The Naked Novel

Get in the car

2006-11-13T19:43:00.000-07:00

Ben's resolve lasted longer than I thought it would. It was nearly 50 miles before he spoke.

"Kielle?" he asked cautiously.

I suppressed a sigh. Lisa had made me promise I would not be rude to him. He was, after all, doing me a service. I could be indifferent, but not cruelly so. Some sarcasm was inevitably going to creep in, but bitchiness was not allowed. Besides, we were going to have to talk about the elephant in the living room — the death of our relationship — sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner.

Tipping the book to my chest to hide the distracting text, I said, "Yes?"

"Do you hate me?"

Right to the point, as always.

"No. Hate is too much work."

"Have you forgiven me?"

"Not yet."

"Do you think we can be friends again?" He glanced hopefully over at me.

"Right now, I am not so inclined."

He tightened his two-handed grip on the steering wheel. "What would it take to get us back on a friendly footing?"

An act of God and some time travel, I wanted to retort. But that would violate the agreement. Instead, I considered for a moment, then replied as neutrally as I could, "More time and space than we have between here and Atlanta."

When his eyes returned to the road, they looked wet. I went back to my book.

* * * * *

In the late morning heat, I dozed.

The previous night had been a long one. After a tearful long-distance reunion with the Kellys, I sat down at Lisa's computer and checked my e-mail for the first time in weeks. Hundreds of messages had piled up, most of them relating to Nancy's death and the events that followed, especially Quill's laryngitis. Friends and fans wanted to know what I knew of what had happened and how everyone was handling the tragedy. I felt a little guilty for leaving people in the dark, but not much. For a while there, I'd been in no shape to take care of myself, let alone anyone — everyone — else.

Quite a few messages also inquired after, first, my health, then my absence from the Church Basement and the blog, then my sudden departure from the Caravan. Bill had apparently announced, after the questions grew loud and insistent, that I was no longer with the company and had refused to elaborate for reasons of confidentiality. Naturally, this lead to wild speculation about the reason for my departure. The most horrifying theory mentioned was that I was pregnant with Bill's love child and needed bed rest. As if!

Next, I'd visited the Church Basement, figuring simply reading the bulletin boards would not violate my promise never to touch them again. I wanted to see what people knew and what they thought they knew about what had happened. But the site was out of order, crashed. I could not see the posts without going in through the back door, and that I was not willing to do. Instead, I spent hours reading the fans' blogs and websites, and the renegade bulletin board some of them had thrown together when the Basement flooded.

I was very touched by the amount of concern the Caravan faithful had shown for my well-being and did not want to leave them hanging. So I composed a quick message explaining that I had been re-injured, more seriously this time, and that Bill had subsequently released me from my contract. The smart ones would see that euphemism for what it was, and the rest would simply think he'd given me time off to recuperate.

I also described how I'd been out of touch, convalescing at a friend's house, and had not learned of Nancy's death until just yesterday. Stretching the truth a bit, I said I was as upset as they were about it. But, I added, I was on my way to Atlanta to be with the Kellys and promised to write more soon.

I sent the note to a few dozen of the most active fans and asked them to spread the word. That would have to do for the moment.

Then I had spent a couple hours reading news reports to see if Ben had left out any of the particulars of the story. Typically, he had not, and Q and Quin had supplied perhaps more detail than I was ready to absorb. By three a.m., I'd been too sandy-eyed to stare at the screen any longer. I'd stuffed the suitcase with the belongings Lisa had gathered up for me and tumbled into bed.

Anxious to be on my way, I'd already been up when Ben woke at eight. After his hurried shower, we'd hit the road with breakfast in hand. Now, as the sun rose higher, my eyelids sank lower. I drifted into half-sleep that went undisturbed until Ben slowed to exit for a food and fuel break.

Ben fills Kielle in

2006-11-04T20:31:00.000-07:00

Ben sat stiffly on the leather couch and accepted a peace offering of water. I eased into the chair facing him with Lisa perched on the arm, unconsciously guarding my injured side. We waited impatiently for him to drain his glass and start his story.

"I didn't even know what had happened myself until a couple days ago," he began. "I've been in Tokyo working for the past month." Judging from his appearance, I would have guessed he'd spent more time in dojos and bars than boardrooms, but I didn't really care.

"All the Kellys tried to reach me, but I was staying at a business associate's house, and his teenage kids didn't relay the messages. Plus, I'd managed to break my cell phone the first week I was there, and rather than take the time to replace it, I'd just been borrowing Taka's — my host's. So I wasn't picking up voice mail, either.

"After about a week of getting no response from me, Q finally called my office and had them track me down. He was frantic by the time I called him back. Thought I was either dead or avoiding him on purpose, and he couldn't decide which was worse.

"So he filled me in on you and Quill getting into that brawl and you taking the hit for him." Ben paused, a concerned look on his face, clearly about to express his sympathy for my injury. But something about the set of my jaw convinced him to scratch that notion and keep going.

"Quill was mighty shaken by that encounter, as I'm sure you know. And he was even more unhappy with Nancy for being so jealous of his attention to you. So he was already feeling torn up when she decided to get her little revenge."

I flinched inwardly, remembering again the deliberate crunch of her elbow against my side, the paralyzing shock of bone piercing flesh, the losing battle I'd fought to draw breath as my lung collapsed. Normally I bounce back fast, but I wasn't over that trauma yet. Not by a long shot. Sensing my discomfort, Lisa rubbed my shoulder reassuringly.

"That was the final straw for Quill. Her deliberately hurting you was bad enough, but nearly killing you, well, that he couldn't forgive. After leaving you at the hospital, he went to Nancy's room to demand his ring back. And he walked in on her and Jimmy."

Lisa and I exchanged a look. I wasn't so sure I'd gotten the worst of Nancy's attentions that day after all.

Ben went on, his voice bitter. "The lovebirds apparently heaped all kinds of contempt on poor Quill — Q didn't elaborate on that part — and sent him away a complete wreck. His brothers thought he was about ready to have a breakdown right then and there, and Q told Bill they were taking the next couple days off. Naturally, that did not go over well."

"Aha," I interrupted, understanding beginning to dawn. "So Bill came to me the next morning — before you even got there," I added to Lisa, "and fired my ass. He also told me that I was not to contact any of the Kellys at any time for any reason, at their request. He said they were so disappointed — that's the word he used, disappointed — in me for disrupting their livelihood and destroying Quill's engagement that they wanted nothing more to do with me, ever. He said that if I cared at all about them, I would honor their wishes."

"So that's why you didn't call," Ben nodded. "Well, the plot thickens. Want to guess what Bill told Q?"

"Oh, let me," said Lisa, her voice dripping scorn. She had never hidden her dislike of my boss and was now only too happy to give vent to it. "He told Q, maybe the whole company, that Kielle wanted nothing more to do with the people who had made her life hell for the past year, especially those who had nearly gotten her killed, and that they were not to contact her for any reason."

Ben nodded again. "Bingo. So they didn't."

Shaking her head and muttering, Lisa rose to refill his water glass and our sangrias. As soon as she had sat down again, he resumed his tale.

"So there's Quill. His fiancée has dumped him to fool around with a guy who'd been like an uncle to him. His best friend is in the hospital, but she's apparently dumped him, too. And he's supposed to put on a happy face and sing joy and praise like nothing's wrong at all.

"Two days later when the Caravan is in Memphis, he gets a text message from Nancy saying, 'We should talk. Come see me.' So he stews about it for half an hour or so, then finally goes to her room. According to Q, the police asked him why he'd answer a summons from a woman who'd treated him so badly. He said he wasn't considering taking her back, but he was hoping maybe she'd explain or maybe even apologize."

"That bitch? Fat chance," snorted Lisa.

"Pretty much," Ben agreed. "When he gets there, he finds the door unlocked, so he assumes she's waiting for him and walks on in. And there she is, laid out on the bed as if in her coffin — dead as hell."

"Poor Quill," I murmured. "Poor, poor Quill."

"He checks her out, finds no pulse, calls 911, and waits for the police. Gives them his statement, puts his head in his hands, and . . . end of story.

"He didn't say anything more that day, and nobody pressed him. It was natural he'd be in shock and not want to talk about it. Next day, same thing. His brothers sat with him, but he just stared out the window. It wasn't until the third day that he opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. He tried to speak several more times, getting more and more upset each time, and finally just collapsed into a chair like a broken doll. He's been that way ever since. Quin describes it as a boat drifting a little farther from shore with each wave that rolls in."

"That's . . . awful," said Lisa. "His beautiful, beautiful voice . . . " I could only nod, my own throat choked with unshed tears. I snuffled for a moment, then firmed up.

"I want to go back. If you think they'll have me," I added, suddenly unsure. If the Kellys believed what Bill had told them, they'd want no part of me.

"They do," Ben said firmly, laying my fears to rest. "Q started trying to find you at the same time he started calling me. By then he'd had some serious words with Bill — he didn't elaborate on that, either — and decided he was full of shit. They'd like nothing better than to see you again.

"Frankly, Kielle, they need you," he went on. "They're taking turns keeping an eye on Quill. Nobody has said it out loud, but they're afraid he might hurt himself. But they can't keep it up forever. They're at wits' end. If you came home and showed Quill you hadn't abandoned him after all, well, it wouldn't be a cure, but it might help."

My eyes narrowed at his use of the word "home." Atlanta was not my home. We had talked at one time about making it my home, at least part-time, but those days were long past. I figured it was fatigue that let him slip back to the old pattern.

Then I backtracked to something else he'd mentioned.

"You said Q had tried to find me. But I never heard from him. — Well, I've been offline for the past two weeks. If he e-mailed me — "

"He did."

" — I never saw it. Yet here you are." My inquiring look invited him to explain.

"Oh. Yeah. That. As soon as Q got a hold of me, he asked if I knew where you were. I didn't, since you hadn't gone back to Minneapolis. And I was too busy getting myself out of Tokyo to do much about it for a few days. I gave it some thought, though — a lot, actually, the whole flight — and after I'd been to see my cousins, I started checking my theories. I finally figured you'd be with Lisa, and where she lived and all that. And . . . here I am," he finished.

"Must be nice for them having a detective in the family," said Lisa.

"You could have called," I pointed out.

Abashed, Ben studied the floor. "Yes'm, I could've. But I didn't know if you'd talk to me on the phone."

"Probably not," I replied coolly. The real answer was "Hell no."

He peeked up hopefully. "I'll drive you back if you want, Kielle. I know you're not supposed to fly for a while because of the thoracostomy. So . . . I could drive you. I know you're not happy with me right now. You probably hate me. But I won't bother you. I'll just drive."

He was quite right. Driving the 1,500 miles from Taos to Atlanta with the man who broke my heart, plus a couple broken ribs, was not my idea of a good time. However, it looked like my best option at this point. He was right about the air travel; car and train were my only current options. Ben was here, and he was willing. If he could keep his mouth shut, or if I could drown him out with headphones, I could tolerate his presence for a few days for a good cause.

I looked to Lisa for confirmation. She nodded.

"All right," I said. "Let's go."

Ben huffed out the rest of his tension and was abruptly overtaken by a huge yawn.

"How long since you slept?" Lisa asked.

Ben went blank for a minute, and I saw just how tired he was. He'd been running on fumes to accomplish his mission of finding me, but his tank was empty now.

"Um . . . couple days? I was awake on the flight from Tokyo, and then I was at Maura's, and the flight here . . . "

"Then you're not going anywhere just now," Lisa pronounced. "Just stretch out there on the couch while Kielle calls Atlanta. We'll get you up in the morning."

He sat there glazed for a moment, then pulled off his shoes and socks, lay back, and passed out.

"That was quick," I observed. We moved into the kitchen so as not to disturb him.

"He came around the world for you."

"For Quill," I corrected.

"For you, too," she insisted. "He could have called and told me why, just like he did at the door, and gotten the message to you a lot sooner. But instead, he came all the way out here in person to get you back."

I shook my head. "No way. He's driving me back, not getting me back."

"But it's pretty obvious he wants you back. FYI."

"Fuck that," I said succinctly. "He had his chance."

"And he doesn't get another one?"

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," I quoted.

"He could have bought you a train ticket instead of renting a big cushy Lincoln. He's hoping to change your mind."

"Well, he can keep on hoping. It's not going to happen," I said firmly. "Now where's my phone?"

Ben brings the news

2006-11-03T19:41:00.000-07:00

[Note: This takes place about ¾ of the way through the story. Kielle and Ben have broken up messily. Kielle is recuperating from that and her brush with death at her friend Lisa's house in Taos, NM.]

By 7:00, the day had cooled enough to make the patio inviting. I lay propped at a 45-degree angle on a chaise, not exactly comfortable, but less uncomfortable than I'd been in a while. I savored the pleasures of the evening: a new Jonathan Kellerman novel in my left hand and a cool glass of sangria in my right. A few feet away, Lisa browsed through accumulated professional journals and sipped from her own glass in time to the mariachi music on the radio. I was beginning to think life and I just might be on speaking terms again.

Neither of us noticed the doorbell at first, but its persistent chiming finally stood out from the music. Lisa put down her Journal of Victorian Culture with a sigh and rose to go answer the door.

Immersed in my book, I didn't notice she'd stepped back onto the patio until she said my name. Her posture alone would have told me something amiss even if the hesitation in her voice had not.

"Who's at the door?" I asked warily, stomach tightening.

"Um, it's Ben. Your Ben," she said diffidently.

"Why that punk-ass motherf — " I began, rocketing from serene to pissed off in less than a second.

Lisa held up a hand to forestall my protest. "Hold on. Hold on. I think you want to hear this."

"What could that asshat pendejo possibly have to say that I would want to hear?" I snarled.

"He swears to God he's not here on his own behalf. He says it's about Quill Kelly, and it's serious."

A new fear squeezed my stomach. "Quill? What happened? Is he okay?"

"Ben didn't go into it with me. Said he'd rather tell you directly. But he also said he'd give me the story to relay if you won't see him." She glanced over her shoulder toward the inside of the house, where Ben was apparently still waiting.

Nice tactic, Shea, I thought. Jolt me with allegedly shocking news, then prove your humility by offering to speak through an intermediary. Don't shoot the messenger, is that it?

"Is he twanging your bullshit radar?" Lisa had a nearly infallible nose for falsehood; she'd pegged my ex-husband for a liar the moment they met and was notorious among her students for being unsnowable. If she said Ben was full of it, he most likely was. But she hadn't sent him packing, which made me think she believed him. And that worried me even more, because it meant Quill really was in trouble.

Lisa shook her shaggy auburn curls. "I think he's being straight. He has news he believes you'll want to hear, whether it comes from him or not."

I was setting my book and glass aside before she finished. "Help me up."

Practiced at it by now, she levered me out of the chair with a hand under my elbow. It was getting easier. I hardly held my breath at all.

"He's on the front porch. And he looks like hell, if that helps," she added. "He looks beat to shit, and I don't think he's slept in a while."

I mulled that over during my few strides to the door. Had Ben and Quill been in an accident? Wrecked their motorcycles or something?

Ben turned to face me as I opened the door. I hadn't seen him in about two months, and Lisa was right, the interval had not been kind to him. His hair was buzzed almost to the scalp. Healing scuffmarks reddened one brow, one cheekbone and most of his knuckles, and I suspected his clothes hid more mat burn.

The T-shirt and jeans hung baggy on his frame. He'd lost at least 10 pounds where he'd had none to spare, which combined with the brutal haircut to make his angular face look gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. He needed a shave. When the breeze shifted, I could smell that he was a few days off a serious bender, and he'd taken up smoking again. Not exactly an endearing image to present if he was hoping to win back my regard.

He weathered my scrutiny stoically, but the hands jammed into his pockets were clenched.

"Kielle," he said politely.

I didn't waste time on small talk. "Lisa said something about Quill. Is he okay?"

"Yes and no," Ben replied slowly. "Physically, he's fine. But he's in a terrible depression. He hasn't said a word since Nancy died."

My mind stumbled to catch up. "Wait, what? Nancy died? Nancy Wainwright? When? How?"

"You didn't know?" Green eyes widened in surprise. "Honestly, you didn't?"

"No. What happened?"

Ben slumped as some of his tension drained away. "Oh," he breathed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Oh. You didn't know. That explains so much."

"Explains what? What the hell happened?" I demanded.

"Nancy died two days after Bill fired you. They told me about that. She — it was suicide. Pills."

"Whoa. . . . Shit," was all I could come up with. There were plenty of times I'd wished the calculating little bitch dead, but not really. Not like that. Then a worse thought occurred to me. "Please tell me Quill wasn't the one who found her."

He sighed. "I'm afraid so."

"Ah, shit. Shit!" I said again. "I can't even imagine how awful . . . you said he won't talk about it?"

"He won't talk, period. He gave a very brief report to the police and then clammed up for good. He hasn't spoken a word since that day. Quill's voice . . . it's gone."

Gone. Silenced. For a few moments, I stood mute myself. For Quill Kelly, whose life was song, to be struck dumb was like a painter losing his hands. The thing that made him himself had died, or at least fallen unconscious with shock. I could think of no worse affliction for his psyche.

"Come inside," I said. "Tell me everything."

Not dead, only resting

2006-11-02T18:40:00.000-07:00

If I'd gotten pregnant on the last day I posted here, I would be breastfeeding as I typed right now. That's a long damn time to go without updating. Then again, if I'd gotten pregnant, it would also mean I'd gotten lucky. Damn. Well, real life and real sloth reared their ugly heads, that's all.

I promised myself when I started this project that I would not feel guilty about writing to seldom or too little, and I don't. But I do get annoyed with myself for not making more of an effort. Maybe realizing it's NoNoWriMo reminded me of what I could be doing.

But it's not as I haven't been thinking about the story. I have been, and I do, all the time. There are several more chunks I'd like to bang out when I get — or schedule — a chance. Such as:

Kielle and Ben's first date
Kielle and Ben's last date
how Kielle gets outed as a non-Christian
the big brawl
Kielle's near-death experience
how Kielle and the Caravan part company
the shocking demise of a certain diva bitch
Quill is struck mute with shock
how Kielle finds out about it
the return to Atlanta
healing wounds, mending fences

And of course half the sequel, which revolves around Quill Kelly becoming a major Broadway star and . . . stuff.

Anyway. It's interesting to go back and read what's already there. I hadn't forgotten much of it, and I still like most of it. So I guess it's time to get back to work.

copy cat

2006-03-06T12:44:00.000-07:00

Writerly blather:

I am at this moment having strong plagiaristic urges to write and podcast sci-fi short stories a la Cory Doctorow.

I have two story ideas bobbing around in my mental crockpot, and I promised myself an early birthday present of the podcast-friendly iLife upgrade with my tax refund. All I have to do now is write the stories and learn to podcast. Easy.

Every once in a while I think about taking 6-8 weeks off from T'ai Chi and dedicating my after-work time to writing. Then I hark back to that month I had free last fall and how little of that time I spent writing and wonder if I'd be similarly unproductive with this arrangement.

Alternatively, I think about putting WRITE FICTION on my calendar in three-hour blocks on Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends. I think about rewarding myself with gold stars on days I keep the appointment, and a dozen stars means I get a prize.

I've been frelling away a lot of my free time lately, waiting for inspiration, or at least common sense, to strike. Do you suppose it just did?

Girl Meets Boy, concluded

2006-02-26T20:44:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-02-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-15T19:36:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-13T10:18:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-02-12T20:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-10T20:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-10T07:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-08T20:28:00.000-07:00

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

2006-02-08T09:07:00.000-07:00

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.

useful comments

2006-01-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

Here's a comment I received on the last installment, Girl Meets Boy:

"Ooooh, I like Ben. A lot. Too bad he's about to become taken.

Why is he both Shea and Ben in the narrative? Maybe pick either first or last name and stick with it? (I vote for first name.)"

First: Keep your grubby mitts off Ben Shea. He's mine — er, Kielle's. This should lay to rest any question about whether I'm writing my own fantasy here. Of course I am!

Stick around, though. Ben isn't as perfect as he seems.

Second: D'OH! Yes, I should pick one name and stick with it. Maybe I was trying to convey that he went from stranger to friend in Kielle's mind. But you're right, it looks messy.

Third: I've got the rest of that evening fairly well outlined in my head; just need to sit down and pound it out.

Yeah, I say "just" as if it's so easy to do. But did I mention that I wrote all of Girl Meets Boy longhand in my p&p journal over the course of about 5 hours/2 evenings? Longhand, for god's sake! I don't usually do that, since hello, writer's cramp. But that's how that bit came about. There's something to be said for it; the slower pace of writing longhand forces me to slow my thinking as well and perhaps do a more thorough job of describing things — to produce a painting, not a photograph, to borrow a phrase from the inimitable Sean Altman.

Still crankin'. Stay tuned.

Girl Meets Boy

2006-01-18T19:09:00.000-07:00

[Editor's note: This occurs mid-story when our heroine meets her love interest. It's always very interesting to me to see how different this stuff is on paper as opposed to how it goes in my head.]

The groom's dinner was well underway when we arrived. Roger's parents had quite a spread arranged: a wet bar near the backyard pool, a hog roasting over open coals, a dozen picnic tables beneath the trees, a vast lawn for games, a small stage with amps and speakers for live music and, a couple hundred yards from the house, a pile of wood for a bonfire. It looked like it was going to be quite an evening.

Maura introduced me to the bride, the boys' cousin Danielle Shea, right away and graciously kept me at her side as she mingled with the growing crowd of friends and relatives. Soon someone engaged me in discussing web site design, freeing Maura to continue on her own. I was grateful to the woman chatting to me; I'd felt like a fifth wheel despite Maura's insistence that I was not, but I figured she was just loath to leave a guest home alone.

As my conversation partner moved on, I turned toward the sound of a mufflerless motorcycle roaring up the drive. For a moment I hoped it was Quill, but of course it couldn’t be; no way would Nancy Wainwright show up to a party on the back of a Harley.

Thinking about it, I was glad it wasn't them after all. I wasn't looking forward to matching wits with Nancy here in her element, the social milieu of her future in-laws. She belonged here. I didn't. Chances were good she'd make sure everyone knew it.

Still gazing across the yard, I watched a tall man in black leathers—no helmet—dismount the gleaming machine. He stowed jacket and chaps in the saddlebags flanking the rear seat, revealing a forest green polo shirt tucked into crisp khakis. Quite a contrast between the outer and the inner wardrobe. Wide shoulders, narrow hips. He tucked his sunglasses away and turned toward the pool deck where I stood. I caught my breath.

There he is, I thought.

There who is? I immediately asked. I didn't know. I was sure I had never seen this man before, yet I felt a frisson of recognition. Was it some sort of déjà vu, or did I just like his silhouette against the late afternoon sun?

Stop staring, Kielle, I scolded myself. I turned away and busied myself getting a Coke at the well stocked bar, forcibly keeping my eyes averted from the driveway. That's what a photographic memory is for, doofus. So you don't have to keep staring.

I spent the next half hour circulating, explaining who I was and how I knew the happy couple. My connection to the Kellys proved to be a perfect conversation starter, as everyone knew them and most were related to them somehow. Several people said they followed the PC blog and enjoyed my work, which was very flattering to hear. I was coming to appreciate Southerners' easy small talk, so different from the tight-lipped Northerners I was used to.

Quin and Nolie arrived, followed shortly by Quentin with Leah and Jocelyn. After making the greeting rounds with their husbands and freeing them to catch up with the welter of first, second and third cousins, the women sent Jocelyn off to play and joined me near the water. Veterans of numerous Kelly/Shea clan gatherings, they enjoyed filling me in on who was who and sharing amusing family stories. There were plenty of incriminating anecdotes featuring the Kelly brothers and various accomplices, which I promised to file away as blackmail material.

Some of the younger kids changed clothes to swim under the watchful eyes of their older siblings, their raucous laughter driving us farther from poolside. The bigger boys and young men tossed balls and Frisbees on the lawn, and someone set up a volleyball net. The girls, in pretty summer dresses like mine, retired to the picnic tables in the shade to sip lemonade and comment on the action.

I could tell by the narrowing of Nolie's eyes and the tightening of Leah's lips that someone unsavory had arrived. A moment later I heard Nancy's too-sweet voice gushing to someone on the patio.

"Well, it was fun while it lasted," sighed Nolie.

Leah said, "I ought to shush you for saying that, but the truth is, I'm in no hurry to call that . . . woman my sister-in-law. I probably shouldn't say this, but I really don't think she's right for Quill."

"That's putting it mildly," Nolie snorted. "She's just about the worst thing that ever happened to him. Have you noticed how anxious he is around her these days?" To me she added, "A year ago, Quill would have been the life of the party: playing ball, teasing the girls, flattering the old ladies, giving rides on his Harley. Now look at him, tethered and hovering like a balloon that's lost half its helium." She shook her head sadly.

I turned in my seat to pick Quill and Nancy out of the throng. It wasn't hard thanks to Quill's height. I saw that Nolie was right. Though Nancy was permitting his arm around her this evening, she moved ahead of him, tugging him along on an invisible string. He wore a polite smile, but his eyes drifted in search of fun.

Quill brightened visibly when he saw us and waved with his free hand. I braced myself, knowing they'd make their way over to us all too soon.

"What do you think, Kielle? Are we wrong?" asked Leah. "You see them together every day on tour. Does she treat him any better at work?"

I thought a minute before replying. "Actually, I don't see them together that much. If I didn't know better, I'd say Nancy avoids Quill except when she's on stage with him or posing on his arm for the fans. He tries to bring her snacks on the bus, tries to talk with her or play a movie she likes, and she just shoos him away. Unless she wants something, of course. Then it's, 'Quilleran, bring me an Evian. No, not a Dasani! You know I can't drink that! What's wrong with you?'"

The other two snickered at my unflattering impersonation. It felt good to vent about my nemesis, but I reminded myself that it was still poor form, both professional and socially. I'd have to cool it.

"Anyway," Leah said, prompting a change of subject as the couple in question approached.

"Hey, Nolie, hey, Leah. Don't you girls just look as pretty as a picture," Nancy trilled. In a noticeably cooler voice she added, "Hello, Kielle. I didn't realize you'd be tagging along again this evening."

I smiled and pretended the barb didn't sting, because I did feel like a tagalong kid sister.

"Maura couldn't abide leaving me behind. Your mother is too generous, Quill." I reached up to squeeze his hand just to piss his fiancée off. It worked. She shifted her weight to position herself between us, forcing him to release his grip.

"I'm glad you're taking a break from work. Have you met everybody? Can I introduce you around?" he asked hopefully.

"Kielle looks like she's been here quite a while already, sugar. I'm sure she's met everyone she needs to." The smile Nancy showed me was not one of sympathy. Quill, as usual, looked uncertain and uncomfortable in the aftermath of one of her swipes at me.

"Sweetie, there's Lois. We really ought to go say hi," she continued, saving him from having to respond. To us she said, "We'll see you later, I'm sure." And she swanned away, towing Quill in her wake. When he glanced back over his shoulder, I blew him a kiss.

"Is it like that every day?" Nolie asked, disbelieving.

Grimly I replied, "Every day."

Leah patted my arm. " Nil illegitimus carborundum," she said—the Latin adage "Don't let the bastards get you down." Startled by her unexpectedly crude yet eloquent language, we all burst out laughing loudly enough to turn a few heads.

Nolie took this as her cue to turn the conversation. "Speaking of bastards, that one keeps sneaking peeks at you, Kielle."

"Nolie!" This time Leah did scold.

I followed Nolie's gaze to where the preppy biker, barefoot now, was flinging a Frisbee overhand and definitely not looking my direction. A closer range, I could see that his hair was curly, light brown streaked blond by the sun, cut brutally short. The middle and ring fingers of his right hand were bound together with white athletic tape, forcing him to catch and throw left-handed.

"Who is that, and is he really a bastard?" I asked.

"Ladies, please!" Leah tried in vain to restore decorum.

"Ben Shea, the bride's brother, and nobody knows for sure," Nolie answered. "Family rumor has it that his mama's husband might not have been his daddy, but they died so long ago, there was never any proof one way or the other." Nolie watched me watch him for a moment. "He's straight and single, if you go for that sort of thing. Nice . . . arms, too," she added as he bent to retrieve a dropped disc.

"Shut up! I did not come here to pick up men. Especially biker bastards."

Leah nodded knowingly. "So you saw him roar up on his Harley in a manly cloud of dust. He's got some tattoos, too, I hear. A real black sheep."

Laughing, Nolie asked, "Has Q forgiven him yet for taking Quill to get his tat?"

"Not hardly."

"Ben and Quill used to ride their cycles together all the time, but I don't think Quill has had his out of the garage since he got engaged," Nolie said sadly.

"The bike is a big no-no with Miss Nancy, and so is wicked cousin Ben," Leah put in for my benefit. "Ben has been pretty frank about not liking her, and the feeling is mutual. She's all but forbidden Quill to speak to him."

"Sounds like my kind of guy," I said.

"Want me to call him over, then? Hey, Benjie!" hollered Nolie.

I lunged to cover her mouth. "Stop!" Fortunately, Shea didn't hear her.

Jocelyn provided a welcome interruption, tugging her mother's sleeve to complain that she was hungry. Leah excused herself to take the girl in search of a towel and a hot dog.

Quin slid into her empty seat, pausing to kiss his wife. He set a Heineken in front of each of us. Taking a pull on his own beer, he looked around and sighed contentedly.

"This is the life," he said, clinking his green bottle against ours.

I could see that he meant it. Family, friends, music and celebration on a warm summer evening—this was indeed the life. His life. An unexpected pang of homesickness kicked me in the gut so hard it hurt. Where were my family, my friends, my parties? I took a long swallow of beer to wash away the lump in my throat.

We sat for a while shooting the breeze, marking small talk with other guests as they drifted by. As dusk began to settle over the lawn, white Christmas lights came on in the trees. The music and the laughter grew louder. I began to think about wandering over the heavily laden buffet tables for some genuine Southern barbecue. My companions agreed, and we rose to make our way toward the feast. We skirted the pool gingerly, wary of slipping in puddles.

"Heads up!" a voice called. I glanced to my left in time to see a Frisbee and a body whizzing toward me.

There was no avoiding the collision, so I relaxed and concentrated on controlling my fall. I grabbed a deep breath and landed in the deep end of the pool with a mighty splash.

I'm at home in the water and knew what to do, but I didn't get a chance to effect any survival tactics beyond kicking off my shoes. A strong arm locked around my torso and propelled me through the surface like a rocket. The same force of nature whisked me to the side of the pool, where men knelt to grasp my hands. I was sitting on the deck before I'd burned through half my lungful of air.

My rescuer levered himself out beside me and without delay began apologizing for having also knocked me in.

It was him, of course.

For a few moments, everybody spoke at once. I waited for the furor to die down before assuring them I was fine.

Ben Shea was having none of it. He ran callused fingers over my scalp searching for signs of injury, squeezed my shoulders, arms and hands, and repeated the process on my legs. I winced when he got to my ankles. A worried murmur went up from the crowd that had gathered. I tried not to roll my eyes at the drama.

"What's wrong? Where are you hurt?" Shea asked urgently.

"I twisted my ankle—must have stepped wrong on the edge of the pool," I admitted. "It's nothing serious. Really. — The right one," I added in response to his questioning look.

Again he said, "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." However, concern did not stop him from making a more thorough inspection of my ankle. Clearly he knew what he was doing—and just where to probe to make me say, "Ow."

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered. "What about here?" He pressed his fingertips firmly beneath my anklebone, causing a pain sharper than I expected. I caught my breath and tapped him twice on the arm. He stopped immediately and interrupted his apologies long enough to diagnose a sprain.

Shea dispatched a gawking boy to his motorcycle with instructions to fetch the duffle from one of his saddlebags. Then he slipped an arm beneath my knees and one behind my shoulders. With my arm around his neck, he rose as if my weight was nothing. The crowd parted so he could deposit me on a nearby chaise lounge. Still crouched beside the chair, he offered his right hand.

"Benjamin Shea. And I'm very, very sorry. I can't tell you how sorry,"

I clasped his hand gently, mindful of the taped fingers I'd noticed earlier.

"Stop apologizing, Ben. It was an accident. I'm not angry, and I'm not even that hurt." I was, however, a bit of a liar. Now that the initial shock had worn off, my ankle had begun to throb.

"That's not true, Kielle. Sprains can be tricky. I can wrap that for you—I have plenty of experience in first aid—but you might want to get it x-rayed. I'll take you to an ER if you like."

On the Harley? I wondered. No, he'd borrow a car. And how had he known my name? I hadn't given it. Well, probably from everyone asking if I was all right.

Someone handed us a couple of gaudy beach towels. Shea draped one around my shoulders and arranged the other across my lap while his own clothes continued to drip on the ground. Quin reappeared—I hadn't seen him leave—with a plastic bag full of ice from the bar. This Shea situated against my foot, then perched on the end of the chaise to hold it in place. The groom's mother promised to round up some dry clothes for us pronto, but Shea replied that he had some of his own on the way.

The errand boy arrived with his duffle bag then. I held the ice while he delved inside it. He came out with a bottle of ibuprofen and shook four into his palm. I caught sight of a neatly folded martial arts gi in the bag as he replaced the bottle.

"Vitamin I," we both murmured as he passed me the capsules.

Suddenly the déjà vu resolved itself in a shock of recognition. I knew who he was.

Shea saw the imaginary light bulb go on above my head. I opened my mouth to exclaim, but his look begged me not to say anything, not yet.

"Thanks," I said instead.

At that moment Quill came bounding up with Quentin close on his heels.

"Kielle! What happened? Are you okay? Somebody said you broke your leg! Are you okay?" he demanded all in a rush.

I caught one of his flapping hands in both of mine. Soothingly I said, "I sprained my ankle, that's all. Ben's going to wrap it up for me and then it'll be fine."

"You didn't—didn't drown or anything?" he asked doubtfully.

I suppressed a laugh and reassured him. "Not at all. I'm a very good swimmer, and besides, Ben had me out of the water in half a second flat."

Quill gradually stopped bouncing. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"So what actually happened?" asked Quentin.

Shea answered him like a soldier delivering a formal report. "It was my fault entirely. I was chasing a Frisbee in the dim light, not watching where I was going, and I knocked Kielle into the pool. She took a bad step on the edge and twisted her ankle. I'm sorry," he said for the hundredth time, but this time he seemed to be apologizing to Q rather than to me.

Quentin regarded him for a long moment. Finally he laid a hand on Shea's shoulder, just for a second. "And you're all right, Ben?"

"Fine," Shea said, appearing surprised that he should ask. No one else had, I noted. Including me.

"And you, Kielle?" Q repeated the offer to take me to a hospital or home or wherever I wanted to go. He didn't quite reach for me, but I scooped up his hand anyway.

"I'm okay, Q, really. No doctor necessary. And dry clothes are on their way." I tried not to notice the way Shea's wet shirt clung to his contours like a fresh coat of paint.

"If you say so." He accepted the bag of ice Shea handed him.

Shea fished a beige elastic bandage out of his bag and made quick work of wrapping my ankle. He was deft and gentle despite the taped fingers jutting out at an awkward angle. The wrap was tight enough to provide support but loose enough to allow circulation. He used a second bandage to loosely tie the ice pack back in place. Now that I knew who he was, I knew where his first aid training came from, and I trusted it.

"There," he said briskly, giving my foot a final pat. "You know the formula: rest, ice, compression, elevation. We'll ice it off and on for the rest of the evening, and I don't want you putting any weight on it at all. If you need something or want to go somewhere, you tell me. No walking. Clear?"

Amused at his bossiness, I said, "Don't be afraid to step up and take charge, Ben."

He flushed but did not back down. "It's good advice. Plus, I'm responsible for you for the moment. Just let me take care of things." He wasn't condescending to me, I noted, he was just completely sure of his authority. I didn't like being told what to do, but I liked the attitude he took to tell me.

"All right then, you're my cabana boy," I agreed.

The clothing arrived then: a lightweight navy sweater, striped palazzo pants to match, and a new pair of underwear with the tags still on. I sighed inwardly with relief. I hadn't wanted to go bare-bottomed in borrowed clothes, but I wanted to wear someone else's used undies even less. This was a perfect solution.

"Let's go change," I said and began to swing my legs over the edge of the lounge. But a pair of strong hands anchored my knees in place.

"No walking!" Shea said sternly.

"Then what are you going to do, c—" I ended with a whoop of surprise as he hoisted me in his arms.

"Yes," he said, starting toward the house. I hoped he didn't catch me inhaling the scent of his neck, a combination of warm skin, chlorine, and a trace of Titanium aftershave that had survived our swim.

He grinned down at me. "Deal with it." I dealt.

Inside the house and out of earshot of the rest of the party, I gave a lopsided hug with the arm around his shoulders.

"Peabody!" I exclaimed.

"Uh, yeah, hi," he sighed. "What gave me away?" He stopped on the tiled kitchen floor to concentrate on our first meeting after the long correspondence. Chagrin was written plain on his rugged face.

"You caught my eye when you arrived, but I couldn't figure out why, knowing we'd never seen each other before. Still, you seemed familiar somehow. But you knew to quit poking me when I tapped, like a martial artist would, and I saw the gi in your bag. And you know the Kellys. The clues added up. It was the 'vitamin I' that did it, though." Calling ibuprofen a vitamin was a joke we'd shared often online.

He sighed again. "This is not how I wanted to meet you in person, if we ever met. I'm really sorry, Kielle."

"If you apologize one more time, I'll make you eat mushrooms." I knew Peabody—Benjamin Shea—hated fungi as much as I did. We shared similar tastes in pizza toppings.

"Sor—I get it," he said, a glint of humor surfacing. "Look, there's a guest room with its own bathroom down this way. We can change in there." Still showing no sign of effort from carrying me, he headed down the hall. I thought unfeminist thoughts about his biceps and the lean belly against my hip.

We found the bedroom door closed. As I reached for the knob, we heard voices from inside, a hyperfeminine giggle and an answering basso chuckle. Clearly a pair of partygoers was taking advantage of the empty house to enjoy a private celebration. We exchanged arch glances and Ben silently reversed course. We ended up in the master suite at the opposite end of the house.

"Could you drop me off in the bathroom?" I asked when he began to set me on the bed. "I need to comb my hair and stuff."

He did as I asked and instructed me to holler if I needed any help. He also informed me that he was going to have my soaked dress cleaned and I was not to argue. I didn't. I knew from debating the tenacious Peabody that I'd have to pick my battles with him carefully, and this wasn't one I cared to undertake. Besides, he owed me.

Changing clothes on one foot wasn't too difficult; my balance was excellent thanks to years of T'ai Chi. The wide-legged pants slipped on easily over my bulky ice-packed extremity. I spared barely a moment's worry over the lack of a bra in my new wardrobe. The loose sweater wouldn't be too revealing, and my modest assets didn't need much support anyway.

It was only as I began to untangle my wrecked French braid that I thought to check my makeup in the mirror. Not a very girly reaction, Kielle, my inner voice chided. But my mascara had not smeared. I gave silent thanks that I'd decided to use the waterproof kind as a defense against humidity-induced smudging. And there wasn't any other makeup to worry about. Relieved, I found a brush in a vanity drawer and brought my hair back to order.

"You okay in there?" Ben tapped on the bathroom door.

"Yep, just finishing up. Come on in."

Ben had changed into faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt from his gear bag. I stared for a moment. I have a weakness for tan men in white shirts, and his fit like a dream.

This was my first look at him from medium distance, and what I saw set off warning bells in my head. The erudite Peabody on whom I'd had an online word-crush turned out to be not just all right in the flesh, but downright hot. I did not need this kind of complication in my life. Nor the speculative regard from his grey-green eyes.

"Ready to go back?" he asked, preparing to pick me up again.

"Yes, but aren't your arms tired?"

"You're not walking. I told you."

"How about piggyback, then?"

He gave in and toted me outside on his back.

Resuming our previous conversation, I murmured in his ear, "I got the impression you recognized me before I did you. True?"

"I did. I'd seen a few photos of you with fans, so I knew what you looked like. I asked around when I suspected I saw you here, and someone confirmed your name. I was still trying to come up with a smooth way to introduce myself when I plowed into you instead. For which I am not apologizing again, but which I deeply regret," he finished.

"You made a hell of a first impression," I assured him.

Wearily he said, "I suppose you're going to blog this."

"Only the relevant parts. I don't suppose names need be mentioned. Unless you want them to be, of course."

"No!"

Ben set me in a lawn chair and pulled up a second one to use as a footrest. He also got me a beer. When I found it to be a screw cap, I passed it back. He twisted the top off and returned it to me without comment, as if that's how we always did it when we had a beer together.

Watch it, girl, I cautioned myself. Don't get too comfortable. You're probably not even going to see him again after today. Stick to the electronic version.

"Were you on your way to get dinner before the splash?" Ben asked. When I nodded, he said, "Sit tight. I'll get you a plate."

Quin's audioblog

2006-01-08T20:04:00.000-07:00

[Editor's note: This scene occurs somewhere near the middle of the book. Quin Kelly and Phillip Davis have both suffered semi-serious injuries when a light tree fell on them backstage during intermission at a Praise Caravan concert. Here they're on the bus the next day. Quin, who may have ended up with a skull fracture, has finally agreed with everyone else that he should not perform that night.]

Quin tried not to cry once his decision was made, but his emotions were too close to the surface to prevent it entirely. It took his brothers half an hour to convince him that the show should not go on at the expense of his health. Then they told him how much love the fans were sending via e-mail — I'd granted Quentin temporary reading privileges to Quin's in-box — and he started up again. The snuffling made his headache so much worse that his eyes continued to water even after his sobbing had stopped. Exhausted again, he fell asleep with the other two standing sentry at either end of the couch.

Quin woke puffy-eyed but calmer a couple hours later. He accepted water and ginger ale, but his stomach was still too iffy to consider food. He asked me whether I had yet blogged the announcement that he wouldn't be singing that night.

"I did, yes," I told him. "People were wondering. They've been spamming the boards with questions and debate. I wanted to put a stop to the speculation before it got out of hand."

He sighed. "I feel like I'm letting everyone down, Kielle. I hate it. Phillip's going on tonight, isn't he? I should, too."

"No one thinks you're letting them down. And Phillip's injury is very different from yours. Everybody, the fans included, wants you to rest and feel better. They care what happens to you."

"That's so nice. Our fans are so nice." His eyes threatened to fill again.

"Look," I said, voicing an idea I'd had while he slept, "do you want to do a blog post of your own to tell them how much you appreciate their concern?"

He brightened but sobered again just as quickly. "I'd like to, but I'm just not up to squinting at a screen right now," he said sadly.

"I was thinking of an audioblog. You just talk into the phone for a minute and the sound file posts straight to the web site. No squinting necessary."

He smiled his first real smile since the accident. "You're a genius, Kielle."

"This is true. I have proof," I replied, glad to see his spirits rise a little. "Let me know when you've decided what to say and I'll hook you up."

Ten minutes later, I dialed the login code on my cell phone and handed it over. Quin took it and began to speak, his voice rough with fatigue and pain.

"Hi, everybody. This is Quin Kelly, and this is the only way I'm going to get to talk to you all today. You've probably heard by now that I won't be performing with my brothers at tonight's concert. I'm sorry about that, I truly am, but I just can't. I feel . . . well, I feel about as awful as I ever have, and that's a fact.

"I've got a headache you wouldn't believe. Despite what you may have heard about the hardness of my skull, that post thingy gave me a king-sized concussion. I've also got about a dozen stitches that my hair will cover (unless it decides to start receding like Quentin's). My stomach's upset and I feel wimbly, so the last thing I need, unfortunately, is lights, excitement and noise.

"Ach, the noise! Just thinking about it makes my head hurt worse. I don't just mean the crowd and the band, either. I don't know if you know this" — he lowered his voice conspiratorially — "but my brothers are loud! Especially Quill when he goes for those high notes. Loud! I just can't handle that today.

"So anyway, I just wanted to take a minute to thank you all for the love and prayers you're sending my way. They mean a lot. An awful lot." He quavered for a second but steadied himself.

"Oh, and if you see my brothers tonight, give them an extra hug, will you? They've been wearing themselves out fussing over me, so they deserve it. Kielle too.

"I plan to be back at work tomorrow, Lord willing — and if these folks will let me. I hope to see you soon. Thanks again. Bye now."

Quin pressed the save and post keys I'd shown him and handed the phone back.

"Do you think that was all right? Maybe I should redo it," he said doubtfully.

"It's just fine, sweetie," I assured him. The short speech was Quin in a nutshell, through and through. Even on one of the worst days of his life, he retained his sense of humor and his appreciation and concern for others. I predicted that his simple, heartfelt entry would become one of the most downloaded files on the web site. I was right.

Day two, continued

2005-12-29T09:33:00.000-07:00

Lurking boss aside, there were advantages to working on a luxury motor coach. The refrigerator in the galley, for instance, generously stocked with Diet Coke — the kind sweetened with Splenda, fortunately; NutraSweet gives me a rash. After typing and sipping for an hour, I rose, stretched and headed for the restroom.

I hadn’t been out of my seat for more than a minute before an obnoxious klaxon began to sound through the bus, loud enough to wake the dead and the business manager.

“Intruder alert! Intruder alert!” blared the mechanized voice from a downloaded Star Trek sound clip. I smiled. My security measures were working.

I did not hurry, even after Bill started to bellow my name over the whooping of the siren. “I’m having private time!” I called back. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

I made it two minutes. Bill was pacing the aisle when I finally stepped out, my hands thoroughly washed, dried and moisturized.

“Make it stop!” he demanded.

I eased through the small crowd gathered around my laptop, apparently mesmerized by the strobing red light on the monitor. With a flourish I pressed the “mute” button on the keyboard, then hit a two-key combination to unlock the screen saver. The group sighed with relief.

“What the hell is wrong with that thing?” Bill asked.

I replied, “Actually, something is very right with that thing. That little display is part of the security I’ve set up to protect the web site’s confidential data. I set the alarm to go off if someone tried to wake up the screen without using the right keystrokes.”

I glanced around, but no one looked overtly guilty of molesting my computer. I wondered about Raleigh La Pierre. He had been nominally in charge of maintaining the web site before I was hired. I could understand him wanting to see what the new girl was doing to his pages.

“Well, you don’t need to set that on the bus. It’s just us here,” said Bill.

“I take my webmaster duties very seriously, Bill,” I said, “and I’m not willing to compromise on security. I’d hate for a stray click to goof up coding, for instance. If anyone is interested in seeing the new page design, just ask, okay?”

Eyes narrowed, Bill nodded. I had annoyed him, but I’d also demonstrated some company loyalty. I hoped I’d passed a small test of trust.

Quentin asked, “May we see it, then?”

“Sure.”

I spent a few minutes on show and tell, and they seemed to like the new look. The individual pages for each of the performers, with updated photos and “Contact me” buttons, got several murmurs of approval, as did the sleek home page. The crowd drifted away nodding and smiling.

“Elegant,” said Quentin before turning back to his own work. I got the sense that coming from him, that was a big compliment.

An hour later, I needed another break. Mentally rubbing my hands with anticipation, I headed for the back of the bus. Sure enough, within 60 seconds, the chorus of Britney Spears’s brief hit “Oops, I Did It Again” serenaded the cabin at top volume. No one hollered at me this time, but I could almost hear teeth being gritted.

Returning to my seat, I again silenced the speakers and banished Britney from the screen.

“Somebody’s been eating my porridge,” I remarked into the sudden quiet. “Well, Goldilocks, you didn’t think I’d set my alarm the same way twice, did you? Not after everyone saw the code I used the first time. That wouldn’t be very security conscious.”

“You’ve made your point, Kielle. No one will mess with your machine again,” Bill promised for all of them.

“Great. ‘Cause I’ve got several dozen of these, each more irritating than the last — including fingernails on a chalkboard.” I didn’t need to exaggerate. With my eidetic memory, I could recall as many key codes as I needed without writing them down where they could be copied by someone else.

As I settled back into my chair, I caught Quentin’s sidelong smile.

“Something you’d like to tell me? Confession is good for the soul.”

He shook his head slightly. “Only that Goldilocks, having been embarrassed not once but twice, will be looking for a way to return the favor. Watch your back.”

“Always do.”

* * *

today's excuse

2005-11-29T19:56:00.000-07:00

God, I haven't posted here in weeks and I feel terrible and stupid about it. I think about this story each and every day; pondering it is my pre-sleep meditation. But when it comes to actually writing things down, that's where I get lazy.

Today's excuse: Medicare Part D. I took the evening off from T'ai Chi to go to a seminar on the new Medicare prescription drug program, also known as Medicare Part D. I went because my Mom will become eligible for Medicare next year and is confused by the flurry of info out there regarding Part D. Well, so am I, and I work in the health insurance industry. And Mom used to run a pharmacy, so she's certainly no stranger to the health insurance racket.

Anyway, I went to the seminar and came home and called Mom to report, and we talked for 96:43. (I cracked a Heiniken at the one-hour mark. That's my new policy: talk for an hour, open a beer.) Not all 96 minutes were about Part D, thank God! Only about 5. But I was pleased to be able to provide information Mom needed in a form she could understand. I have not yet outgrown the desire — make that the need — to please my mother.

The rest of the conversation meandered richly, but kept coming back to Mom's friend Margaret and Marg's daughter Julie. Julie the Drama Queen, though she lives 400 miles away, is dependent enough on mother Marg that she rings at least 5 times a day and has Marg at her beck and call. This drives my Mom crazy because she raised Sister-san and me to be just a wee bit more independent than that. Mom thinks somebody ought to spank Julie the moment the wakes up in the morning in hopes that the cumulative whacking would someday knock some common sense into her.

Anyway, the Julie/Marg saga would make a great story in itself. But I'm not going to write it today because it's to late in the evening and I need to peruse the new L.L. Bean catalog. When I was going to school in Maine, I visited the L.L. Bean mothership store in Freeport a few times. Did you know they have an indoor trout pond right there in the store? True. And right down the street is where I had my first Ben & Jerry's ice cream, my first chocolate chip cookie dough cone. But I digress.

I'll tell you this much: I figured out how Quill gets his voice back after being shocked mute by a Major Event. I had thought for a long time that he would finally shout out of anger, but that's just not in his nature. It's love that cures him. And not even self-serving love, but love he wants for someone else and he has to tell them to go get it. Yeah. That's my boy.

Bill's hold on Quentin

2005-11-12T16:02:00.000-07:00

Sorry it's been a while. Between partying hard during my last week of vacation and starting a new job, I seem to have pissed away a goodly amount of time. Fortunately, I'm not on deadline.

After giving the matter considerable thought — I do think about this thing quite a lot when I'm not writing it — I decided that Bill can't be blackmailing Quentin. Quentin is the straightest of straight arrows, so there are no skeletons in his closet Bill could use against him. So Bill is going to use his straightarrowness against him instead.

Bill Williams never married and has no heirs. However, he does want somebody to take the reins of his music empire when he retires in a few years. His sister's eldest son is the obvious choice, adn that's Quentin Kelly. Part of the reason Q has come on the Praise Caravan tour is to learn the management side of things by shadowing his uncle.

This is a grand plan except for one rather large snag: Q hates the business side of things. He's an architect and a teacher. He does not want to be a media mogul. He also hates being away from his family. The only time he mentioned these facts to Bill, however, he got such a long and impassioned lecture on family loyalties and legacies that the guilt drove him straight onto the tour bus. Bill was his nearest male role model growing up, and the last thing he wants to do is disappoint dear old almost-dad. Q has vowed to follow in Bill's footsteps because it's the Right Thing To Do.

To make matters worse, Q sucks at business. Sucks! He's terrible with figures and market trends and shmoozing. And to him, that's even worse than being chained to a job he doesn't like. He is an eldest son and a straight arrow and a former straight-A student and captain of the football team. He does NOT do failure well.

As added security, Bill has also hinted to Q that Q owes it to his brothers, espcially Quill, to do this tour. They deserve their chance at stardom, but they can't make it on their own; they need Q there to complete the trio.

Now that's emotional blackmail, and bullshit to boot. Quin probably isn't destined for the top of the charts, nor does he aspire to be, but Quill . . . he's exceptional. Heck, the other two are probably holding him back. And in the backs of their minds, they know it.

So Q's a little tense.

questions to ponder

2005-10-30T12:57:00.000-07:00

Questions raised 10-30-05

OK, so why did the elder Kellys agree to join the Caravan at such late ages? Quin was 31 and Quentin 37, both married, one with kids, both with established careers. Surely they weren't just waiting for their little brother to finish school. They're good enough musicians that they could have gotten work at it before then. So either they didn't want to, or Bill made them an offer they couldn't refuse.

The Kellys' father died when Quill was barely a year old, leaving their mother Maura, Bill's sister, with three boys to raise. Does she owe Bill something for helping her out? It's not money, although the Kellys are certainly a lucrative draw for the Caravan; Maura had plenty of money of her own. Or is it the other way around, Bill owing Maura a favor, like making her sons famous in return for her bailing him out at a time he expanded business too fast and went into debt? (I don't think that's the case. It's not Maura's style. But I could be wrong.) What's the story? And whatever that deal may be, Quentin knows about it, but Quin and Quill don't.
What about acts that have been cut from the Caravan? Who are they, why were they dropped, and how pissed are they at losing that sweet gig? Pissed enough to sabotage the current tour? Pissed enough to try to blackmail Bill or Jimmy or somebody else? Is that why Jimmy isn't so keen on the idea of having an embedded journalist on the bus?

Bill's basic backstory

2005-10-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

The Praise Caravan had started out with Bill Williams and a couple of his friends, fresh out of school, and two pickup trucks. His gospel/folk/bluegrass band, Bill and the Boys, had traveled tent show circuits in the south, playing and singing for their supper and gas money and not much more. Increased bookings lead to a van for the musicians and a trailer for their gear, then a nicer van and a nicer trailer.

In a few years Bill and the Boys were big enough to warrant an opening act, so they lent a hand-me-down van to a younger, less polished group that followed them from place to place. Occasionally someone's friend's or cousin's band would join them for a few stops, too. That was when the touring act became a caravan, although Bill wouldn't change the name for another few years yet. It wasn't until the aging Boys tired of life on the road and opted, one by one, to drop out of the band and start families that Bill was forced to paint a new name on the side of the bus.

Bill found the transition from headliner to manager easier than he'd expected, and he discovered that he genuinely enjoyed nurturing new talent. Entering middle age, Bill Williams had enough clout in southern gospel circles to keep his bus —buses now — moving and his revenues growing. He shuffled the caravan's roster every season or two to keep up with the public's tastes, and to provide himself backup for a quartet so he could keep one foot on the stage. He turned the increasingly complicated business end of things over to longtime friend Jimmy Hindman, who also happened to have a great bass voice, and concentrated on turning the Praise Caravan into the popular brand it was today.

Here Bill paused in his story. Now we get to the good stuff, I thought, nodding encouragement. But my hopes that Bill would reveal his secret heart were soon dashed. He didn't continue until I turned the monologue into an interview.

"How do you choose who to add to the roster and who to cut?" I asked.

Bill answered, "I get dozens of audition tapes from performers and their agents every year, and I also meet a lot of people at music festivals and revivals and in the churches I visit. I discovered Phillip Davis, for instance, singing at a county fair. It's very hard to choose among so much talent. I add acts to the Caravan based on quality, experience, and how well they fit in with the rest of the lineup."

This made me wonder even more about the La Pierre Family Singers, which seemed too homey to blend with the other, slicker acts. However, I couldn't think of a good way to ask the question without insulting them, so I passed over it for the moment to ask something else I'd wondered about.

"What about the Kelly Brothers?" I asked. "They're your nephews. Did they have to audition like everybody else?"

Bill smiled a knowing smile. "I've taken my share of grief for hiring my sister's sons, but the truth is, I knew a long time ago that they'd be perfect for the Praise Caravan. They've been singing in church since they were toddlers, and their talent is obvious. Their mother made me wait until Quill finished school, or I'd have brought those boys on years ago."

I wondered how Quentin Kelly, age 39, felt about being referred to as a boy. I glanced at him poring over some large sheets of paper at a table nearby. Engrossed, he didn't look up. I knew the Kellys had joined the tour only two years ago when Quilleran, a "bonus" child 15 years younger than his oldest brother, had graduated from college. The elder two — Quin was 33 — had already had wives, careers, and in Quentin's case, children when they joined the tour. It seemed an odd time of life for such a drastic shifting of gears, but if they loved music and had a chance to make a go of it, why not?

I returned my attention to Bill. "And the other acts? How did you find them?"

"I'll let them tell you themselves. That should give you enough for now."

I know a dismissal when I hear one. I also noticed that he hadn't responded to the part about cutting acts from the lineup. That, I supposed, could wait.

"All right, Bill, thanks," I said. "I'll have your interview, the first blog, and some design edits to show you by the time we get there."

"Fine, Kielle, fine." His thoughts were already elsewhere.

I set up shop at the table opposite Quentin's and commenced typing. The first blog entry, which I'd been composing in my head since I received Don's phone call, went quickly. It was really just a more detailed version of the speech I'd given on stage the night before. Bill's interview also came together without much trouble. He was accustomed to speaking in sound bites, which made my job easier. Weaving in additional facts and bits of history I'd gleaned from previous reading, I had it done in about 90 minutes.

avoidance behavior du jour

2005-10-25T09:41:00.000-06:00

Things I've done today (so far) to avoid working on the story:

looked up cover art for stray iTunes songs
played solitaire until I won
played Tetris until I lost (didn't take long; I'm WAY out of practice)
surfed
drank too much strong tea on an empty stomach
blogged
started composing reply to e-mail from long-lost friend
considered going to Perkins for brunch
made list of avoidance tactics

Day two

2005-10-21T17:55:00.000-06:00

In the darkness and fatigue of the previous night, I hadn’t taken a close look at the buses — luxury touring coaches, if you want to be picky about terminology. In the too-early light of that second day, I gave my new home away from home a good going over.

The “old” bus I’d boarded to meet with Bill showed no signs of age. Designed to convey 15 people in comfort, it was at least twice as large as my first apartment and far better appointed than anywhere I had ever lived. The driver’s seat, manned by Reg Donaldson, looked like the cockpit of the space shuttle. In addition to speed and mileage, he could monitor [all the things he could monitor] from the glowing dashboard.

Rows of reclining seats and a couple bunk beds led back to the lounge, galley, and surprisingly large bathroom. The entertainment center, with its satellite TV, DVD player, Xbox game system, and stereo, looked like a display from the home theatre section at Best Buy. Reading lights and computer hook-ups studded the seating areas. The large tinted windows let in plenty of light, but an elaborate climate control system governed the temperature. Intercoms built into the walls allowed for easy calling from front to back.

It was posh. It was high-tech. For a bus, it was spacious. But with my boss peering over my shoulder at my designs for his web site, it felt cramped.

We pored over the examples I’d drafted for more than an hour. My carefully crafted narration went out the window; Bill asked questions and I answered them. He approved most of what I’d done but was not shy about nixing the things he didn’t like, or about telling me to lift up the faith-related features.

“Lift up? You want those at the top of the page?” I asked.

“I want them emphasized,” he said. Oh. Christian vocabulary lesson number one. I would make the Mission Statement and the Daily Inspiration more prominent.

He liked the idea of adding sound and video clips to the site, provided I didn’t post any complete songs people could illicitly download. The route-tracking roadmap, the audience photos, and the Q&A also got the okay. However, the colors purple and orange were off limits. I wasn’t going to miss orange, since I hate it, too, but the ousting of purple meant I’d have to rethink some of the color scheme. I wondered how far I could push indigo before Bill decided it was purple.

Other instructions: proceed with taking new portraits immediately, starting that evening; proceed with interviews immediately, starting with Bill right now; proceed with blogging immediately and submit a sample for review by sound check that evening.

That last one rankled, but not as much as it might have. While I’m loath to cede editorial control to anyone else, even the boss, part of the agreement had been that Bill would review the first couple weeks’ blog entries before posting to make sure they were kosher, so to speak. Once he trusted that I wasn’t defaming the Caravan, I’d be on my own.

The photos would have to wait until evening and my first blog was already written in my head, so I switched to the seat across from Bill to begin the interview.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said.

“Aren’t you going to take notes?”

“I’ll remember what you say.”

“But you can’t remember everything. Not exactly,” he protested. “You need notes or a tape recorder.”

“Actually, I can remember it all,” I replied. “I have a photographic memory, and if I mentally close-caption a conversation, I can recall everything that was said.”

His skeptical expression elicited a mental sigh from me. I’m used to being asked to prove it and have the parlor trick down to a science. Taking a deep breath, I began to repeat our conversation starting from the first hello, and including tone of voice and gestures for good measure. It took only a couple minutes to convince him.

“Very impressive,” he said. “All right, let’s get started.”

He led off with a canned spiel honed by years of giving interviews. I listened attentively, but I’d heard it all before: how he . . .

[And here’s where we get Bill Williams’s back story. I wonder what it is.]

What the hell do you know about contemporary Christian music?

2005-10-21T16:58:00.000-06:00

Not much, but here's a few groups I've seen and liked.

the Booth Brothers — a loose starting point for the Kelly brothers
Ernie Haase & Signature Sound Quartet — a good-looking, high-energy group, and bass Tim Duncan totally kicks ass!!
Gaither Vocal Band and Gaither Homecoming — a loose starting point for the idea of a tour involving not just a single group, but several ensembles. I've been to a few Homecoming shows, and they're all right. Overorchestrated, cheesy as hell, and merchandise-driven, but well attended.
Point of Grace — funky web site includes band blog

I also like the Barenaked Ladies web site for all its fun features, and the Bobs' site for Amy-Bob's period tales from the road revolving around cheese, sleep, and the Weather Channel.

And of course we can't forget Rockapella. Journals and e-postcards written by RP's ex-road manager and band alumni provide insight into life on the road, and their fans (of which I am a big one) supply ample fodder for the fanatic fan antics you'll see around Praise Caravan shows.

getting on the road

2005-10-21T09:43:00.000-06:00

movies about bands on tour:

Almost Famous — about a teenage writer who fakes his way into touring with the band to get interviews for Rolling Stone; band based on Led Zeppelin
Barenaked in America — Barenaked Ladies
The Flaming Lips — The Fearless Freaks — Flaming Lips
NIN: All That Could Have Been — Nine Inch Nails
Pearl Jam: Touring Band 2000 — Pearl Jam
U2: Rattle and Hum — U2

Taking additional recommendations. Please!

small edit

2005-10-21T09:31:00.000-06:00

I take back what I said about Jimmy and Nancy being the first to leave the m&g. Nancy is going to stick to her fiance Quill like glue and be the Perfect Couple as long as they're in public. Raleigh leaves with Jimmy. This means Kielle has to walk out with and get her info from somebody else. Let's say Sarah. Sarah's nice.

the bus(es)

2005-10-20T09:13:00.000-06:00

http://www.plazalimousineltd.com/bus.htm

meet & greet

2005-10-19T13:16:00.000-06:00

Camera in hand, I followed my new colleagues to the meet and greet.

M&Gs are the show after the show. The performers are still “on,” projecting energy, charming the public, and selling the product.

And they’re not the only ones. The fans are just as much “on” as the performers. More so. For diehard fans who have seen the show numerous times, this part matters more than what happens on the stage. They spend weeks planning what they’ll wear, what they’ll have autographed, and most importantly, what they’ll say when they meet their idols.

The diehards — groupies, if you want a less complimentary term — want to stand out and be memorable, to mean as much to the stars as the stars mean to them. They take an interest in the desired ones’ hobbies and life events so they’ll have something to talk about. They bring gifts for holidays, birthdays, and performance milestones, ranging from homemade treats and crafts to toys and books for the bus to clothing and accessories. They’re flirting. Wooing. Most will hasten to admit that they know their crushes must remain unrequited, but they can’t stop trying, just in case.

Occasionally a fan will go too far, perhaps by giving inappropriate gifts or photos or sending unwelcome e-mail. With Caravan followers, thankfully, this seemed to be a rarity. If anything, they went too far in the other direction, becoming creepily knowledgeable about the singers’ families.

“So, Jocelyn starts first grade this fall, right?” someone asked Quentin Kelly. His head came up, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders set: father on the alert. I could see him wondering just how much this woman knew about his daughter and whether he ought to worry. The answer was no, she was just making small talk, and Quentin responded with vague niceties about parenting. But he didn’t completely relax for the rest of the night.

Thanks to Bill making a spectacle of me, I ended up with my own little knot of admirers at that first m&g. I didn’t fool myself into believing their interest was truly in the new web site design; most were just killing time until the crowds thinned around the people they really came to see. And there were a fair number who wanted to be my friend simply because I was connected to the Caravan and therefore one step closer to greatness.

I answered a few questions about my background and resume, uncomfortably aware that my listeners could, and a few probably would, Google me later to dig up the real dirt. I was glad there wasn’t much but already resented the potential intrusion. I’m strictly a behind-the-scenes player. My T’ai Chi teachers always warned us not to try to become famous, and it was advice I had no trouble following. I didn’t mind if my work became a little famous — like the novel I was trying to get published — but that was a step removed from me personally. I hoped the novelty would wear off of me quickly.

We worked the m&g for about 45 minutes before road manager Joe Wallace and his crew of local volunteers started packing the merchandise back into its boxes and hauling it out. Getting this signal that the party was over, the singers began making their way toward the bus that had brought them from the hotel. Nancy Wainwright and Jimmy Hindman were the first ones out.

Trailing the pack, I ended up walking with Quill Kelly, whom a few hangers-on seemed bent on accompanying all the way to the street. He chatted amiably, bestowing not only generous attention but coveted hugs before boarding the bus. He ushered me to a seat with the casual gallantry native to southern gentlemen and plunked down beside me with a contented sigh, stretching long legs into the aisle. I took the opportunity to ask him what Bill had meant by “circle” — “meet” — which bus I’d find him on — the “old” bus, both the oldest of the fleet and the one preferred by the older company members — and what time to be on it — seven a.m. sharp. Oy.

We reached the hotel in about 15 minutes, just long enough for me to realize how tired I was. The singers, coming off their performance high, quickly dispersed to their rooms, and I followed suit. I uploaded the rest of the night’s photos to my laptop, plugged everything in to charge overnight, spent a few minutes updating my online journal about my eventful first day on the job, and tumbled into bed.

Kielle takes the stage

2005-10-16T11:31:00.000-06:00

“Tell us a little bit about yourself and what you do, Kielle,” he said.

I’m a writer, not a talker, and I hate the sound of my own voice on tape or amplified through speakers. Bill’s position on my Christmas card list was falling fast. Still, he was the boss. I took a deep breath and put my high school public speaking classes to use.

“Hi, my name is Kielle Hughes, and I’m pleased to be the newest member of the PC crew.” There was light applause, just enough to qualify as a smattering. “I’m from Minneapolis, Minnesota,” I went on. “Mostly I took this job because it’s a lot warmer in the south this time of year.” Laughter. Yeah, jokes about Minnesota being cold are always good for a couple yuks. I took a step away from Bill and turned to address another section of the stadium.

“I’m the Caravan’s new web master. Next Monday, you’ll want to come to our web site to see the new design and some new features we’re adding to make it more user-friendly and more fun. Does everybody know where to find us on the web?” Rumblegrumble. They hadn’t known there would be a pop quiz. “Get out your pens. I’m going to spell the web site address for you. Ready?” I recited the URL twice, slowly, and added that people could Google us if they weren’t sure.

“Now, about those new features. First of all, you’re going to be seeing a lot more pictures.” I hefted the camera hanging around my neck. “I’ll be posting photos not only of every show, but also of sound checks, backstage, and even on the bus.” I snuck a peek at the performers, whose mutters to one another suggested they hadn’t been informed of the full extent of my photographing duties.

“I’m also going to blog the tour. You know what a blog is? It’s a web log — like the Captain’s log from Star Trek. I’ll post a new diary entry each day telling you where we are, where we’re going, and how we’re amusing ourselves along the way.” Interested murmurs from the crowd. I made another quarter turn.

“You like these folks, right?” I gestured widely to take in the whole stage. Big cheer. “Would you like to get to know them a little better?” Bigger cheer. Fans always want to know their idols better. “Well, now you can. I’m going to be conducting behind-the-scene interviews with each and every member of the Praise Caravan company and posting them on the web site. — What’s that address again?” Thousands of voices chanted the URL back to me in schoolroom singsong.

Turning back to Williams, I said, “I like these fans, Bill. Can I throw in a little something extra for them?” Geez, when did I become a used car salesman?

He leaned in to share the mike. “Don’t you think you’d better clear it with the boss first?” he asked pointedly.

I made an “oops!” face for the cameras and tucked the mike behind my back to whisper in his ear. We weren’t acting; I’d hoped to meet with him that afternoon to talk about my ideas for the web site, but the travel delays had prevented it. I wondered belatedly how much he minded me springing this on him unscripted. Well, turn about is fair play, right?

Bill nodded at what I said to him, so I announced that I would launch a Caravan Q&A feature. Fans could e-mail questions to be answered personally by members of the company. When I said “personally” I meant “by a person,” and that person would be me; it was my job, not the performers’ or the crew’s, to answer the mail. But the answers would come from authentic sources, and that was all the audience needed to know.

Time to quit while I was ahead. I promised more goodies to come, shoved the mike back at Bill, did a four-corner wave, and hustled off the stage. My sendoff ovation was a good deal warmer than the greeting had been. I took that as a good sign.

The concert was over before I knew it and we were all back in the green room, high on a show buzz. The ravenous singers descended on the sideboard like a swarm of locusts. They had about 15 minutes to chow down and freshen up before going back out to appear at their merchandise tables, where they would press the flesh and sign autographs.

Bill cornered me on his way out the door.

“Nice job on your intro, Kielle. Do it the same tomorrow night. Comb your hair and put on a little mascara. But don’t put me on the spot like that again. Circle with me on the bus in the morning to go over the web site design.”

Well, there’s one question answered. But what exactly did “circle” mean? In my vocabulary, circling is what fighters do before they start throwing punches, or what sharks and birds of prey do before they swoop in for the kill. And did he just order me to wear mascara?

While I pondered that, Nancy Wainwright paused to inform me that I would not be photographing her on the bus, nor was I to even think about it. I could see that she’d look significantly different without the hair and makeup. I wondered if she’d behave differently, too.

Camera in hand, I followed my new colleagues to the meet and greet.

end of first concert

2005-10-13T19:29:00.000-06:00

Most of that first concert passed in a blur. I saw it through the lens of my camera, which I lowered just long enough to spot my next photo op and to glance at my feet so I didn’t trip as I bustled from one side of the stage apron to another. I found myself focusing on odd little things: the chandelier earrings the women wore, which looked glamorous from afar but uncomfortable through the zoom; the unadorned piercing in Quill Kelly’s left earlobe; Tiffany La Pierre’s ragged cuticles; the drummer using one of his sticks as a back scratcher. From my position on the floor, I felt like I was shooting up their noses a lot of the time. I would have to scout around for a better vantage point.

Intermission was upon us before I knew it. As the crowds streamed out toward bathrooms and concession stands, I realized I could use both myself. I hurried backstage in the performers’ wake, the ladies’ room my first priority, rummaging an energy bar from the bottom of my gear bag as I went. It wasn’t much, but it would do until I got back to the hotel.

Twenty minutes isn’t much time when you have work to do. I plugged my camera into an outlet in the green room to charge while I uploaded photos to my laptop. Several people came over to introduce themselves, and I snapped a few backstage shots of those willing to pose. The next night, I decided, the laptop would stay behind in a secure location; it was too heavy to lug around during the show but too valuable to leave unattended in a dressing room.

I also spotted the cold cut buffet laid out along one wall and realized my first perk of being with the band: free food. The singers, I noticed, didn’t eat during intermission, wary of clogging their pipes, but the instrumentalists and stage crew helped themselves.

When the second half of the show began, I had a better idea of what I wanted to do. I spent part of the set lurking among the singers’ seats, sneaking into unoccupied chairs from time to time. I also walked out into the aisles on the arena floor for some wider angles. I considered crouching behind the guitarists onstage but figured I’d better ask first. Maybe tomorrow night.

Any time the lights came up for audience participation, I turned my eye out into the tiers of packed seats. A few audience members saw me and waved, which gave me an idea for a new web site feature: Who are these people? I could post a few audience photographs from each concert and ask readers to identify the people in them. Everybody likes to be famous, right?

Not quite everybody. Not me, anyway, at least not without fair warning. During a break between songs, I was mortified to hear Bill Williams announce that there was a new member of the Praise Caravan family, then boom my name and beckon.

“Come on up here, Kielle, so everybody can see you!” His outstretched hand looked more imperious than inviting to me.

Have I mentioned that I hate the spotlight? That’s why I’m a writer: so I can toil in obscurity, known only by name, and pass unrecognized among my faithful readers, free to observe and record their actions without being scrutinized myself. I’ve always thought of it as sort of like having a secret identity. There’s a carefully constructed part of me that’s public and a much rougher part that’s private.

That night, I was 100 percent on public display. I resolutely did not watch as my shiny face, straggling hair, and wrinkled shirt loomed to life on the huge video screens. Smile plastered in place (and desperately hoping there was no parsley in my teeth but afraid to look), I crossed the stage to shake hands with Bill and turn in a circle to wave at the crowd.

Then — and I still haven’t forgiven him for this — Bill thrust his cordless microphone into my hand.

“Tell us a little bit about yourself, Kielle,” he said.

thinking cap

2005-10-13T15:29:00.000-06:00

This is my thinking cap — my Rockapella baseball cap. I wear it (usually backward) when I'm writing. It's a huge improvement over the old black beret I used to wear, yes?

avoidance behavior

2005-10-13T13:44:00.000-06:00

Avoidance behaviors: things I've done today to avoid writing this story:

talked on the phone
lunched with friends
wrote BND post for the day
cleaned bathroom floor
did dishes
petted & played with cats
sought freelance writing/copyediting work via e-mail (a.k.a. networking)
renamed site "The Naked Novel" instead of "The Naked Novelist," because it's the story that's naked here, not me — so hey, everybody, change your bookmarks to http://thenakednovel.blogspot.com
wrote this

notes to self

2005-10-10T13:45:00.000-06:00

I think I'll post my notes in a color other than black so they're distinguishible from the actual story.
I need names for the two guitarists and the drummer. Do the instrumentalists travel with the singers or on the crew bus? I'm thining with the singers, but they have to be on stage earlier to warm up the crowd before the real stars come on.
I need to name the video director and the three camera operators, too, plus at least one sound tech in addition to Fred. They definitely travel on the crew bus. Are any of them women?
I think we're going to need yet another bus. Crew bus, less posh. Executive bus, very nice. Bill, Jimmy, & Arlynn always ride the executive bus. Phillip, Nancy & Quentin often do too. The younger, less stuffy performers ride the fun bus, driven by Miss Stone. (Don't even think of calling Miss Stone by her first name without an invitation, and if you get one, that's Miss Rosetta to you.) They need room to spread out, so I don't want the buses getting too crowded. A little crowded, yes, for friction, but not cramped. Good lord, the gas bill alone is going to have Bill Williams tearing out what's left of his hair. Not that he wears a toupee or anything.
When I drive I-90 between the Twin Cities and the Black Hills, I make a game of pretending the town names on exit signs are people's names instead. So if you meet an Emery Farmer — or a Magnolia Kanaranzi — in this story, you'll know where he/she came from.
Needs more Jesus. I think Bill opens the show with a prayer, too.
What kind of camera does Kielle carry? How much memory does it have and how many pictures does that equal? I'll have to ask Rachel.
Would it be wrong of me to call Jimmy the Asshole Jimmy Hindman? Probably. But (butt) I won't say I'm not tempted.
I suppose I'll have to describe the entire show, act by act, here in the beginning so we all know what the hell I'm talking about. Cripes, that's going to be tedious. Well, not if I do it right.
Kielle is going to have a hell of a time not doocing herself, especially when things get hairy backstage. That's going to be a real struggle.

first day of work

2005-10-10T11:12:00.000-06:00

I had no idea what I was doing, of course. I’ve never been a picture taker. Blessed/cursed with a photographic memory, I’ve never needed to be. But there I was, a hired photojournalist who didn’t know her F-stop from a hole in the ground. Figuring I’d better act the part, I trotted ahead to turn and snap a few shots of the singers as they headed for the stage.

I got a variety of reactions. Phillip Davis, the Big Name soloist, was so focused he didn’t notice me. He filled my frame with an intensity I knew his fans would love. Bill Williams and Quentin Kelly also looked very serious as they went to work. On Kelly, the concentration was Byronic; on Williams, just grumpy.

Arlynn La Pierre and her children Tiffany and Raleigh, a mid-level folk trio whose presence in the otherwise high-powered Caravan I didn’t quite understand, gave me camera-ready smiles as they passed. I dutifully recorded them. Night and Day — the odd-couple duet of Shyrene McGill and Sarah Jeffers — waved and blew kisses. That was my first inkling that I had a lot to learn about lighting: the hallway’s fluorescents glared off Sarah’s fair skin and hair but threw harsh shadows on Shy’s African-American complexion, and the glossy fabric of their dresses created odd sunspots in the captured images. Note to self: Master PhotoShop.

The remaining Kellys, Quill and Quin, clowned it up when they saw me, mugging and posing and throwing off sparks of energy. Sharply tailored like their elder brother but a lot less starchy, they galloped past in a photogenic blur.

Bringing up the rear were Wainwright and Jimmy ____, the tour’s silver-haired business manager and the bass voice of FourWord, Williams’s quartet. With a blue suit coat buttoned over his burghermeister’s belly, ____ supported the dragonfly next to him with one beefy arm.

“Get that thing out of my face,” she snapped, turning her head away from me. ____ scowled and steered her wide around me. He relinquished his hold when she stepped forward to take her fiancé’s hand. Quill Kelly beamed down at her from a full foot above.

As the last person passed, I turned to shoot over their backs into the stadium. I had arrived during the warm-up act, focused on finding Williams backstage, and hadn’t taken a good look around me. Now I got an eyeful through the lens of my Nikon. Tuning in, I got an earful as well.

Like most Praise Caravan concerts, this one was sold out. The stage huddled in the middle of the arena floor, the instrumental musicians already ranged around its edges. Row upon row of seats, first at ground level and then in the stadium tiers, rippled out from this center. The eager audience was on its feet, clapping and stamping and cheering, positively frenzied to get a look at their idols. The noise got even louder when Bill Williams emerged from the vomitorium, now all benevolent smiles.

How do you like your new office, Kielle? I asked myself. Um, it’s a little drafty, and the neighbors are noisy.

I trailed behind the posse and stayed with the group as Williams peeled off to bound up the few stairs to the stage. The stage manager guided the rest to a cluster of seats on a small riser to the north of the stage, where a large part of their evening would be spent looking attentive while their colleagues performed. There was one seat per singer, with a bottle of water beneath each, and no empty spot left over for me. Apparently I was meant to move about the floor like the video crew did.

The video crew are the unsung heroes of any PC concert. To the people in the nosebleed seats, a body on the stage looks like little more than a smudge on the floor. The videographers, however, film each performance from two or three angles and project the images on enormous screens hanging above the stage. Suddenly every seat in the house is a good one.

The camera crane dominated stage south. In addition to two handheld video cameras, there’s this larger one that dips and swoops above the stage, guided by a crew member with a bewildering array of joysticks. The video director, from a perch in the tech booth, coordinates the feeds from the three cameras to the overhead screens. I imagine it’s something like being the leader of a jazz combo — part rehearsed, part improv, but all intended to appear seamless to the audience.

I crept around the edge of the stage to get a frontal shot of Bill delivering his introductory remarks and had just gotten into position when he turned to address another section of the stadium. Damn! But of course he turned. This was theater in the round, where there was no “front.” He would be in near-constant motion so no one would have to stare at his back for too long. I would have to learn his rotation pattern, if he had one, so I’d know how to get in front of him. Meanwhile, I pretended I’d been angling for a profile shot all along.

I zoomed in on the instrumentalists as well. They, at least, stayed put. Mason Jeffers, Sarah’s husband, sat at the baby grand piano on the west side of the stage. When not tinkling out accompaniment, he served as Bill’s comic foil. In the few videos I’d seen, laconic Mace seemed a lot funnier than his boss, but the crowd appeared to disagree with me, howling at the stale (but clean!) one-liners Bill had been working for years.

Opposite the piano, stage east, sat the lead guitarist, the bassist and the drummer. I wondered why Bill bothered having a live band onstage, as electronic backup tracks nearly drowned them out, but again, he seemed to know his business. In all my reading of fan bulletin board discussions and concert recaps, I hadn’t seen anyone complain about excessive instrumentation. Well, I prefer a cappella music anyway, so maybe it was just me.

I framed numerous shots but clicked sparingly, wary of filling up my camera’s memory card too quickly. I had a spare card in my bag but no clear notion of how long it would take me to max them out. I had the laptop computer with me, too, so if necessary I supposed I could download photos during intermission. Nothing like on-the-job training.

FourWord led off the set. Phillip Davis, Jimmy ____ and Raleigh La Pierre joined Bill onstage to belt out a few old-time gospel favorites. The arrangements were solidly traditional, taking no advantage of the flourishes Davis could add to the high end. A standout soloist in his own right, Phillip deferred to Bill completely when they shared the stage. Raleigh looked like a bantam rooster among the more substantial men, choking a few notes off his range by stretching his neck to look taller. Fittingly, Jimmy, by far the heaviest man, served as both visual and auditory anchor of the group.

assorted plot points

2005-10-09T15:53:00.000-06:00

Assorted plot points, in no particular order:

Quill Kelly and Nancy Wainwright are a lousy match. She treats him like shit, but he won’t give up his romantic notions of making it work.
Kielle overhears/oversees a few things she shouldn’t but doesn’t realize at the time that her knowledge is dangerous.
Somebody realizes Kielle knows incriminating facts.
There’s a nasty backstage accident.
Kielle saves Raleigh and Quill’s asses in a bar fight, at some expense to her health.
Kielle’s revamp of the PC web site is a huge improvement.
Kielle becomes mildly famous amongst PC fans — a little too famous to suit her, as she’s an introvert by nature.
Kielle gets a secret admirer: a Mr. Peabody admires her writing on the PC site and her other work and leaves clever, complimentary comments. They strike up a friendly acquaintance. Kielle likes Peabody a lot, but he’s an anonymous Internet creature and probably gross in real life, so she doesn’t think much of it.
Quentin Kelly hates being on the road away from his family.
What’s the deal between Bill Williams and Arlynn La Pierre? She must know where some bodies are buried or something.
Quentin and Quill don’t get along very well. Quin is often caught in the middle trying to make peace.
Quentin works his day job from the road. He’s an architect. Quin works his day job from the road, too. He’s a financial advisor. Quill does not have a day job (and Quentin doesn’t let him forget it). All he’s ever wanted to do is sing.
Nancy tries to make life difficult for Kielle.
Kielle desperately misses having privacy and like-minded friends around to talk to.
Kielle discovers that Darius, the stage manager, also does kung fu (praying mantis style). They become fast friends and workout partners when time permits. But that isn’t as often as they’d like, as Darius has to travel ahead with the equipment truck, while Kielle usually (but not always) travels with the performers.
Kielle meets Benjamin Shea, a cousin of the Kellys. Although both are gun-shy from previous bad relationships, they hit it off right away.
The story takes place over the course of about a year.
Kielle starts to realize that the odd little bits and pieces she’s seen/heard add up to something — something bad. She starts to investigate in earnest.
Kielle confides her suspicions in Ben, who is a private investigator.
Kielle and Ben are an item.
Kielle and Ben break up.
Kielle has a near-death experience, with a little help.
Kielle confronts Bill with her suspicions.
Bill fires Kielle. She goes into hiding.
There’s a murder that looks like a suicide.
Quill discovers the body and is struck mute with shock.
Ben tracks Kielle down and convinces her to come back to Atlanta to see if she can help Quill.
Thrown together again, Kielle and Ben figure out what’s really going on. They solve the mystery (whatever it is!).
Everyone lives happily ever after.

Kielle goes to Atlanta

2005-10-08T20:36:00.000-06:00

Goddamn AirTran.

Normally, a direct flight from Minneapolis would not be a big deal. A couple hours in the air and boom, there you are. But not this time. First, mechanical difficulties delayed our departure from MSP by an hour, but we were willing to wait rather than take to the air in a dicky plane. Apparently we didn’t wait long enough, though, because whatever was supposed to get fixed didn’t quite, and we ended up making an unscheduled landing in St. Louis. Then there was a delay while harried airline staff found different flights for us to board. They found some other different flights for our luggage, which naturally enough meant that passengers and bags arrived in Atlanta at different times.

I waited around the airport for an extra hour while mine were rounded up. Unlike some of the other passengers, I wasn’t willing to leave and hope my things would catch up to me at my hotel; the Caravan would be checking out the next morning and I couldn’t risk leaving town without clothes for the next two weeks. So I didn’t make it to the hotel until nearly 6:00, when I should have arrived mid-afternoon.

I had left periodic messages on Bill Williams’s cell phone letting him know where I was and when I expected to arrive, with no response. The only acknowledgment came in the form of a terse message waiting for me at the hotel’s front desk: Meet me at the venue. Wear black. Great. I hadn’t even begun my first day of work and already the boss sounded pissed.

Show time was 7:00. As I checked in, I asked the desk clerk to call me a cab. I took time only to wash my face, change into backstage black, fix my hair — it’s a little longer than shoulder length, easy to pull up into a quick chignon if you know how — and load my gear bag. Then I raced back downstairs to hop into the waiting taxi.

I got to the [large Atlanta concert venue] at about 6:45 and slipped through the teeming crowds to ground level, where it took approximately two minutes to talk my way backstage. Either my Jedi mind tricks were more powerful than I had realized or the Caravan needed better security. I also noted that telling the security guy my name hadn’t affected the process one way or the other. No one had told him to expect me. I made a mental note to bring both points up with Williams at an opportune time. Later.

I’ve spent plenty of time behind the scenes in various theaters and had little trouble figuring out where the dressing rooms were: just follow the sound of vocal warmups. I was striding purposefully toward arpeggios when somebody grabbed my elbow from behind and tried to yank me around.

“Just where do you think you’re going, missy?” demanded a nasal, honeyed drawl.

I’ve been studying T’ai Chi for more than a dozen years. Most people know T’ai Chi as a series of gentle, flowing movements practiced by Chinese senior citizens in public parks at dawn. They’re right, but that’s only one side of the coin. On the other side is kung fu. Each of those gentle, flowing movements, when revved up to fighting speed, is a self-defense technique. I know most of them, and I know them well. Had I been accosted that way in a dark alley, I would have whirled, freed my arm, and slammed the bad guy to the ground in one smooth motion. I thought about doing so anyway, because the voice had called me “missy.”

However, T’ai Chi is also the art of relaxation, so I took a deep breath and settled for two out of three. I spun and freed myself, and in standing my ground made the woman who’d grabbed me take a step back. No body slam.

I towered over her. Her eyes were level with my chin. Her aggressively blonde hair, however, was almost as high as mine. That, her shimmery dress, and the voice I’d recognized from hours of studying Praise Caravan performers told me who I’d met. I turned off my don’t-fuck-with-me glare and switched on a friendly smile.

“Ah, Nancy Wainwright. I’m Kielle Hughes, the Caravan’s new webmaster. How do you do.” I stuck out my right hand, which she ignored, fists on hips. Nancy Wainwright was contemporary Christian pop’s sweetheart onstage. Offstage, apparently, was a different story. I spared a moment to wonder why she wasn’t warming up with the rest of the company.

“Good for you,” said the sweetheart tartly. “And where do you think you’re going?”

Nice to meet you, too. “I’m supposed to meet with Bill Williams before the show. He’s back this way, right?” I resumed walking in my original direction. I could hear Williams’s mellow tenor voice leading the vocal exercises at the end of the hall.

Wainwright scurried around me, a feat I admired given the height of her heels, and planted herself in my path. I had to either stop or plow her over. Tough choice. When I’ve set my course for a goal, I don’t take kindly to obstacles in my way, especially when they reek of AquaNet.

“Crew,” she sneered, looking me up and down, “do not bother Bill backstage before a show, which anyone with common sense would know. How did you sneak back here, anyway?”

I have to work with this woman, I reminded myself. It’s not nice to knock a coworker on her ass.

“Bill left me a message to meet him here when I arrived. He’s expecting me.” I took a deep, calming breath, shaking off the frustration of travel delays, determined not to cause a scene.

I didn’t have to. Wainwright’s rising voice did it for me as she snapped, “Like hell he is.”

A man in an impeccably tailored charcoal grey suit popped out of the green room and started toward us without hesitation. Dark hair in a conservative cut, eyes that matched his silver tie, a quarterback’s shoulders and stride: Quentin Kelly, lead singer and eldest of the Kelly Brothers Trio, and Wainwright’s future brother-in-law.

“Nancy? What’s going on?” His words were for her, his keen gaze for me.

I faked left and deftly stepped to the right, my hand out again. I ignored Wainwright’s icy glare, half expecting to feel one of her stilettos in the back of my leg. “Mr. Kelly, hi, I’m Kielle Hughes,” I introduced myself again. “I’m looking for Mr. Williams. Is he inside?”

Kelly shook my hand reflexively, sizing me up in a moment. “The Internet person, right? Come on in. We’ve only got a minute, but I know he was looking for you.” He turned to usher me down the hall.

“Quentin, she can’t go in there!” Wainwright protested. “You know the rule. No visitors in the green room.”

“Miss Hughes isn’t a visitor, she’s staff,” Kelly pointed out, guiding me through the green room door with a light touch on my back. I took an extra step forward so Wainwright could steam past. She flounced into position next to the youngest, tallest, most attractive man in the room and shrugged off the arm he tried to settle across her shoulders.

Bill Williams noted our arrival but did not pause until he’d led the group through the end of a series of scales. Then he made a conductor’s cutoff motion and looked expectantly at Kelly, who took his cue to introduce me to the group.

“Miss Hughes. Glad you could join us.” Gee, thanks for the warm welcome, boss. To the rest, he said, “Kielle, as you know, is our embedded journalist as well as our webmaster. She’ll be taking pictures and conducting interviews while we’re on tour. Give her your full cooperation.” They swiveled to look at me. I smiled back at the murmured hellos.

A man wearing black clothes and a headset stopped briefly in the doorway. “Two minutes, Bill,” he said, and disappeared again. Stage manager, I thought.

“Let us pray,” Williams intoned. I recalled that he was an ordained minister. The company joined hands — me included, as people on either side clasped mine — and bowed their heads while their leader asked a blessing for their performance.

Out of practice with praying, I studied my new colleagues’ footwear until he finished. Leather dress shoes for the gentlemen, simple pumps for the ladies, except for Wainwright’s high heels. I wondered if the uniformity was a matter of dress code or personal choice, and why Wainwright was the only standout. My musings were cut short when the stage manager reappeared to announce, “Places.”

The tide of singers swept me back out into the hallway as I dug out my digital camera. Time to go to work.

third question of the day

2005-10-08T07:54:00.000-06:00

Q: Can I sleep with the lead singer?
~ L

A: Depends on who who you mean by lead singer. There are several ensembles on the tour. I'll take the liberty of ruling out the girls. You can't sleep with Quentin Kelly, the lead singer of the trio, because he's not only married, but too old and too old-fashioned for you. You can't sleep with Bill Williams, the lead singer of the quartet, because he's a right bastard and you deserve better. But Phillip Davis, the other tenor in the quartet — actually, you may be just what that guy needs. Hmm . . . Thanks, L!

another question

2005-10-08T07:47:00.000-06:00

Q: Do you ever have a problem with characters "refusing" to behave in ways you want them to? Like, you try to write a scene a certain way and find yourself stymied because "So-and-so would never do that"?

~ Gembrat

A: You betcha. And whose fault is it these people are so damn stubborn? Er . . . yes, it happens, but I take it as a good sign. If a character has enough personality that he or she is not easily molded into just any old shape, it means the person has dimension, and that's good.

a question!

2005-10-08T07:42:00.000-06:00

Q: I see you've assembled an entire cast of characters already. Don't most writers "discover" characters as they write?
~ Rona

A: I can't speak for most writers, only for myself. For me, it's usually about half and half: I think up a person or two, then some situations for them to get into, and then I discover more people for them to meet in those situations. It goes back and forth like that.

In the case of the novel I'm working on here, however, it's slightly different. I've been thinking about this story off and on for a couple years and so have already "met" most of the people in it — or so I think; that will certainly change a bit as I go. I've also mentally mapped out several major plot points — and I plan to post the map soon, if I can just get my poop in a group this weekend.

Thanks for asking! All questions (and answers!) welcome. The Naked Novelist, like most novelists, will do just about anything to avoid actually working on her novel, so keep 'em coming. :-)

forgot a couple people

2005-10-07T08:09:00.000-06:00

The Caravan needs a road manager and a sound guy, too. Let's call them Joseph Wallace and Eustice "Fred" Fredrickson, respectively.

who’s on the bus?

2005-10-04T10:07:00.000-06:00

a partial list of Praise Caravaners

Kielle Hughes, blogger, webmaster, fan liaison

Bill Williams, head honcho (and a bit of a bastard if you ask me). Front man of FourWord, his old-school gospel quartet.

The Kelly Brothers: Quentin, Quin, and Quilleran. (Don’t blame me; the cutesy Q-names were their mother’s idea.) Singers. Bill’s nephews.

Nancy Wainwright, diva soprano and Quill’s fiancée; huge bitch in a small package

Night & Day, a.k.a. Sarah Jeffers and Shyrene McGill, singers. One lily-white and British, one black and soulful. Great odd-couple duet.

Mason Jeffers, keyboardist, Bill’s comic foil, Sarah’s husband. He and Sarah met while working as cruise ship entertainers.

Jimmy the Asshole, Bill’s business manager and bass voice of FourWord. He’ll get a last name when I’m damn good and ready.

Phillip Davis, soloist, the Praise Caravan’s big draw. Powerhouse on stage, neurotic introvert off stage. Also a tenor in FourWord.

A trio made up of Arlynn La Pierre and her children, naive Tiffany and boorish Raleigh. They sing and play instruments, probably folky stuff. They’re not all that great, so you wonder how they made it into the Caravan, but Arlynn and Bill have some history. She has some kind of influence on him.

a fourth member of FourWord (baritone), possibly Raleigh La Pierre

Rosetta Stone, driver

Darius Cole, stage manager. Gay and very, very closeted.

various pit musicians

sundry stage crew

Clearly we’re going to need more than one bus.

not on the bus

Kielle’s friends at home

Maura Kelly, the Kelly brothers’ mother

Nolie Baker Kelly, Quin’s wife; financial consultant

Leah Kelly, Quentin’s wife; parochial school headmistress

Benjamin Shea, a Kelly cousin; private investigator

legions of enthusiastic Caravan fans

a vocal minority of overly devoted fans

a few stalkerish fans

the plot

2005-10-04T10:05:00.000-06:00

Not much to tell about the plot just yet, but it will include:

introspection
conspiracy
romance
murder
humor

our heroine

2005-10-03T14:33:00.000-06:00

Our Heroine: a partial introduction

When we meet Kielle Hughes, she has just finished the novel she quit her day job to write. It’s in the hands of her agent, and the waiting is killing her. She takes the Praise Caravan job as much as for distraction’s sake as anything else, although of course there’s that nagging work ethic in the back of her head that says she has to be doing something demonstrably productive, with a steady paycheck, or she’s a bad person.

Kielle has some misgivings about the Caravan from the start. For one thing, it’s a contemporary Christian ensemble, and Kielle is not a Christian. Not anti-, but definitely not Christian. She’s Taoist if she’s anything, but that’s philosophy, not religion. So she’s not sure how well she’s going to get along with people who are totally into Jesus. She’s also not convinced that people who say they’re into Jesus actually practice what he preached, having had some negative experiences with that sort of thing in the past.

Riding on the tour bus is going to make Kielle insane. She’s a hermit by nature, one of those writers who can hole up in her garret for days on end without feeling a need to speak to anyone. Yet she has signed up to spend her days trapped on a bus with people she may not like and her evenings surrounded by crowds in the concert venues. Her only alone-time while on tour will be in her hotel room late at night when she’s too wiped out to enjoy it. And forget crawling into her cave when she’s not on tour; all her friends at home want to spend time with her while they can. What the hell was she thinking?

Kielle has a few tools to help keep her sane, though. She’s a devout student of T’ai Chi, an internal-style Chinese martial art she studies for both health and self-defense. Her meditation practice is vital to her sense of well-being, and the physical activity helps a lot as well. Also, she writes. Constantly. She maintains a road blog for the tour, a public blog to keep her family up to date, a private online journal open to a select inner circle, and active correspondence with several friends. That’s in addition to the pen-and-paper diary she keeps — in Portuguese or something, just in case anyone peeks.

Another interesting thing about Kielle: she as a photographic memory. This will become vital to the plot (once I figure out what that is). She remembers everything she sees or reads and most of what she hears, especially if she visualizes the words as they’re being spoken. She has taught herself to read lips, too, and is not above eavesdropping that way. That will put her into more than one tight spot re: knowing things she shouldn’t and needing to keep quiet about how she learned them.

Interesting aside: Since she had such an easy time memorizing rote material, during college Kielle scored the occasional easy money by taking tests for other students. And she never felt particularly bad about it.

intro

2005-10-01T19:16:00.000-06:00

As the late afternoon sun inched beyond the skylight, enough chill permeated the apartment that I reluctantly turned on the heat. I'd become necessarily tight with a buck over the past year, but I hate cold even more than high gas bills. Julie and Matt, who rent me the Fonz-style loft over their garage, had done an excellent job of insulating the place, but March in Minneapolis is still winter as far as the thermometer is concerned.

As the light waned, so did my enthusiasm for work. I had been diligently plunking out yet another article on the subject of weight control, which I could have summarized, like all the others, in four words: Eat less, exercise more. The fitness stories kept the wolf from the door — though not far — while I waited to hear from my agent. After months without an encouraging word about my Great American Novel, I was seriously considering looking for full-time work again. My savings were running low, self-employment taxes were running high, and the unpredictable nature of freelancing was a serious bother to my plan-ahead nature.

Going out on my own had seemed like a good idea at the time. I had gotten a decent chunk of change from the sale of the house when Paul and I split, which combined with the prospect of magazine work had been just enough to push me out of my cubicle and into the glorious life of the freelance writer. I was in serious starting over mode anyway, so why not? This would be the perfect opportunity to stop stagnating at my office job and make serious headway on the novel.

It went well for a while. My friends rented me the bachelorette pad for less than they should have, and I poured heart and soul into my writing and my studies. I had finished the book, scraped up an agent (with the help of other friends), and sent my baby off to be published within the first six months. Then I sat back to wait.

My patience, and therefore my vacation, lasted a week. Then I took another good look at my financial situation and started calling all my friends in the publishing industry.

I got work, enough to slow the drain on my savings account, but not enough to truly make a living. And it was not the stimulating, challenging, reputation-making work I had imagined for myself; it was "eat less, exercise more." I had started another fiction project, a sequel to the first, but my heart wasn't in it. I was spending more time online reading other writers' blogs than producing anything of my own. The more time passed without word of my first book's sale, the clearer my realization that playtime was nearly over. I'd had my shot, and it would soon be time to rejoin the real world.

I was knee-deep in cynical resignation when the phone rang.

"Don!" I exclaimed, recognizing my caller's voice. Don Preston was as unlikely a friend as I was likely to have. We'd met while both working for a home-improvement magazine. Don was a carpenter by day and church choir director by night, while I knew nothing of tools (I'd been the copyeditor) and enough of churches to know I didn't want any. He was a devoted dad, I child-free by choice. He listened to 70s rock and roll, I preferred a cappella. A shared sense of humor, however, was enough to draw us together.

After the small talk and publishing community gossip, he got down to the reason for his call. He had an opportunity for me.

"I thought of you immediately, Kielle, even though you're going to say, 'That is so not me' as soon as I tell you what it is. And it's by no means a sure thing; you'd have to interview for it and all that. But I think you're the right person for the job."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, then. What is it?"

"Have you heard of the Williams Praise Caravan?" he asked.

I had. The Williams Praise Caravan was a company of contemporary Christian musicians that toured the country playing to huge stadia packed with the faithful. I'd even been to a couple Caravan shows with some friends of my parents whom I was fond of despite distinct differences in our religious views. Alarm bells went off in the back of my head.

"Yes," I said slowly, wondering what was coming.

"Well, Bill — Bill Williams, who owns the Caravan — wants to update its image. He wants someone to ride along with the tour and document the shows and keep the website up to date. Sort of half embedded journalist, half roadie. And I think you'd be great at it."

"You're right, Don, that is so not me," I laughed. "That's just about the last concert tour I would ever choose to go on. And isn't tour blogging passé already?"

"Bill Williams doesn't think so. Besides," Don added nonchalantly, "I already told him about you, and he wants to meet you."

"Dude!" I spluttered. "You what?"

"I sent him some of your clips and pointed him to your blog. He's impressed with your writing. And with the fact that you could be available on short notice."

"First of all, how do you know Bill Williams? And second, I don’t know whether to thank you or kick your ass."

I could hear Don smiling, though he had the courtesy not to laugh. "We were in music ed together in college, and we've kept in touch. And I really hope this works out well, because I don't think I could survive an ass-kicking from you."

Trying to sound stern, I said, "You're right, you couldn't." I sighed. "How short is short notice?"

"Short. He wants somebody on the bus two weeks from now."

Short indeed. I was silent for a minute, doing my best not to feel any excitement at the prospect of going on tour with a popular musical act and getting paid to be a professional blogger. This gig would get me way out of my rut.

"Oh, gee, look at the time," said Don. "I'd better get off your phone."

His innocent haste made me suspicious. "Why the hurry?"

"I sort of told Bill you'd call him at 5:00."

"It's only 10 minutes till four."

"He's in the Eastern Time zone today. An hour ahead."

"You bastard, Don."

"You're welcome."

* * *

I called Williams as promised, telling myself that it would make Don look bad if I didn't. I'd had barely enough time to look up the Praise Caravan website and skim the highlights. One thing was for sure, the site did need updating. The page design was straight out of the late 90s, and the colors were atrocious.

Williams, clearly preoccupied, kept the conversation brief. He considered me qualified, he said, based on my writing samples and Don's character reference. The conditions of the job were these: to administer the website and bulletin boards and act as the online fan liaison; to update performer profiles; to ride on the tour bus and attend the performances and post a daily road journal of the group's travels; to take some photos; and to do whatever else came up. The journals and photos were to contain nothing that would embarrass the performers or reflect badly on the Caravan, and nothing that was in bad taste (which was left undefined). Six-week probationary period.

Benefits? Full insurance coverage. Transportation, meals, and lodging provided. The salary represented a 300-percent raise over my present income. That was the part that really caught my eye.

I inquired about equipment. Did they have a computer for me to use? A camera?

Buy what you need and the company will reimburse you, he said impatiently. Did I want the job or not?

In a moment of weakness, I said I did.

"Great. Meet us in Atlanta on April 1. Welcome aboard."

* * *

The next two weeks were a blur. I had few affairs to wrap up other than finishing the stories I was working on. I bought the best laptop computer on the market and tricked it out with wireless Internet and all the bells and whistles. I bought a digital camera and a combination PDA/cell phone and did the same. I spent a day getting them all to work in concert, and by the end of it I could post photos and text to the Internet with my remote devices.

I also made myself master of the subject matter. I spent hours reading all I could find about every member of the company, from Bill Williams himself to the singers and band to the business manager and tech crew. I read the bulletin boards and acquainted myself with the fans and their web pages. I noted the complaints they had with the existing Caravan site and began sketching out improvements. I constructed my redesign on the new computer and had it ready to go live pending Bill's approval.

I spent a lot of time explaining my new job to my friends.

Then I stuffed three weeks' worth of clothes into my biggest suitcase, locked up the loft, and got on a plane for Atlanta.