Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
"You're wrong, Kaia. What you did is not acceptable."
Kaia stared into the annoyed eyes of her manager, Monica Richmond. She'd been called into the office as soon as she'd arrived for her shift at three o'clock on Monday afternoon. "I'm just trying to help someone. And I wasn't on duty when I went to Walter's apartment."
"But you met him in the course of your duty. And his granddaughter, Ms. Robbins, said you upset her grandfather today. That you're putting ideas in his head that are not good for his health. She believes you are overstepping and taking advantage of Walter's trust in you."
She was shocked Catherine had called her supervisor to report her for helping Walter.
"I'm not taking advantage of Mr. Cobb."
"From now on, you're to have no contact with Mr. Cobb unless you're called to his apartment for a medical emergency."
"I already promised to take him somewhere tomorrow."
"Then you'll have to cancel."
"Well, that would be difficult to do without making contact," she said sharply. "And I wasn't going to take him on my own. Ms. Robbins might be able to control me, but she can’t control my friend."
Monica let out a long sigh. "For God's sake, Kaia, what is this all about?"
"It's about an older man who is struggling with his memory, who is obsessed with someone from his past, and that obsession sends him out into the night, roaming around, almost getting hit by a car, which I'm sure Ms. Robbins didn't tell you about."
"She did not," Monica admitted.
"I saw it almost happen right in front of me.
That's how I got involved with the rest of his story.
I didn't go back to his apartment. I talked to him in the middle of the street when he was confused and desperate to find a building with a red door.
My friend, the man who almost hit him, got caught up in his search, too, and together we figured out the building where the red door had once been.
The owner agreed to let us bring Walter there tomorrow so he can see it.
I promised him a ride, and I don't think that what I'm doing on my personal time, which is not related to medical decisions or treatment, should be a problem.
I'm not acting as a paramedic, but as his friend. "
"I'm not sure you can separate the two, Kaia. You met him while you were on the job." She let out a frustrated breath. "You're a good paramedic, one of my best. And I don't want to see any dings on your record, even if this is a gray area. When are you supposed to take him to the bookstore?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"And that will be the end of it?"
"I would assume so. And don't you think it's strange that Ms. Robbins is threatened by two people taking an interest in her grandfather?
We've been out there three times in the last two weeks because he was alone and in poor health.
Isn't he the most important person in this equation?
Doesn't Walter have the right to decide what he wants to do?
He's not mentally incapacitated. He's left on his own, so she must think he can take care of himself. "
"All right." Monica put up her hand, cutting her off.
"I've heard enough. You can keep your promise to Mr. Cobb, but I would advise you to end the relationship after this bookstore trip.
I don't want to see one of my best medics put on probation or dragged through an investigation, regardless of whether what you're doing is against regulations.
You also know that budget cuts are coming, and everything and everyone is under scrutiny right now. "
"I understand. Thanks."
Monica shook her head, conflict in her eyes. "Don't make me sorry, Kaia."
"I'll try not to."
Jax spent most of Monday holed up in his apartment, thinking that's where he should stay for the foreseeable future.
The owner of the bookstore had given him a second look, as if she was trying to figure out where she knew him from.
He'd probably been lucky to have had a few months of quiet isolation with no one recognizing him, but he'd known it would end, and that time seemed to be coming sooner rather than later.
He wasn't ready. But when would he be ready?
Restless frustration and stifling heat sent him out of his apartment around nine o'clock that night. And for some reason, he took his guitar with him. It wasn't the first time he'd taken it, but the first time he wasn't sure he could stop himself from playing.
He headed through the parking lot and across a wide cement path to the sandy beach.
He walked out a dozen or more yards and sat down on an outcropping of rocks.
He was a good twenty yards from the tide coming in, but the rhythmic crash of the waves and the cool ocean breeze made him feel better than he had in hours.
As he pulled the guitar into a familiar position, his fingers lightly grazing the strings, he felt a stirring desire to play, something he hadn't felt in months. In fact, he'd thought about selling his guitars more than once, but he'd never been able to go that far.
Music had been so many things to him in his life: escape, passion, and also pain.
It had run through him like the blood in his veins.
When he'd seen that old, dusty piano in the bookstore, he'd flashed on an image of what it must have looked like in that smoky nightclub.
He could almost hear the music it would have played, and see the man or woman at the keyboard, maybe the singer at the nearby microphone.
And one of those singers would have been Reina.
He shook his head, wondering why those images were so entrenched in his mind. But there was something about Walter's longing to reconnect with his past that was making him feel the same way.
And this time when his fingers grazed the strings, a note came out: one, then two, then three… He couldn't stop himself as the music flowed from his head and his heart to his fingers, familiar melodies that he'd composed what felt like a million years ago.
The sound created a cocoon of familiarity and isolation. Here on this deserted beach, he could be who he used to be, and no one would hear him, no one would see him, no one would put the news on the Internet. He could just be…
After a long day of calls in the sweltering heat, Kaia was happy to get home before ten o'clock. When she got out of the car, she paused at the sound of music. At first, she thought it was coming from somewhere in the building, but then she realized it was coming from the darkened beach.
Usually, the beach was deserted on weeknights. Curiosity drew her through the parking lot and across the path, and that's when she saw the man with the guitar sitting on the rocks. He was facing the ocean, and the music mingled with the crash of the waves, and yet also rose above it.
She knew who was playing even before she took a step forward.
It suddenly all made sense. Walter's comment about Jax's calloused fingers.
Jax's reverent look at the piano had shown a yearning that she hadn't understood.
But she was getting it now, even though she still didn't understand who he was or why he was hiding.
What she did know was that he was good, really good.
As she slipped off her shoes to walk through the sand, she wondered if he sang, too.
But at this moment, the only music was coming from his guitar.
Clearly, he loved to play. Which made his odd reaction about shutting down the radio even more confusing.
His love-hate relationship with music must have to do with his past.
She wasn't a huge music fan. She liked to listen to different genres, to sing and dance to whatever was popular, but she didn't know many artists by name.
It seemed unlikely that Jax was famous. If he were, wouldn't someone at Ocean Shores have recognized him?
But Ellen had thought his face was familiar, even though she'd had no reaction to his name.
Which meant Jax Ridley wasn't his real name. Another fact that clicked into place. It was why she couldn't find him on the internet.
Who was he? And what would he do now if she approached him, if she caught him in what was probably meant to be a private moment?
That question gave her pause. She stopped walking, wondering if she had the right to intrude.
The music felt as turbulent as the nearby sea, and it was coming from Jax, maybe reflecting his feelings as well.
She wished he'd open up to her. Maybe she could help him.
Or maybe people were right, she needed to stop meddling in other people's lives and worry about her own.
On that note, she turned around and hurried back to the building, the sound of Jax's music ringing through her ears every step of the way.
And when she got back to the parking lot, she took one last look at him.
He was still playing, still staring out at the ocean.
He didn't know she'd found out at least one of his secrets, and that was okay.
Because she didn't want to force him into telling her something; she wanted him to trust her enough to do that on his own.
Jax didn't know how long he played, but finally he ran out of steam and took his fingers off the strings, feeling the tingle of nerves that had been woken up after a very long time.
As the tide came in and the wind picked up, he felt cool for the first time all day.
Hopefully, the windows he'd left open in his apartment would pick up some of this breeze and take away the blistering heat.
While there was an air-conditioning unit in the bedroom, it barely worked, and the living room windows faced the interior courtyard, allowing for little air to circulate.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out. Clay's number ran across the screen. "What do you want now?" he asked.
"I'm surprised you answered. I was about to leave another lengthy voicemail pleading with you to tell me what you thought about my email."
"I haven't read it yet."
"Why not? You've had twenty-four hours."
"Because I don't know if I want to."
"It's just an email. It can't hurt you."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"Don't you miss it?" Clay asked.
Despite the obliqueness of the question, he knew what Clay meant. "I played tonight for the first time since I got here."
"Really? What made that happen?"
"I'm not entirely sure."
"It's a step in the right direction."
"Or the wrong one," he countered.
"I don't believe that. I understand why you backed away from your life and everything in it, but music is a part of you."
"It felt good to play, especially since I had the ocean collaborating with me. It was better than a band."
"Just read the email," Clay said. "Then call me tomorrow."
"I'll think about it." He paused. "Did you ever hear of an artist named Anita Chapman? And her sister, Reina? They were jazz and blues singers in the fifties or sixties."
"That's before my time. Why do you ask?"
"They used to perform in a club around here. There's an old guy who's looking for information on them. But it's not a big deal."
"I could ask my father. He started our talent agency in the sixties."
"If you want. It's not that important."
"I'm just happy to hear you're interested in anything related to music," Clay said. "We'll talk soon."
"Sure," he said, ending the call. He thought about opening his email on his phone, then decided against it.
He felt surprisingly good after his music session, like he'd let loose some of the tension in his soul.
He might actually be able to sleep tonight, but he doubted that would happen if he read Clay's email. He'd leave that for tomorrow.