Chasing Kane (37 page)

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

She smiled through the tears. “You know, I don’t think I ever told you this, but I didn’t cry when my dad died.”

I swallowed, unsurprised given all I knew about their relationship—and Georgia’s reluctance to tears—but I was floored by her honesty. “You never told me that.”

“Because I couldn’t grieve the man I lost—a shell of the father I knew.” She held up the picture again. “But this man? This is the father I lost and … I think I’m going to need some time—to cry a lot.”

I pulled her into a tight hug. “I’ll be here. Whatever you need.”

As quick as the emotion came on, she pulled out of it, backing away and drying under her eyes. “Gah,” she mumbled to herself. “Stop making me cry, I’ve got a business transaction to attend to,” she said, pulling the deed to the building out of her back pocket.

I laughed, kissing her once more before facing the maze of sweat that lay before us. “See you at the show?”

She smiled up at me with raw openness. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

A couple of weeks later, we were playing the closing number of our afternoon set at the P-Town festival, and I was on cloud nine. Yardley had arranged a banjo to play “Dueling Banjos”
with me. For the rest of the tour, Nessa and I were scheduled to do this piece together, but she’d been absent since I rejoined the tour—her brother had major surgery and she flew home to be with her family. She was scheduled to return after our break was over.

I’d originally feared that playing with Nessa again would be awkward—for me and her and, of course, Georgia. But those fears were lessening as time went on. Georgia and I had a long talk about it before I returned to the show—both alone and in the company of our therapist—and Georgia agreed that it was a part of my job, and I agreed that if it became a problem for me emotionally that I would pull back.

I’d been working on rehearsing boundaries that I hadn’t realized had been so messy before. Nessa and I would practice and perform together, and socialize in the company of other musicians, but that was it. I did not intend to socialize one-on-one with her anymore. I was one hundred percent committed to my wife, but I didn’t need to go looking for trouble.

I was soaked with sweat while Ben from The Brewers scratched away on his banjo in the blazing heat. We were in the zone. Near the end of our song, members from the tour came on stage in kind of an impromptu jam session. We were joined by guitars, tambourines, a keyboard, and several drummers. CJ had seemed distracted earlier in the day. Over what I had no idea, but he was able to leave that all behind—like the rest of us—and kill it on stage.

My eyes scanned the crowd until I found my gorgeous, loud wife, front and center in a group that would have swallowed her if she weren’t so damn scrappy. Holding her own on a two-by-two section of trampled grass, Georgia jumped and shook her hips and cheered along to every song. I did all I could to stop myself from leaping off the stage toward her, but as the energy of the crowd surged, I couldn’t hold back any longer.

With a quick wink in her direction, and a nod to Ben, which had come to mean “keep playing,” I leapt from the stage with my violin in my hands, earning a chorus of cheers. Georgia stared at me with a seductively wicked grin as I played my way toward her. I couldn’t grab her and pull her to me while I played, but I could lean in with some skill to kiss her on the round apple of her cheek. With a small circle encasing us, Georgia danced around me, clapping her hands to the rapid beat, and encouraging the crowd to do the same as sweat dripped from my forehead.

God, it was just like it was when we first met at that tiny bar in San Diego. She’d liked the music right away, but it took her longer to get on board with me—well, a relationship with me, anyway. As the nights wound down, Georgia would spend more time on or around the stage, dancing to our beat, and sometimes her own. She had also been known to hop up and dance with me on stage between waiting on tables. It annoyed her manager at first, until he saw how the customers loved it.

There on the grass in Provincetown that day … that was us. Lost in the music and each other. And, even though it had been two weeks since she’d set foot in Sweet Forty-two, I swear she still smelled like butter and brown sugar.

“I love you!” I shouted over the music, meeting her eyes, and her eyes alone.

Her smile broadened and she yelled back, “And I love you!”

At the conclusion of the song, the crowd erupted into cheers and I was greeted with high-fives and backslapping, but I had only one focus—Georgia.

I picked her up, swinging her around in a tight hug. “You’re hot,” I whispered.

“You’re sweaty,” she teased back, planting a heavy kiss on my lips.

I quickly made my way back to the stage, hopping up with a helpful hand from CJ while the rest of the members from the tour, including Yardley, joined us on stage for a final bow. We’d have to do this all again at sunset, and even though I was more than ready for our two-week break to start, this crowd was particularly invigorating.

Georgia leaned up on her tiptoes toward the stage as I crouched down to meet her.

“I’m going to go check out all the vendors.” She hitched her thumb back toward the tents and tables scattered through the boundaries of the festival.

I nodded, kissing the tip of her nose. “I’ll catch up with you once we’re all cleaned up here.

She shot me a quick wink before strutting off in her platform sandals.

“Well …
look
who it is!” a scratchy old voice hollered.

I whipped around, disbelieving my ears. But, in a second, I spotted the man who made my whole life possible.

“Ernie?!” My mouth swung open at the sight of my first violin instructor, and it stayed there as he made his way slowly up the stairs to the stage.

I shot a glance into the crowd for Georgia, but she was long gone.

Ernie had lost some of his height in the seven or eight years it had been since I’d seen him, and now walked with a long, knotted and twisted cane that made him look like a wizard—but it was him. His long hair was pulled back with an elastic, and what was once salt-and-pepper was now snow-white. His long beard seemed even more over the top now that it was as white as his hair and blew in the ocean breeze.

I walked over to him, grabbing his hand to help him up the last step. “You’re here?” I asked, feeling like I was in a bit of a twilight zone.

“Damn right. You think I’d miss this?” Despite the cane and the slow pace, he wasn’t out of breath or otherwise elderly sounding when he reached me. And he still had the twinkle in his greying eyes. The twinkle that taught me music was magic.

He stuck out his hand, and when I shook it he tugged me in for a hug. He stood just a few inches shorter than me, and had far more strength than it looked like he should.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Real proud of you.”

Backing away, I grinned and gestured my hands to my sides as if presenting the stage to him. “Because of you, sir.”

He lightly whacked the back of my calf with his cane. “Because of
you
. And, no need for that
sir
nonsense.”

I set my hands on my hips as the last of the crew disappeared, and the two of us were left alone on the suddenly grand-feeling stage. “What are you doing here?”

He looked at me like I’d sprouted another head. “I’ve got a booth, fool. Or have you forgotten?”

I blushed, laughing at the same time. “I could never forget. I just didn’t realize you still did this.”

He shrugged. “Not dead yet.”

“Fair enough. I really want you to meet my wife, Georgia.”

He grinned. “Was she the little firecracker dancing around you in that last song?”

I only blushed deeper. Ernie met me when I was five. It was weird talking about my
wife
with him now. “That was her.”

“Good on you, Kane. And that cousin of yours with the wild streak—seems he’s got himself together a little bit. All he needed was a little organization to really be something with those sticks.”

I moved my head side-to-side, considering. “He can be organized,” I chuckled. “Or a damn mess.”

“Drummers,” Ernie mumbled, shaking his head. “Anyway, I gotta get back to the booth. The kids’ corner thing is starting in a few. Care to swing by and share some of yourself?”

My chest burst with excitement. “Yes. Absolutely. I’ll bring Georgia by, too. Are you free for dinner tonight? My mom’s cooking.”

Without hesitation Ernie answered, “I wouldn’t miss that woman’s food for the world. See you in a few.” He turned and made his way for the stairs.

“Need some help?” I jogged behind him, cupping his elbow.

Once again, Ernie hit me with his cane. “I’ve got help. Go get your wife and come impart some wisdom to the youth who can barely tell a fiddle from an iPhone.”

He made his way down the stairs, mumbling about technology and the death of the arts.

While I shared his angst on the subject, I needed to track down Georgia. I hopped off the stage and weaved through the thick crowd, nearly obtaining a contact high while I searched for a short, sexy blonde.

“Regan!” Georgia’s urgent voice called to me through the noise, then two more times.

Finally, I spotted her and walked over to the white tent she was in front of.
Massachusetts Adoption Resource Exchange
was printed across a blue banner with white lettering. It was an information tent—as many local and regional organizations used the festival to promote their causes—and a long white table was filled with brochures, charts, and stuffed envelopes of some sort.

“What’s up? Ernie’s here! You’ll
finally
get to meet him, and—what’s wrong?” I tapered the end of my excited speech as my wife’s eyes shined glassy as if she was holding back tears.

“Look at this. Did you know this existed?” She gestured to the table, pointing to a couple of trifold poster boards that held the faces and information of at least a dozen children aged six months to sixteen.

… Would do well in a home by herself or with other children.

… Needs one-on-one attention. Best with a single mother.

… Sibling group. Looking for someone who can take all four children.

I swallowed the rocky lump forming in my throat.

“What …” I looked at Georgia, clearing my throat. “What is this?”

Her voice lowered to just above a whisper. “None of those kids have homes. There are more than six hundred kids just in this state that are waiting to be adopted. They—they don’t have anyone, Regan.” Her panicked eyes met mine and she was breathing heavy.

I put my hand on her shoulder and pulled her close to me as we looked at the boards in front of us. I stayed quiet for a long time, an unfamiliar and overwhelming emotion surging through my chest.

I thought of Ernie, working with young musicians throughout his whole life, filling the need for positive adult role models that all children have. This was deeper. These were children who had no stable home, no consistent caregiver. Based on the information in front of us, most of the children came from abusive or neglectful situations. Many of them had some sort of developmental and/or social delays.

My vision blurred behind powerless tears. I looked at my wife, and she looked back up at me.

“Do you think they have something like this in California?” she asked, sounding broken and resolved at the same time.

I nodded, taking a step closer to the table. “I’m sure they do.”

“Can I answer any questions for you?” A bubbly, college-aged looking woman asked us.

I cleared my throat. “We’re visiting from California,” I started, my voice shaking like I was riding a jackhammer. “And we were wondering if there were any organizations like this out there?”

Stacey, as her name tag stated, tapped away on the computer in front of her. After a minute, she produced a printed list of websites and phone numbers.

“Here are the groups in California we’ve worked with in the past. Certainly there are more, but we can recommend these as having good practices. Are you two considering fostering? Adopting? Both?”

Dropping my hand to my side, I grabbed Georgia’s sweaty palm and squeezed it in mine. I looked down at her as she, again, looked up at me with a wide-eyed mix of pain and hope.

This …
thing
passed between us. Our story. Our love. I don’t know what it was, but it felt like the time I stuck my tongue in a D battery when I was eight. Only this surged through my whole body as I stared at the woman who made my life exponentially more amazing than I thought it could ever be.

Turning our attention back to Stacey, Georgia and I squeezed each other’s hands once more, and answered in unison.

“Yes.”

“Wait a second. Can we have a second?” Georgia asked, politely as she ushered me a few feet back from the booth. Stacey seemed unconcerned as she gathered sheets of paper and brochures into a manila envelope.

“What is it?”

Georgia’s eyes moved from me to the table and back again, I could see a million starts to a million sentences running through her eyes. “We just went through this whole …
baby thing
.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah we did. But this feels … different somehow.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “This kind of came out of nowhere.”

Setting my hands over hers with a wave of calm washing over me, I kissed the top of her head. “Some of the best people do.”

I grinned, watching the woman who fell backwards into my life when I was least expecting it.

“We didn’t handle the baby stuff well before.”

“But we know it was about more than the baby stuff,” I reminded her. We’d been through a lot of therapy, teasing apart our fears, anxiety and expectations.

Georgia nodded, chewing her bottom lip.

I sighed, smiling. “Maybe … maybe there’s a kid out there, already born, who needs us.
Us.
”

She nodded, and a small weep escaped her throat as she pressed her forehead into my chest. “I think you’re right, Regan.”

I swallowed my tears back, feeling emotional and calm at the same time. A feeling that told me to hang onto my wife, no matter what. Gently rubbing the back of her head, I spoke softly. “I think when we get home we call these numbers, get some information, and take it from there. And talk with Dr. Weeber. And each other. A lot with each other.”