Chapter 4
Chapter Four
A week after Thanksgiving, Stevie Franklin stood from the desk of her insurance job, told her coworkers she was going to walk down the road to get a burrito from the food truck for lunch, grabbed her coat, and left forever.
She figured they could find someone else to do that job.
They could probably find another woman who’d given up on her dreams to fill her chair within the day.
Maybe she could email her boss from a hotel later and tell him, “Thanks for everything.” Perhaps he’d even think she meant it.
She felt she had to go to Nantucket, assess the situation for herself, and decide what to do next regarding her daughter.
Stevie drove from the insurance office to the little apartment in which she’d lived for the better part of five years.
She’d never thought of it as anything more than “somewhere to lay her head.” Within a half hour, she’d packed up everything she wanted to keep and thrown away the rest. The furniture belonged to the apartment complex. It made things simple and clean.
Just like that, she was done with her mediocre life in Los Angeles.
Before she started the engine, she texted Ella.
STEVIE: I’m headed your way.
She turned the key and shot out of town.
For hours, she drove east, out of Los Angeles, away from her daughter’s old nursery and her daughter’s old soccer fields; away from her daughter’s new mini-mansion and her daughter’s new baby and her daughter’s new husband; away from the grocery store where the clerk knew her name; and away from the ocean, from that alienating city that had welcomed her during her heaviest grief.
She wasn’t meant to be somewhere forever.
She wasn’t meant to cling to things after they no longer served her.
She knew that. But pulling away from her daughter like this felt frighteningly like yanking out her own hair.
Because she’d left the office at lunch and her apartment at three thirty, it didn’t take long for darkness to fall.
This didn’t frighten her in the slightest. Driving at night had always been a pleasure for her.
It had given her a feeling of being the only person awake and alone at that hour; the only person thinking, dreaming, and singing the songs on the radio.
But when it struck midnight, her adrenaline crashed into itself, and she knew she had to find a place to rest.
By this time, she was in Utah, a state she’d never visited.
Snow spat from the black clouds above. She followed the exit ramp to a motel that had a Vacancy sign on it, just like she’d seen in old movies.
In the little lobby sat a tiny Asian woman with the thinnest wrists Stevie had ever seen.
She handed over a key and a TV Guide after Stevie paid in cash, because that was all they took.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Stevie watched the snow circle through the wind outside.
It felt remarkable that she’d left her life behind, that she was headed toward Ella’s universe, Ella’s East Coast home.
If Stevie thought long and hard about it, she could all but trick her brain into thinking that it was the late nineties, that she was still working at that restaurant with Ella, that they were scrubbing tables and singing songs and dreaming about their futures on big concert stages.
* * *
The restaurant was in Manhattan. Back in the nineties, Manhattan felt like the heartbeat of America, where every artist, writer, and musician flocked.
It was the only place in the world. When Stevie left her small town in West Virginia, she’d practically sprinted to Manhattan, where she’d promptly gotten a job at the burger place and told herself to spend as little as possible on anything but music equipment and time in the studio.
She could get food at the restaurant and crash on people’s couches, maybe.
But music was her reason for living. It was all she wanted to care about.
The way she spent her money had to reflect that.
Goodness, she was young. College was a foreign word to her.
By then, Ella had already been working at the burger place for a year or so.
She was friendly, funny, and very in the know about all genres and the history of music.
Usually, when their boss left for the day, Ella took control of what they played over the speakers, and she had a habit of listing every person on the track: who the drummer was, who’d mixed the sound, who’d played guitar, and who’d come in for a surprise solo.
Stevie was all heart and no brains when it came to music, which meant that Ella mystified her.
But she appreciated how different Ella was. There were two roads headed to the same obsession.
One night, Ella and Stevie closed together.
It was just the two of them, scrubbing tables and sweeping and stacking chairs.
They alternated who got to play the next song, a fact that pleased Stevie because she hadn’t thought Ella was capable of giving that task up.
Maybe it meant that Ella respected Stevie or wanted to be friends.
Ella pointed a dishrag at Stevie and peppered her with questions.
“What’s your dream concert venue?” and “What was the best era for rock and roll?” and “Who is the best drummer of all time?” Stevie felt like she was in a job interview, but she loved rolling with the punches.
By the end of the night, they were cackling through the streets of Manhattan, looking for trouble.
At a concert venue a few blocks from the burger place, they stopped in to see who was playing.
They bought two beers and cut through the crowd, elbowing through until they reached the front.
Stevie was amazed at how brave Ella was.
It was like she wouldn’t let anyone stand in her way.
On stage was a four-piece group: two boys and two girls, and a sound that reminded Stevie of 1970s New York.
She and Ella danced like crazy, throwing their arms around until, suddenly, Stevie realized that Ella was gone.
Panic shot through her. The band continued to play, louder and more raucous than before.
Stevie searched the crowd, her eyes widening.
What if someone had taken Ella? Sometimes, there were bad stories about bad people in the big city.
Nothing had ever happened to Stevie or any of her friends, but you never knew.
She found Ella, standing in the corner with a big tissue wrapped around her nose and laughter in her eyes.
Beside her was the tall and handsome drummer in Ella’s band—Will, her boyfriend.
Ella waved Stevie over and explained, through a muffled nose, that someone in the front had accidentally whacked her with his elbow.
“I feel like an idiot,” Ella moaned and laughed at the same time. “I’m supposed to work a double shift tomorrow, but if it’s broken, I don’t know. I might not be up for it.”
Stevie grimaced for her new friend, a friend who lived recklessly and wound up with a busted nose. “I’ll work for you!” she said. “Just go home. Get some rest. Don’t worry about your shift.”
Ella gave Stevie a delicate hug, wincing the entire time. “You’re a good friend,” Ella said, steadying herself before she turned to leave with Will.
Stevie watched Ella go, realizing that this was her first real friend in New York City. She felt the foundation of her Manhattan life solidifying. She felt firmer in her belief that she would one day make it.
The next day, Stevie went to the burger place to work Ella’s double shift.
Their boss was none the wiser, probably because he hated his job just as much as they hated theirs.
Stevie collected her tips, joked with the kitchen staff, slung burgers, and counted down the hours, then the minutes, till the day was through.
At ten fifty, it was just Stevie and a guy at the counter, nursing a beer and a basket of fries.
The kitchen staff were cleaning up and singing songs in the back, but Stevie had to wait until the last customer left the restaurant before she could start sweeping and scrubbing.
She resented that he hadn’t gotten the hint and left already.
She knew just by looking at him that he’d never had a job in the service industry before.
What else did she know by looking at him?
A lot. He’d come inside with an expensive-looking suit and a pair of shoes shinier than she’d ever seen, but he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves so he could eat with his hands.
He’d already drunk two beers, just sitting there by himself, staring into space.
She could tell he belonged somewhere and was expected somewhere important, bright and early.
She could also tell that he didn’t want to go wherever that was.
She guessed he was a little bit older. He’d gone to college, and someone had told him exactly how to style his hair.
What she hadn’t expected was his next question. “What is this song?” He pointed at the speaker and bobbed his head. He gave her the handsomest smile she’d ever seen.
“It’s David Bowie,” she shot back, scowling at him. She felt like it was her lot in life to show rich people that she didn’t need them.
“I know it’s Bowie,” the guy said. “But what album is it? What song? I’ve never heard it before.”
Stevie’s heart lifted just the slightest bit. “It’s from Station to Station,” she said. “It’s called ‘Stay.’”
The man pulled a pen out of his pocket and scribbled the name on a napkin. As he did it, Stevie thought it was the most attractive anyone had ever been to her. A rich and handsome man, paying attention to what she wanted to play for him. She hadn’t expected that.
“I can’t believe I don’t know it.” He shook his head. “Bowie’s my favorite.”
Stevie smiled. “He’s a master.”
The man pulled his head up. “Who’s your favorite?”
“How can you say favorite?” Stevie asked, reaching for her broom. She wanted to do something with her hands. “I mean, favorites in a world as expansive as music? It’s insane to me.”
The man laughed. “You think it’s childish.”
“A little bit.” Stevie brushed aside some crumbs and wondered why she was giving this guy the time of day. She needed to tell him to leave the restaurant so she could get ready to go. “I mean, my mother for sure had a favorite. I know because she named me after her.”
“What’s your name?”
Stevie eyed him. “You should guess.”
The man raised his beer and narrowed his eyes, assessing her. “Let’s see,” he said. “I can’t ask what genre your mother likes best?”
“Liked,” Stevie said. “My mother passed away.”
The man lowered his beer, looking genuinely sad. For this, Stevie was sorry. She usually didn’t tell people that her mother was gone. She’d died when Stevie was barely walking. It hadn’t affected her so much, or not in the ways people thought.
“But no,” Stevie continued, lightening her tone. “You can’t guess what the genre was. You can’t guess anything except the name.”
The man clucked his tongue. “And if I guess correctly, I get to know your name?”
Stevie nodded and turned away, sweeping with her back to him.
“You seem to be a rocker girl.” He stood from his stool and walked toward the far wall. Stevie could feel him. She knew exactly where he was at any time. “So I’m going to guess rocker girl names. Debbie?”
“No,” Stevie said. “But good guess. I love Debbie Harry.”
“Who doesn’t?” The man stopped walking and snapped his fingers. “Janis?”
“Wrong again.” Stevie wore a strange smile, one that didn’t feel fully natural.
There was a long silence. Stevie continued to sweep until she felt crazy; until she felt she couldn’t handle it. She turned to find the man gazing at her, his eyebrows raised.
“Of course,” he said. “You look just like her. Your voice sort of sounds like hers, too.”
Stevie tilted her head. “Say it,” she said.
“I won’t say it.” His smile widened. It was like he was playing a game with her. He removed his wallet and stuck the amount he owed and a hefty tip on the counter between them. “Can I have your number?”
Stevie rolled her eyes, surprised at how genuine she found this strange and wealthy man. “No,” she said. “You didn’t even say my name aloud. Maybe you don’t even know it.”
“I know it,” he said. His eyes echoed light.
“Good night, Stevie Nicks.” He turned on his heel, left the restaurant, and moved into the darkness.
Stevie leaned onto the counter, realizing that her legs were shaking beneath her.
She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as though everything in her life was about to change.
Don’t be foolish, she thought. You’ll never see him again.
But she soon discovered she was mistaken about that. She wasn’t used to being wrong.