Chapter 7
Seven
“Fuck!” I paced back and forth in the small room, ready to crawl right out of my own skin. I pressed my hands to my face. I couldn’t stop wiggling my fingers, the electricity in them buzzing and tingling. “How could she do that?”
“You can hardly blame her,” Phillip said evenly, sitting on the bed, unlacing his black combat boots. “I mean, I basically did the same thing. Free publicity; maybe the cops will take her seriously now.”
“I get that, but—" I stopped, exasperated, then resumed pacing. How could Phillip be taking his damn shoes off so casually at a time like this? Not even the sight of his tight abdomen and the downy black hair that ran from his navel down below the waistband of his jeans as he shrugged out of them could distract me from the upset I felt. “But to just take over ? —"
“It’s the best thing that could have happened, probably,” Phillip said, walking over and placing his hands on my shoulders. He looked deep into my eyes, his hands pressing down to stop me from trembling. “It took the focus off us for a minute so we could get inside, and we didn’t have to answer a bunch of asinine questions.”
“Yeah, but now your—your—your brand is going to be associated with this, this…” I trailed off, collapsing in a fit of tears. I shrugged Phillip’s hands off and slumped on the bed, distraught.
“My brand?” Phillip sat down beside me and tried to take my arm, but I shrugged him off again. “Please, never refer to my ‘brand’ again. I’m not some…some product. This is my life. And yours. I refuse to let either of us be reduced to something so shallow.”
“You can’t seriously tell me you didn’t realize that your music, your persona, is a fucking commodity,” I said, my voice coming out nastier than I meant it to. I furiously wiped at my face, wishing he wouldn’t see me cry. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me, to try and comfort me. I just needed to feel this right now, to let my emotions wash over me and dissipate. Or else drown.
“Stormy, this isn’t what you’re actually upset about, is it?” Phillip asked. “It’s okay to admit that you’re worried.”
“Don’t tell me how to feel,” I shot back, but the wind was already leaving my sails. “Maybe I just need…I don’t know. Some time to think.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” Phillip said softly, then he kissed his index finger and pressed it to my lips. He grabbed for his pants and moved to put them on again.
He’d never be able to leave the room, not with that mob outside. He was stuck here. I opened my mouth to tell him that, but before I had the chance, my phone started buzzing in my pocket.
I pulled it out, looking at the screen, which was blurry through my tears. With a sigh, I hit the green button and held it up to my ear. “Mama. Hey. Don’t worry, we’re fine. We got into the room before?—"
“Stormy,” Mama interrupted. “I have someone here who needs to speak to you.”
My brow furrowed as I heard the phone being passed to someone else, then a male clearing his throat. The next sound I heard was a voice I hadn’t heard in a long, long time. A voice that, the moment it spoke, caused my heart to stop and my breath to catch in my throat.
“Stormy Fiona Spooner,” Daddy said on the other end of the phone, his voice that of a man blissfully unaware, who hasn’t a clue what all has gone on in his absence, “What is this I hear about you dating a famous rock star?”
God Bless Phillip Deville.
I owed him a thousand personal apologies for all the times I’d called him a shitty liar. He’d pulled out the most epic lie of all.
I still wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to convince an entire parking lot full of reporters, journalists, influencers, and fans, but with one simple phone call to The Naughty Clam, he’d managed to clear the entire crowd out in less than half an hour.
“Hi,” he’d said in a dulcet voice, twirling the landline cord around his long finger. “My name is Phillip Deville. Yes, Phillip Deville of the Bloomer Demons. I was there earlier having a pleasant drink with some friends, and I was wondering if you might like a little impromptu entertainment this evening?” I’d gaped at him in confusion, and he’d winked at me. “My fans have figured out I’m in town, and I thought I might play a little set at a local hotspot, and your bar immediately came to mind. What would you think about me playing tonight? You would? Oh, great.” I’d shaken my head in disbelief, watching him spin the tale. “Excellent. I can’t wait. An hour or so? Perfect. Spread the word; this is going to be a great show.” He’d hung up the phone, leering at me, pleased with himself. I hadn’t been convinced his little ruse would work, or that the bar would even believe it was the real Phillip Deville. But much to my shock, within a couple of minutes, an audible buzz had started among the throng outside, and slowly but surely, we began to see the beaming headlights of all the cars and trucks as they pulled out of the parking lot, presumably headed toward The Naughty Clam.
“You can’t do that to them,” I’d said, feeling guilty, Phillip grabbing for a fresh black shirt from his bag. “We caused that scene earlier, and now we’re tricking them into thinking you’re playing a show?”
“One thing at a time,” Phillip said, tying his laces. “I had to get them cleared quick so I could get you to your dad. I’ll figure the rest out later.”
Bless him. He’d really done it. And now we were jumping into my truck and pulling out of an empty parking lot, heading just two streets over to the motel where my mother and Roberta were staying, to see my father.
I hadn’t had a chance to ask many questions, because as soon as I’d heard his voice on the phone, I’d also heard Dee rushing into the room. Through her screaming and crying and peppering Daddy with questions, I couldn’t make heads or tails of what I was hearing. After a few moments of ear-shattering sobs and reassurances on the other end of the line, Roberta had picked up and said, “Just get over here,” and hung up.
My stomach was in knots as we pulled into yet another motel parking lot, Phillip deftly maneuvering the steering wheel with one arm, the other one wrapped tightly around me.
“I’m so glad he’s okay,” he said softly, glancing at me. He pulled into the parking space next to Roberta’s SUV and turned off the truck. He turned to me and asked, “Are you ready to go in?”
“No,” I said, taking a deep, shaky breath. “And yes.”
“He’s alive,” Phillip said, looking into my eyes, giving me a little jostle of reassurance. “He didn’t burn up in any fire, he wasn’t hurt. He’s okay. He’s alive. That’s all that matters, Stormy. The rest…the rest we can work out. Together.”
“I know,” I said. He was right, but it was so damn hard to swallow for some reason.
“Literally and figuratively, huh?” He chuckled, then opened the truck door. “I know, I know, get out of your head, yadda, yadda, yadda.” He came around to my side of the truck and opened the door for me, offering his arm. “Let’s go see Chad Bradley. He’s got a lot of splainin’ to do.”
All I could do was stand there and stare at him. I’d never admit it out loud, but in my heart, I had already assumed my father was dead. I had already begun to let him go—what little of him I had clung to—bit by bit. It was a weird sensation, looking at someone you’d already begun to grieve for.
I took stock of him, sizing him up, buying time as I watched Daddy wrap a thin arm around my mother awkwardly, the two of them hugging with their lower bodies far apart from each other, as though they might accidently copulate by osmosis. On the other side of the room, Dee sat, naked envy and sheer relief vying for the most real estate on her face. On any other day, I might have giggled.
Over my mom’s shoulder, Daddy was looking at me. He was much thinner than I remembered. After he’d left Mom and gotten “clean,” or at least some semblance of pretense of clean, he’d filled out and gained a good bit of weight. Mainly around the jowls and in the belly, the same areas most middle-aged men fill out. His hair, once a reddish gold he’d worn clipped in a pseudo-mullet much longer than the trend had allowed for, had slowly begun to go salt and pepper. I’d noticed how much he was filling out and watched as the silver strands slowly took over the red every time he’d text me a picture of himself, Dee, and Shay, or whenever they’d send me a Christmas card. I’d come to think of Daddy in my mind as a graying, stocky man who was on the other side of middle age.
The man standing here now was thin as a rail, as thin as I remembered from my childhood, if not more so. Gone were the slight jowls and beer gut. He was a rake, his chin and cheeks almost gaunt and angular. His hair was cut short, and there wasn’t a single red-gold strand to be found. He’d gone completely gray, his hair almost white in places. A heavy five o’clock shadow branched out from his chin and cheeks, and he ran a hand over the stubble as he regarded me with eyes that were way too full of laughter considering what we’d all been through. He stood awkwardly, his free arm splayed out by his side, as though he were trying very hard to be serious and stoic when all he really wanted to do was break out in dance.
“Daddy,” I said finally, taking one step forward. My legs felt like lead. Now that he was standing here in front of me and the initial shock and denial were wearing off, I began to feel something like relief. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” he said, nodding, his face lighting up. He also took one step forward, then we both sort of teetered there, a yard or so of space between us that felt as vast as the universe. I was aware of Phillip standing behind me, a comfortable and safe presence. Roberta was there too, and Mom, and Dee. But all of them had faded away.
“I…” I began, but then my phone started to buzz. I pushed my hand in my pocket and silenced it, then took another step forward. “It’s good to?—"
My phone immediately buzzed again. I pulled it out, frowning, and moved to silence it a second time.
“It’s good to see you, darlin’,” Daddy said, bridging the gap between us and pulling me into a bear hug. “It’s been too damn long. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
I hovered there for a minute, afraid to touch him, just tapping him on the back with one hand, not sure how to do this. We hadn’t hugged since, when? I was an adolescent? I didn’t even know. “I…we all…thought you were…”
“You thought I was meant for the extra-crispy bucket,” he said with a laugh, and pulled back to look at me, his hands on my shoulders. “Shoot, darlin’, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give everybody a fright. I was off fishin’ with my buddy Arnold, and neither one of us even thought to check our phones until we was two miles down the road from his house.” His eyes danced as he looked me over, his mustache twitching a little as his lips moved. “When I turned the damn thing on and saw all the messages and calls I missed, I about had a stroke.”
“I bet,” I said, my voice wavering a little. No, no, no, I would not cry. Not in front of him, and Phillip, and everyone. I couldn’t. “Your, um…I’m sorry about your house.”
“You and me both.” He grinned, and that was when I realized this weird happy-go-lucky thing was all an act. He was rattled as fuck, but he was trying to put on a brave face for all of us. His mustache wasn’t twitching from mirth; he was trembling. “But hey, me and Dee have insurance, and it’s right good insurance, ain’t it, Dee? We’ll be aight.” I had to smile at the way he said aight, just like he had since I was a kid.
“Did they tell you they—that they found a body?”
He was still clutching me by the shoulders, and his grip on me tightened, though the smile hadn’t left his face. “Yeah, they did,” he said, shaking his head absently. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Why did you come here?” I asked. “To Mama’s hotel?”
“Well, I went back home, but there was no home to go to,” he answered, and I felt stupid for asking. “I called Dee, but she didn’t answer.” That must have been the precise moment Dee was playing for the cameras because there was no way, with the way she’d been checking her phone earlier, that she would’ve failed to take his call. “And I had a bunch of texts from your mom, so I figured it’d be a safe bet to call her. Just so happened she picked up and told me that you all were nearby. So I hightailed it over here.”
“I’m glad,” I said, my voice still shaking. Damn it, Stormy, stop it. But I couldn’t contain it any longer. The dam burst, and the tears started coming out like a flood. Before I could stop myself, I pitched forward and landed in Daddy’s arms. They went around me automatically and held me tight, one arm cradling my head against his shoulder, just like he’d done when I was very little. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m so glad you’re alive. I thought?—"
“Shhh, darlin’,” he said into my hair, letting me cry. “Shhh. I’m right here.”
I wanted to just stand there for a minute and be held, to actually enjoy this moment I’d let myself have, but of course my stupid phone began buzzing again. It must be important; whoever it was had called me four times in the span of two minutes. Reluctantly, I pulled away from Daddy and slid the phone out of my pocket, peering at the screen. “It’s an unknown number,” I said, and moved to put the phone away.
“You might want to answer it, hon,” Daddy said, and his face suddenly looked very, very old and very tired.
I looked down at the phone again and sighed. Every cell in my being pushing against it, I touched the green button and held the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Stormy Spooner?”
“Yes, it is.” My heart had begun to pound.
“The wife of James Tess Spooner?”
I stopped breathing. I reached an arm out blindly to clutch someone, anyone, for support. I found Phillip’s hand. “Ex-wife. But yes, that’s me.”
“Mrs. Spooner, I’m calling from the Panama City Beach police department. Can you possibly come down to the station? We know you’re here in town.”
Phillip was the only thing holding me up. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Well…” There was muttering on the other end of the line. “I hate to do this over the phone, Mrs. Spooner, but…well, I’m afraid that you’re next of kin.”
“And you’re calling me because…” I was stalling. I already knew what they were going to say.
“Mrs. Spooner, I regret to inform you that James Tess Spooner is dead.”
“Oh.” I could hear an ocean in my ears. A dull roar that was becoming louder and louder and louder still.
The voice continued. “I apologize for your loss, Mrs. Spooner. As you’re the next of kin, we need you to come on down to the station and identify the body.”
“I don’t imagine there’s much left to identify,” I said absurdly, and to my horror, I started to laugh. “He died in the fire, didn’t he? He was the one in my dad’s house?”
“I’d rather we not discuss anything further until you’ve arrived at the station, Mrs. Spooner,” the voice insisted. “Can someone drive you?”
Then Phillip was catching the phone in mid-air because I’d dropped it. Then I was dropping too, dropping onto the motel’s cheap, thin carpet, screaming like a banshee and scratching at my face as my my two befuddled parents and an ashen-faced Roberta tried to quiet me, to comfort me.
But there was no comfort to be found.
Tess was dead. Tess was dead. Tess was dead.
Just before I passed out, I heard Phillip’s calm but pained voice say, “I’ll bring her right down, officer. We’re on the way.”