung his legs over the side of the bed opposite me and slid out before I could stop him. Weakened by shock and blood loss, however, he went down like a felled tree. I dropped the clipboards and hollered for help. He struggled against me, dislodging the dressing on his arm.

Fortunately, professionals arrived quickly and restored Phillip to his bed. Another team arrived to tend to Quin who, restrained and unable to see what was going on, was growing agitated as well. A third orderly tried to guide me to a separate treatment bay until I finally convinced him that the blood on my face and hands was not my own.

I sighed and backed off, trying to listen to all the conversation at once. Quin's doctor ordered head and neck X-rays, and he was wheeled back out again. Phillip's attendant snipped shreds of fabric away from his inner arm to expose the deep, ugly cut. It was worse than I'd thought. Phillip's face was dead white, turned resolutely away from the sight.

After giving the doctor, whose tag read Nielsen, a chance to inspect the wound, I edged close enough to ask about nerve damage.

"I don't think so," Nielsen said as he began to clean the cut. "There's insult to muscle and tissue, and a vein got nicked, but not badly. But I don't see any evidence of nerve damage. What happened, anyway?"

"I don't know yet. I wasn't there — they were ahead of me in the dark and I think something fell on them." I recalled my mental snapshots of the backstage area: bottom-weighted light stands arrayed like sentries on either side of the entrance, and one lying on the floor. I described to Nielsen how I thought one of the light trees had somehow fallen over, bouncing off Quin onto Phillip. The poles were studded with protruding metal loops for the attaching of lights; it was probably one of those that had nailed Phillip.

The thought of a heavy metal post descending on Quin's skull made me even more worried for him. But he was, as I'd been told, in good hands, so I pulled my attention back to Phillip for the moment.

"Will he still be able to play the piano?" I asked Nielsen.

The young physician eyed me warily. He'd probably heard the punchline — "Great! I couldn't play before!" — more times than he could count.

"No joke," I said. "Seriously. He's a professional musician. Will he still be able to play?"

Relaxing, Nielsen said he thought Phillip would make a full recovery. His arm would be stiff and sore for a while, but if he took it easy, he should recover full mobility. Phillip, consciousness fading, registered less relief than I did.

My phone rang, and I grabbed for it. When I finally got my hand on it, caller ID revealed Quentin's name.

"How is he? They?" he demanded without preamble.

"Okay. They're okay. Quin is getting his skull X-rayed and Phillip is having his arm cleaned up." I stepped out of the way of a nurse adjusting the IV that was replacing the fluids he'd lost.

Quentin sighed, "Thank god. Thank god. Where are you?"

"Still in the emergency room."

"I mean which hospital?"

"Oh." I glanced down at the neglected forms on the clipboards I still held. "Regions North."

"We're on our way," he said, and disconnected.

On their way? But Bill had ordered them to stay at the concert venue. I smelled trouble brewing. I shook my head and turned back to the paperwork.

"Phillip, I need your Social Security number and your insurance information," I said.

Vaguely he replied, "Pocket." I wondered whether there was a sedative in the IV or just fluids and pain meds.

"Which pocket?"

"Back."

Swell. With the doctor's permission, I leaned across Phillip's torso to work my hand under his hip to his back pocket. Looking me in the eye, he said gravely, "This is not how I imagined this would go."

Had he just — ? Was that the drugs talking, or had shy, quiet Phillip envisioned me groping his gluteus under different circumstances? Any circumstances?

Unable to conjure up a suitable reply, I simply fished out his wallet and started looking through it for the relevant identification cards.

A few minutes later, I heard familiar, worried voices just outside the treatment zone. Giving Phillip a hang-in-there pat, I stepped outside to find Quentin and Quill haranguing the charge nurse.

"Guys," I called.

They swiveled, zeroed in, and transferred their attention to me. I stopped them short of engulfing me in a three-way hug; they were still in their performance clothes and I was damp with blood. The stains did not show, I realized, on my all-black outfit.

I spent several minutes telling them everything I'd heard the doctors and nurses say, interpreting the medical terminology, repeating anything that sounded reassuring. Gradually they calmed down enough for me to ask them a question in return.

"I heard Bill tell you to stay put. Does he know you're here?"

The two brothers exchanged a conspiratorial glance — the first time I'd seen them do such a thing. Then Q explained.

"We told Bill we needed a few minutes in the dressing room to collect ourselvess, which was true enough, and to start the second act without us. Then we called Nolie. Then we called you. And then we called a cab."

Quill rubbed his hands together unconsciously, perhaps still trying to wash away the blood. "I wouldn't have been able to sing anyway," he said. I could hear from the thickness in his throat that he was right.

"So Bill doesn't know you've left — well, he's probably figured it out by now — and he's going to be pissed as hell that you disobeyed him."

"Yes. And he can kiss my lily-white ass," snapped Q, his grey eyes gone steely with anger. "You don't keep a man from his family, not when they're hurt." Quill nodded emphatically, sharing his defiance. For once they were in complete agreement.

Yep. Trouble.

"All right. Just let me text Darius to let him know." On my Treo I typed, "Kellys w/ me @ ER. Q – X-rays. P – mucho stitches. Doing OK," and hit Send. Dare, expecting my call, would feel his silenced phone buzz and pass along the message.

With that finished, I said, "Speaking of family, should we call anybody for Phillip? He didn't mention anyone by name, and I didn't see any emergency contacts in his wallet."

We all drew blanks. Leaving the guys in the waiting area with Quin's paperwork, I returned to Phillip's bedside. Dr. Nielsen appeared to be stitching the muscle layer of his arm back together. I saw a glint of white bone before turning my eyes squarely to Phillip. I gulped and tried not to show that I found anything upsetting.

His breathing, short and shallow, told me that he was clearly more distressed than I was, and I felt bad for leaving him alone for so long. Taking his right hand, I planted myself on the edge of the bed and told him I was there to stay. He squeezed me tight.

"Is there anyone you want me to call?" I asked him.

He thought for a long moment and then shook his head slightly. "No."

I knew Phillip was a loner, but surely there was someone he'd want called, someone who would be worried about him — his parents, a cousin, a friend. Gently I asked him again.

"No," he repeated. "I'll call my folks later. Not right now."

Shivering under the thin blanket, he looked about 10 years old. I put down my clipboard and pressed my hand to his cheek, unstuck a few curls that blood had glued to his skin. As he closed his eyes and absorbed my touch, I wondered when was the last time someone had made contact with him for the sole purpose of connection, of kindness. I vowed to do more of it.

Nielsen's voice jolted him awake again. "Mr. Davis! Stay with me, now."

So I talked quietly to Phillip, held his hand and rubbed his free arm while the suture needle flashed in my peripheral vision. I told him stories about my friends at home, asking occasional questions to keep him anchored. The electronic monitor above his head showed his pulse slowing, so it seemed to help.

When Quin was wheeled back from X-ray, I stepped over for a moment to tell him his brothers had come. More alert now, to my relief, he brightened upon hearing this news. A nurse disappeared and came back with the other two in tow. Together they offered prayers of thanks for the fracture-free X-rays. Then the needle came out for Quin's stitches, sending the ashen Quentin back to the waiting room to call their mother.

Things wrapped up at about the same time, Quin with eight stitches in his scalp, Phillip with five times as many on the inside and outside of his arm and a sling to keep it still. I listened closely to all the doctors' instructions. Quill went to the pharmacy for their antibiotics and pain pills while Quentin wrangled two cabs. When we eased them out through the automatic sliding doors, it was nearly midnight. I wondered if anyone would be waiting up for us back at the hotel.

Everyone was. They came streaming out the front door as soon as I stepped out of the first taxi and opened Phillip's door. With my arm around his waist, I felt the deep tremble in his body as he received careful hugs from the whole company. He was running on empty. A glance showed Quin just as exhausted, unsteady on his feet despite support from his brothers on both sides. I got the convoy moving toward their rooms.

"Quentin!" Bill barked as we started across the lobby.

"Not now, Bill."

"Boy, don't you — "

"I said not now." Quentin did not turn around, but his tone stopped his uncle cold. I was certain that Q had never stood up to Bill like that before.

* * *

It was a long night.

Phillip, though physically and emotionally wrung out, was still too jangled to sleep. He accepted my help getting out of the remains of his jacket and shirt. The pants he managed himself, trading them for sweatpants. Then I settled him in bed, sitting up, and he told me shakily what had happened. The story was short.

"When we came offstage, it was really dark and we couldn't see. You know, because we were still adjusted to the stage lights. I bumped into Quin when he stopped. I didn't really hear because it was so loud outside. Then something heavy dragged me down and I was just stunned. I got up and went over to lean against the wall. But I didn’t even know I was cut until — until — I saw Quin had fallen and I reached out, I was going to help him, and I saw . . . my arm . . . was dripping. But I didn't really see . . . it happened so fast," he finished.

He raised his unsteady right hand to push back his hair and ran into the stuck strands again. Taking a closer look at his fingers, he flinched away from the blood dried in his cuticles and under his nails.

"Oh. I need to . . . wash my hands," he said faintly. He was shivering in earnest now, juddering the bed.

"Stay here." I pressed him back. "I'll get some water."

I went into the bathroom and filled the ice bucket with hot water. I carried it and soap, washcloths and towels back into the main room.

"Soak your hand," I said, guiding it into the bucket. "I'll get the rest."

I wet and soaped a cloth and started on his face. He'd managed to get blood all over himself, even in his ear and down his neck. After resisting for a moment, he closed his eyes and relaxed a little, letting the warm water do its work.

I got the worst of it out of his hair, then turned to his hands. I raked his nails across the soap and scrubbed the right hand. The left I washed gently but no less thoroughly, checking discretely to make sure circulation was still warming his fingertips. Then I worked lotion into his hands, massaging acupressure points to ease his nerves. After 20 minutes, his skin was clean and the shivering had stopped, allowing fatigue to creep to the fore.

Now that he was cleansed, I felt filthier than ever. I needed to get next to some soap and water myself ASAP.

"Phillip, I need to shower now," I told him.

His sinking eyelids opened again in panic. "But you're staying here, right?"

"Of course," I soothed. "I just need to get my stuff in here."

I rang Q on his cell phone, figuring he wouldn't be sleeping either. I got his report on Quin's condition — sleeping but wakeable — and his and Quill's — emotionally wrecked but still wired on worry. Nothing unexpected.

I got to the point of my call, saying, "I need one of you to bring me my luggage from my room and keep Phillip company while I shower."

"Oh, sure." After a quick conference on the other end, he told me Quill was on his way. I gave him Phillip's room number and hung up. A moment later I heard the soft rap at the door. I gave Quill my room key and told him to bring me everything.

I had not unpacked much — I never did — so he was back with my suitcase in just a few minutes. He stepped hesitantly into the room, remembering how Phillip had looked the last time he'd seen him. I had already removed everything blood-stained to the bathroom.

Then I realized it was me he was staring at. I wondered just how much of a mess I was.

I steered Quill to the chair beside the bed and listened to the low murmur of his voice as he offered to pray with Phillip, something I had not thought to do. I squeezed my bag into the tiny bathroom with me and shut the door.

I stripped hastily, peeling away my clothes where they had adhered to my skin. Everything went straight into the extra little trash bag. I did not look in the mirror. I did not want to remember an image of myself covered in a friend's blood.

I was under the spray before the water had even warmed up. Only then did I acknowledge to myself how grossed out, how just plain upset, I was by the night's events.

It took me as long to clean myself up as it had to do Phillip, and I was scrubbing a lot harder. There was blood in my hair, in the creases of my elbows and knees, even between my toes. There was no pretending I was not personally affected by what had happened.

At last I felt I'd done enough. I dried off, dressed in clean clothes, combed my hair. I rejoined the men in the main room feeling tired but at least somewhat renewed.

I could see that I'd emerged at just the right time. Though he cared about Phillip, Quill was anxious to get back to his brother. I felt his restlessness in the hug I could finally accept.

"Thanks," I said, giving him a last pat. "Now go on." He hurried out gratefully, and I settled in to wait out the night.

Phillip slept, eventually, but not deeply and not well. When he relaxed too far, the accident replayed itself in his mind's eye, bringing him awake with a grasp. The TV provided inadequate, impersonal distraction. I moved to sit on the bed with him, talking his fears away so he could rest a little more.

While he dozed, I made a quick blog entry, knowing Bill had already announced the accident at the concert, and set up a special forum in the Basement for get-well wishes. I dropped a few lines in my online journal as well, knowing my friends would respond with as much concern for me as for those who were injured. And then I wrote it all out in my most private pen-and-paper journal, again and again until I could think about something else.

Toward dawn, I dropped into a light alpha state, resting but not really sleeping, still alert for Phillip's stirring. When I roused us for the morning departure, my eyes, like a cheap detective novel, were hot and gritty.

Bad analogy, Kielle. You need some real sleep.

oops, I did it again

OK, I know this is wrong of me, but during a three-hour meeting this morning, I cranked out a few more pages longhand. They're going on the need-to-type pile.

And there's more!

I got a good bit of writing done today, but I'll have to wait until Tuesday or Wednesday to get it typed up. We're talking four hours on the couch with a notebook and a cat in my lap, a sore butt and major writer's cramp. And I'm not even done with this bit; there's more to be written. Well, at least I'll know where to pick up when I start again.

I've heard of some writers who will leave off a day's work in the middle of a sentence so that when they sit down the next day, they can start writing immediately, with no excuse for blockage. Not a bad idea, but one I haven't tried myself.

Day 2, continued

Day 2: working on the bus, continued

My work-writing done for the moment, I switched gears to compose a post for my online personal journal, the locked page that only friends with permission could read. The first couple paragraphs came easily: my harried journey to Atlanta, the sensory overload of the first concert, the computer security incidents.

But then I bogged down. I wanted to speculate about who set off the alarm and why I suspected who I did, but I couldn't. Part of my contract was an agreement not to cast any member of the caravan in a bad light, and I'd be violating it if I wrote that Raleigh La Pierre struck me as a weasel and Nancy Wainwright as a sneaky bitch — even on an allegedly secure site. I couldn't send that sort of talk out in e-mail, either, certainly not from the company computer nor even from my personal one. Nor would it be all right to writer about personal conversations I'd had with any of the Caravaners, even the pleasant ones.

Basically, I couldn't write about work. And that sucked. So I shrugged and wrote about the gag order and my dislike of it. This was going to bug me, though. If I was living and breathing work every moment I was on tour, what was I supposed to talk about with my friends? I already felt geographically disconnected from my real life. Not being able to share much of my day-to-day life was going to make the isolation worse. And I didn't want to be that person who only listened (or read) and didn't contribute to the conversation.

Well, perhaps I was forecasting doom prematurely. I'd just have to wait and see.

My eyes were ready for a break by then, so I locked the computer and stood up to stretch. I ran through the loosening-up routine that was practically hardwired into my system from years of T'ai Chi classes. Working from the top down, I limbered neck, shoulders, hips and legs in turn. Then I moved to the common area to get down on the floor and do a better job on my back, which kinks up if I sit too long, especially slouched over a keyboard. I ended in yoga's prayer position on my knees, head to the floor, arms stretched before me, allowing my lumbar muscles to release.

"Excuse me." I heard Nancy's voice above me. She sounded exasperated. I concentrated on relaxing.

"Excuse me," she said again impatient now. Suspecting I knew what was coming, I breathed deeper into my stretch.

"Kielle! Excuse me!" Third time's a charm. I turned my head enough for one eye to peer up at her.

Imperiously she said, "You're blocking the cupboard. You're going to have to move."

Have to? No. I did not have to. Nor did I want to now, even though I'd been just about to get up anyway. The quickest way to get me to not do something is to tell me I have to do it. I don't wear pink. I don't play dumb to attract boys. And I don't interrupt a good stretch just because some screechy bleached blonde tells me I have to.

Sink the chi, Kielle, sink the chi, I counseled myself. There was no sense getting worked up over our first chat of the day. Also, it was very un-Taoist of me to be bothered by Nancy at all. One of my favorite lines from the good book, the Tao Te Ching, says that if you don't put yourself in a position of contention, no one will contend with you. I wanted to be uncontentious even more than I wanted to be stubborn. This time, anyway.

I turned over, lengthened my spine one last time, and tucked my knees up over my right shoulder in an easy backward roll.

"No problem," I said, rising smoothly to my feet. I stepped around her and back to my seat.

After a few moments of rummaging, Nancy walked past me again, empty-handed. Though I recognized the thought as ungenerous, I wondered whether she had really needed something from that cabinet or had just wanted to make me move.

Logging back on, I went to the Praise Caravan bulletin board, the Church Basement, to find out what the fans were saying. I'd been hanging around the Basement since I got the job, browsing the archives and getting to know the terrain. This was a huge task, as there were a couple years' worth of stored material covering numerous topics. There was a forum dedicated to each act, one for music and lyrics, a couple for religious topics, one for stories about traveling to concerts, and a couple for general chitchat unrelated to the Caravan.

The boards were busy, boasting a hundred or more posts a day when the buses were idle and more when the Caravan was on the road. It was a lot to keep up with; I could see why Raleigh had become swamped and given up. Fortunately, I can speed-read like nobody's business, and of course I remember it all.

Through my reading I'd gotten to know who the regulars were and could tell you without checking the stats who had written the most posts on particular topics and the most overall. I'd learned who was acquainted with whom, both online and off, which Basement dwellers were friends and which didn't get along.

I'd also followed them outside the Basement to their fan sites and the vast web of interconnected journals and blogs. That was where the real action was. Away from the watchful eyes of the larger community, praise and bile flowed freely and in roughly equal amounts. Scanning the journals was how I'd learned that certain diehard fans claimed to have done everything from exchange e-mail to the horizontal mambo with various Caravaners, and who was sure who was lying about it. Thanks to the terabytes of photos the fans posted, I'd been able to put quite a few names and faces together. I was looking forward to meeting some of these people in person at concerts. They were interesting for their own sakes, of course, but also because I was a writer on the lookout for good material.

And then (speaking of writing) there was the fanfic. Oh my giggling goddess, the fanfic. Fiction written by fans. They wrote poems and stories, long and short, featuring their favorite Caravaners and, almost always, themselves in one guise or another. I read fantasies about meeting the performers, becoming friends with them, being asked to join the company and — I suppose this should not have shocked me so much — getting the musicians into bed. Women wrote most of the sexy stuff, so the handsome Kelly brothers starred in a lot of it.

I mostly avoided the subgenre of slashfic: romantic and erotic stories centering on unorthodox pairings like Quill/Shyrene or Bill/Nancy, or same-sex match-ups like Quentin/Phillip or even a Sarah/Shyrene/Tiffany three-way. I wondered whether the Caravaners knew this stuff existed. If they didn't, I wasn't going to be the one to tell them.

Today, however, I wasn’t interested in fanfic. I was curious to see what people were saying about me following my debut. It wasn't hard to find the discussion; someone had started a new topic labeled "Kyle Hughes?!!" at 10:07 the previous night, before the echoes of the final encore had even faded away. She's spelled my name wrong.

I took a deep breath and plunged in.

The reactions were generally positive, though tentatively so. I was being given the benefit of the doubt for now. There was wide-ranging speculation about what I would be doing as blogger and webmaster and what changes I would make. A few people either didn't realize or didn't care that I could and would read the boards; some unkind remarks were made about my appearance and my qualifications for the job. A few fans even felt that, given their seniority as frequent contributors, they should have been offered the webmaster position themselves. Hmph.

Quentin cast his gaze across the aisle to see what was on my screen.

"Reading your reviews?" he asked.

Well, that answered one question: Quentin had recognized the Church Basement at a glance.

"Of course," I replied, a little embarrassed at having my vanity so quickly exposed.

"I'd tell you to remember the good ones and forget the bad ones, but I guess you can't do that."

So, he'd heard me explaining my memory to Bill. I had a feeling Quentin Kelly didn't forget much, either.

"No," I agreed, "but I can be selective about what I choose to dwell on>"

"That'll have to do." With a nod he turned back to his own computer, which was displaying a CAD drawing. His bio said Quentin was an architect. Apparently I wasn't the only one working on the road.

more coming

Due to the craptacular driving conditions, I stayed home from class last night and got some work done. I sat down with the intention of merely noting in my journal that I'd sent off a check for a ticket to the Signature Sound concert in Eau Claire next month and ended up writing something I hadn't even thought about before. Hm. I'll try to get it typed up this weekend.

Girl Meets Boy, continued

He strode off toward the sagging food tables with three Kellys close behind. I turned my chair a few degrees so I could watch discretely (I hoped). People moved aside for Ben without realizing they did so, stood back fro him a few inches without meaning to. It wasn't awe or fear that made them wary, I thought, but uncertainty. They all knew the stories the Kelly women had told me about Ben and many more, and they were not sure how to treat him.

I did not wonder whether he was aware of the reaction. Peabody was a private detective, observation his stock in trade. Of course he was aware. But I did wonder how he felt about it. And then I didn't. I was the black sheep of the Caravan tour. I knew exactly what those speculative glances felt like.

When they returned a few minutes later, Ben set how own paper plate, already drooping, on his chair, then shook out a napkin and laid it in my lap. He presented my dinner with a flourish and a French accent.

"I believe Madame ordered le bouef a la brisket, les baked beans, le salad du potato, le cornbread avec honey, le corn on le cob, et le piece de resistance, le Jell-O salad avec les petite marshmallows. Bon appetit."

Nolie fluttered her eyelashes and made kissy lips when Ben turned to retrieve his food. I found it hard to glare at her and suppress a giggle at the same time.

Dinner conversation was light, revolving around food and other family barbecues. Ben's eyes, though merry, were never still. He scanned the shifting crowd so relentlessly that I finally asked whether he was watching for someone in particular.

"What? No, just . . . watching."

"Benjie's always on the lookout for the unusual," Quin explained.

"You'd be surprised what I learn by keeping my eyes open," Ben drawled. "For instance, Nolie, did you know that your husband here — "

"Ben! Don't bother the lady while she's eating."

"Don’t interrupt, dear. It's not polite. Do go on, Benjie."

"Thank you. He has a tendency to — "

"Say, isn't that Uncle Hoppy over there? Maybe we should so say hello. Come on, honey." Quin made as if to rise.

"Give it up," his wife laughed. "You know I'll find out anyway."

Ben turned to me and did a double take at my plate.

"Madame does not adore le Jell-O salad avec les petite marshmallows?" he asked solicitously.

"'Fraid not."

"Mais por quoi?"

"Two reasons: le Jell-O and les petite marshmallows. Two great tastes that do not taste great together."

A wash of honeysuckle scent distracted me from the banter. A moment later, Nancy sauntered up with a small square of dry cornbread balanced on a napkin in her palm.

"Well, there you all are," she said, as if we'd been hiding. "Enjoying your dinner, I hope. And speaking of poor taste," she turned toward Ben and me, "I just heard how the two of you met. Honestly, Benjamin, is it not possible for you to have a relationship with a woman that's not based on violence?"

Shock silenced us for several seconds. When Quin finally spoke, I realized I had never heard him truly angry before. Its normal warmth gone, his voice sounded alien and dangerous.

"Nancy, that is a terrible thing to say."

She could not possibly have missed the dagger glares from all sides, but she laughed them off. "Oh, lighten up! What happened to y'all's sense of humor?" And away she went, getting the last word once again.

Leah, on Ben's other side, reached over to give his arm a squeeze. "Don't listen to her, Benjie. Nobody thinks that."

With an effort, he refocused his gaze away from Nancy's retreating back and dampened the fury in it.

"Thank you. You're very kind. Incorrect, but very kind." He patted her hand.

Clearly there was more going on here than I understood. Nancy's remark had been rude, yes; an accusation of violence against women could not be construed as playful. But apparently it held some more personal significance as well.

Sensing my confusion, Ben turned to me with a sigh. In a flat voice he said, "You might as well know, Kielle. You'll hear it soon enough anyway. I was married for a few years to a demon named Melissa. Missy. Missy used to beat the shit out of me, or try to, at fairly regular intervals. And now she's in prison for trying to kill me."

My mouth fell open in dismay. I'd known my pen pal Peabody was divorced, but I hadn't known why. All I could think of to say was, "Holy shit, Ben! That's awful."

"It was," said Quin. "And there are some people who can't believe Ben never hit her back. But he never raised a hand to that woman even at the worst times."

"And of course, there are those who also believe that I'm less of a man for not defending myself," Ben added wryly. He had a right to be bitter. If he struck his wife, he was an abuser; if he didn't, a wimp. No win.

"But you did defend yourself. Just not by hitting her," Nolie reminded him.

"Yeah." Ben sounded suddenly tired. The laugh lines around his eyes, which I'd been admiring earlier, were nowhere to be seen now. I laid a hand on his shoulder.

"That just makes what Nancy said all the more hurtful. That was extra mean, even for her. She is officially the uber-bitch."

"The uberest," Nolie agreed. Nods all around.

"All right, then, that's settled. So let's not dwell." Ben slapped a hand on his knee. "We need cake." He rose and started collecting dirty plates. Quin joined him, and they detoured past the garbage cans on their way to the dessert table. Nolie waited until they were out of earshot before she spoke.

"It was worse than he'll ever say," she told me grimly. "That scar on his arm?" She rubbed the outside of her own left forearm. "That's from where she came after him with a crowbar that last time. If he hadn't gotten that arm up over his head in time, she really would have killed him."

Leah added, "It was a compound fracture — bone sticking out, blood everywhere. And she did this in our driveway. In front of my child." That was perhaps the worst offense in a mother's book.

"They had been living in New Orleans," Leah went on, "but things had gotten so bad Benjie left and came back here. Just for a week or so, to clear his head, he said, but we were all hoping he wouldn't go back."

Nolie picked up the thread. "He was staying at Maura's with her and Quill. They'd dragged him to church, then over to Q and Leah's for Sunday brunch. When he got out of the car, she came screaming out from behind the garage and laid into him. Apparently she'd followed him to Atlanta to get revenge for his leaving her.

"Anyway, she missed with the first swing and took out the windshield of Maura's Lincoln. The second time, she swung overhand. He was trapped between cars and couldn't sidestep her like he usually did."

"The crunching sound . . . it was horrible." Leah shuddered.

"Quin managed to grab her from behind while Quill wrestled the crowbar away from her. Leah ran inside with Jocelyn to call 911. Ben just knelt there in the yard while she fought Quin and screamed at him, and wouldn't let anybody touch him."

"Quentin fainted dead away at the sight of the blood. He keeled at Jocelyn's birth, too," Leah put in with a shake of her head.

"So the cops hauled Missy off and the ambulance took Ben. His arm needed surgery. His sister Dani — she's an attorney — made sure Missy was prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And maybe a little bit beyond. And no one knows what Dani said to her, but Missy signed divorce papers within 24 hours. Then she went up the river. And that was that," Nolie finished.

"For most of us, anyway," Leah said. "Ben doesn't regret never hitting Missy back, but I don't think he's forgiven himself for the lapse in judgment he made when he married her."

I could relate. I had chosen badly, too. But not that badly. I whistled through my teeth. "That is one hell of a story."

The men reappeared then with slabs of warm chocolate cake and bottles of cold beer, which worked magic on our mood. Nancy's mean-spiritedness was banished for the rest of the evening.

Food and drink mellowed me so thoroughly that I wasn't even surprised an hour later when Ben joined the band onstage to sing a couple of blues numbers in a whiskey growl, nor when he piggybacked me to the bonfire, nor when he carried me to Maura's car around midnight. It had taken distressingly little time to grow used to having him at my side.

"What time do you have to leave in the morning?" he asked, leaning into the car window on my side. He smelled of wood smoke.

Maura answered for me. "We'll have to leave the house by 9:30 to get to the airport on time."

"May I call in before that and check on my handiwork?" He nodded toward my ankle, still wrapped and sore but no longer encumbered by ice packs.

"Of course, dear. Come for breakfast."

To me he said, "If you don't mind."

"I don't mind." I wanted to mind, or at least not to care, but no such luck. I was already looking forward to seeing him again.

"Until tomorrow, then." he took the hand I offered and pressed it to his lips, which were warm and soft, not dry and rough like a hard man's ought to be. Oh dear, I thought. Oh dear.

off the roll

I was feeling like I was really on a roll there for a couple days, but then . . . well, real life reared its ugly head. And then there was that whole robbery thing last week that proved truly distracting, plus a weekend full of kung fu demos and potluck dinners . . .

Excuses, excuses! Tonight I'm going to bang out one more scene, I swear to god. No online sudoku or Moonlighting on DVD until I get something done.