Take Me Home Tonight (3 page)

“Nope. And the label thinks Dak's such a genius they give him free rein. But I can tell you this. Four months into this project, and he's changed their sound. Shit we're doing isn't what we worked on in Violet's barn.” He glanced to his mom's art studio, imagining her perspiration-dampened T-shirt and the intense concentration on her exhausted features. “Whatever. Not my issue.”

His dad dropped the cigar onto the slate and crushed it with the toe of his flip-flop. “They still pushin' you to join?”

He nodded. It didn't look like the original keyboard player would be coming back. The guy had bailed on his second attempt at rehab. And since they'd be hitting the road as soon as this record was done, they'd need a permanent member sooner than later.

Which meant he needed to line up his next gig.

His dad leaned forward, as he lowered his head into his hands.

Damn, but he hated seeing his dad so twisted up. “You sure you're okay?”

He looked up, trying for a smile. “Yeah, sure.”

“She all right?”

“Same.” But then he turned serious. “You seen your brother today?”

Now they were getting to something. “No. We went straight from the studio to the gig in Southampton. Why? What's up?”

“Nothing. Just . . . he's gettin' restless.” Calix could see the strain around his dad's eyes and mouth. “Lee snuck out again tonight.”

Calix separated the braided leather band from the other bracelets on his wrist. “She's twenty-two. She doesn't need to sneak.”

“That's my point.” And the firmness of his tone finally clued Calix in on his dad's concerns. Three grown kids still living at home. Things were starting to pull apart at the seams.

He forced himself to look more relaxed. “Don't worry about it, Dad. We want to be here.”

His dad looked at him like he wasn't buying it. But then, by Calix's age, his parents had toured the world and were on their way to accumulating more platinum records than any other punk rock act in history.

“Been thinking. Probably time for you kids to move on.”

Well, sure. Gus was twenty-three, Leonie twenty-two. None of them should be living at home. “Nah. We're good.”

“That's the thing.” His dad scrubbed his face with both hands. “We're not. Nearly three years, and it's not getting better. It's all right for me, she's my girl. But not you guys.” He patted his T-shirt pocket, but he wouldn't find any cigarettes. Old habits died hard. “It's all kinds of messed up.”

Seeing his dad lost like this tore strips off his heart. It killed him to know his parents—once inseparable and so affectionate it'd almost been uncomfortable to watch—had
become distant. His mom had pulled so deeply into her shell of grief she'd flat-out abandoned her husband.

In his gut he knew she'd be healed when she let her husband back in. “It won't be forever. She'll be back to herself soon enough. In the meantime . . .” He fingered the leather band. “We've got it pretty good out here. No complaints.”

Too much pain in his dad's eyes. It had to destroy him not to be able to reach his wife.

“Look.” Calix stood up. “As long as we're . . .”
Her reason to live.
He dug his hands deep into his pockets, curled his fingers around his keys, looking for the right words. “So what if I'm not in a band and Gus didn't finish college? If it takes another five years—ten—till this family gets back on its feet”—and his mom got back in his dad's bed—“who gives a shit?” A sharp pain in his hand made him realize the teeth had cut into his skin. He dropped the keys. “We're not going anywhere.” He wouldn't leave his mom alone. Not yet.

His dad, a giant of a man, got up slowly, and Calix could see pride smoldering in his eyes. He clapped a huge hand on Calix's shoulder. “You're a damn good man.” He pulled him in for a bear hug. “Love you, son.”

Emotion punched up into his chest. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. His dad smelled like cigar and the damp earth from his garden.

Clucking had him pulling away. Fifi strutted toward him, her neck muscles working overtime to propel her along. Calix scooped her off the ground, giving her the firm strokes she liked from the top of her head down her back. Her wings flapped, but she settled quickly enough.

“Lookin' just about plump enough for Saturday night dinner,” his dad said.

Calix laughed. Family joke. They kept chickens for the eggs.

The sizzle and crackle of his mom's welder cut through the quiet night, and he couldn't take it anymore. “I'm gonna check on her.”

His dad nodded, his features turning impassive. “See you inside.”

He thought of Mimi, all alone in the house. “Oh, hey, there's a woman in there. Mimi Romano, a friend of the band.”

“You got a girl?”

He thought of Mimi, that fiery hair, that lush mouth. The press of her breasts against his back as he'd driven home. “No. She needed a ride. Try not to scare her, okay?”

His dad grinned so widely the deep grooves around his eyes furrowed. “You never let me have any fun.”

Opening the coop, Calix dropped his very vocal hen inside, closed the latch, and headed down the path. He entered the refurbished barn slowly, the whine of the welder harsh in his ears. The metal pieces of his mom's found art sculptures filled every corner and table. Wind chimes of all shapes and sizes hung from steel pipes stretched across the ceiling.

Covered in an enormous helmet and thick gloves, his mom stood on a stepladder as she welded together two giant pieces of scrap metal suspended from the ceiling with chains. He came around so he faced her across the worktable and waved to get her attention.

The machine shut off, and she flipped up the plastic eye protector. He should be used to it by now, but her ghostly complexion and the dark circles under her eyes still shook him up.

“Hey, Ma.” He scanned for evidence of dinner, and sure enough, on the table closest to the door he found a microwaved bowl of something that might've been macaroni and cheese.

Damn.
Now he wished he'd swung by home on the way to the gig.

Of course she hadn't eaten. His vibrant, intelligent, progressive mom loved fresh food. Before Hopper's passing, she'd loved cooking. Every meal was a bounty of the produce from his dad's garden, the eggs from the coop, and the fruit from the orchard.

Of course she wouldn't eat microwaved meals.

Calix gestured to the mac and cheese. “Looks nasty. How about I make you something?”

She rallied with a weak smile. “Thanks, babe. Not hungry. I want to finish this.”

He came around the table. “Okay, Mom. I see how it's gonna be.” He gently pulled the helmet off.

“I
said
I'm not hungry.”

“Easy to say right now. But wait'll you smell my cooking.”

“Don't want anything fancy.”

“How about some eggs? You can come into the coop with me and choose your own.”

Her smile withered for a moment, but she found the strength to agree. “Okay, you little shit. You win. Let's pull some eggs out of Fifi's ass.”

*   *   *

Frenetic
beats poured out open windows, and laughter rang out into the night. His mom slowed on the patio. “What's going on?”

“No idea.” Both hands filled with warm eggs, he used his elbow to pop the handle on the French door and his boot to push it open. “Come on,” he said more forcefully. “I'm feeding you.” He waited for his mom to pass through, but she stood still, anxious.

He got it. For one terrible moment he'd felt it, too.
Home.

Music, laughter. This was what his home used to sound like.

And in the center of it all, Hopper. All of it had died with him. So, yeah, it hurt.

Only, unlike his mom, it gave him hope for what they could be again. Because, yes, Hopper had died, but the rest of them—all five of them—were still alive. He just hoped that having her family around her would draw her back out until she was ready to be the heart of it again.

He offered his mom an easy smile. “Stand there much longer, and I'm gonna have a whole litter of Fifi juniors in my arms.” Shouts of laughter came from the kitchen. “Grab some basil and tomatoes and whatever you want in your omelet.”

When she stood this close, he couldn't miss the way she'd aged so drastically in the past three years. And it cut him to the bone. Not just the random streaks of gray in her hair, but the loss of elasticity in her skin.

When she caught him watching her, she flashed a quick smile. “On it.”

He hoped like hell she didn't wind up going back to the studio or her bedroom.

As soon as he got inside, he used the toe of his boot to draw the door shut, and then he stalked into the kitchen.

Calix stopped in the doorway. In front of the stove, Mimi shook her candy-cane-covered ass to the electronic music coming out of his brother's laptop. Her hair, all sleek and straight, whirled like streamers as she spun around. The hanging lights over the island made the normally deep red tones gleam like the orange in the heart of a fire.

His sister held a towel in each hand as she danced around the kitchen, and Gus looked like a DJ in a club, rocking out, while manipulating the buttons and job wheels of the controller attached to his laptop.

Gus. Leonie. Laughter, music.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Swear to God, Calix could feel Hopper as vividly as if he'd been pressed up next to him.
This
was what had made Hopper happy. His family hanging out like this had brought him joy.

And then he remembered his mom's face, the anxiety. He nudged Gus aside and lowered the volume.

Everyone turned to him, wide-eyed and confused.

“Why'd you do that?” Gus reached for the controller.

He lifted his arms to draw attention to the eggs. “Making Mom some dinner.”

Gus looked beyond him to the French doors. “She here?”

“She's getting herbs for her omelet.”

His brother closed the laptop. “Didn't know that. Sorry.”

Calix gave a quick shake of his head, not wanting his brother to feel bad about it.

Leonie threw the dishtowels onto the table. “I got it.” She relieved him of four eggs, bringing them to Mimi. “Perfect with sausage.”

“Is Calix a sausage eater?” Mimi asked with a strange lilt to her voice.

What the hell? But then Lee and Gus burst out laughing, cluing him in to their private joke.

When Mimi saw Calix wasn't laughing, she sobered. “You in for some eggs and . . . you know?”

Gus tucked his laptop under his arm and said, “
Sausage
.” The three of them broke out laughing again, as his brother headed out of the kitchen.

Hang on. How long had he been outside if Mimi had cooked dinner—and he could see not just the skillet on the stove, but the salad bowl on the table and the plates stacked on the counter—and bonded with his brother and sister?

And look at her. When he'd brought her home, Mimi had been in a tight skirt and silk blouse, something a corporate attorney would wear. Her hair had been wound into a bun.

This woman, with her hair down and wearing his sister's red and white striped leggings and red SUNY Stonington T-shirt, looked like a college girl. With a mouth made for—

Yeah, not going there with Mimi Romano.

She studied him for a moment, and he could read the question in her eyes.
Is this okay?
“There wasn't a whole lot in the fridge, but we defrosted some sausage and got enough vegetables out of your garden to make a salad.”

“And now we've got eggs.” Lee came up beside him. “Is Ma coming in?” she asked quietly.

“I hope so.”

“I brought dinner out to her.”

“Yeah, Lee, I saw.” His sweet, kind sister gazed up at him with a guilty expression, so he gentled his voice. “Guess she wasn't hungry.” Getting to work, he reached for a mixing bowl. “You want to chop an onion?”

“Sure.” She pulled a cutting board out of the cabinet under the sink and a knife from the block.

Spatula in hand, Mimi came up beside him. “I feel like I stepped into something here.”

He had a good eight inches on her, so he had a view of his sister's T-shirt stretching in places it didn't normally stretch. When she gazed up at him with concern in her green and
gold-flecked eyes, something in his chest give a painful kick. “No worries, sweet pants.”

“Sweet pants?” She arched a brow.

He tipped his chin down toward her leggings.

“Oh. Right. Your sister loaned them to me.”

“Figured that out.”

“Look, I obviously don't understand the situation, but if I messed up, please tell me.”

“If, by messing up, you mean throwing a party in my kitchen, then yeah, total fuckup.” Yanking open the drawer, he pulled out a whisk and started beating the eggs.

As he watched a slow smile spread across her pretty features, warmth spread through him. With one more lingering gaze, Mimi turned back to the stove. Calix added salt and pepper to the batter and then whisked some more.

“So, are you in fashion or something?” he heard Mimi ask Lee.

Reasonable question. Even just hanging around at home, his sister wore a crazy mix of styles that somehow worked on her petite frame.

“I wish.” Lee dumped the chopped onion into a skillet. When it sizzled, she lowered the flame.

“A designer? Because you have flair. I mean, your room? God. I don't think I've ever paid attention to the color of my walls or what goes on them.”

“Nah,” Lee said.

Dumping the sausages onto a plate, Mimi set it on the table. “So, what do you do?”

Lee never looked up from the pan. “I run the philanthropic arm of the family business.”

Mimi looked interested, but before she could say more, his dad bustled into the room with an armful of produce from his garden. He looked from person to person, his smile dimming. “Where's your mom?” He set the peppers, onion, and a handful of herbs on the counter.