Mirrored (Follow Your Bliss series Book 4) (5 page)

Chapter Eleven

Brighton was up early and surprisingly perky despite Alex’s
assumption she’d sleep late and be burdened with a hangover.

“Sometimes you just get lucky,” she said, her smile as wide
and bright as the stark grey light beaming through the window.

“Do you remember last night?” Alex asked.

“Yes. I was writing a eulogy.”

Alex raised his eyebrows, glimpsing the irreverent, fiery
Brighton he’d met the summer previous. “She’s going to be okay,” he said,
knowing that this all came down to her mother, but also her father before that.

“You don’t know that,” she said, her voice chillingly even.

“She does, and she knows you’ll be okay too, no matter what
happens. But before we think about that, I want to help you sweep up your past.
Dust out the cobwebs so you can see the present isn’t such a bad place,” Alex
said with unexpected clarity even though he hadn’t yet had caffeine.

She turned away from the window, her face open in agreement,
as if daring him to try to wrench away the pain she’d carried or wash it out to
sea altogether. “The strangest thing of all,” she gestured around at nothing in
particular, “adults, parents, my mom and dad, they’re just people. They have
flaws and heartache. They make mistakes and do messed up shit. They leave sons,
die too soon, they—” her face crumbled.

Alex rocked her in time to the waves crashing outside until
he heard her sniffle. “It might sound corny, trite even, but they say, that ‘In
order to see the rainbow, you have to endure the rain.’ And damn it all if it
isn’t pouring.”

After breakfast in their room, Brighton and Alex dashed into
the street, bulky raindrops splashing their legs. They jumped into the car.

“So much for the top down or a bike ride.” He maneuvered
through quaint streets, past shops, and into a residential area just one lane
in from the beach. He pulled up in front of a single story, alabaster cottage
with vines growing up one side and a prim hedge.

“I haven’t been here in a long time,” Brighton said,
apparently recognizing her surroundings.

Alex took her hand when they knocked on the wooden door. A
label on the post box said,
Constance Holmes
. Through the door, he heard
slow shuffling. A stooped woman with red-grey hair answered. She struggled to
look up at them, her arthritic bones unyielding.

“Can I help you?” the old woman said.

“Hi, Granny, it’s Brighton,” she said.

“Brighton? My Bri? You’re so big. Your mother had sent
photos, but my, you’re a real woman now.”

Brighton laughed, her eyes shining. “I suppose.”

After tea and a chat, Alex asked if she’d take them to see
El.

Brighton blanched.

Constance smiled widely. “Well of course, I hadn’t made it
out yet this week. I used to go a couple times a week, but I can’t drive; they
took my permit, you see, these fingers don’t work well anymore. Now, a neighbor
drives so she can visit her husband, and I see El once a week. Let me go to the
garden, gather some flowers, and we’ll be on our way. This’ll be such a treat.”

Alex wasn’t expecting such exuberance at the suggestion of
visiting the gravesite, nor did he anticipate the dour look cemented on
Brighton’s face.

The rain had let up. Brighton had to cram between Alex, her
granny, and the gearshift. He was glad that she at least got in the car.

“So you haven’t told me about your mother. I used to hear
from her about once a month, and then it trickled to every few months. I
suppose she’s busy. Did she ever marry again?”

Alex felt Brighton flinch. “She’s okay. Yeah, busy. Her
company is international, doing really well.”

“Did she settle back down? I don’t suppose she had any other
children; she was a bit older when she had you. Though I suppose that was for
the best, she and your dad got all their excitement out of their systems.”

“No, uh, she’s single.”

“That’s a shame. I hoped she’d find love again. Though, it’s
possible Eliezer robbed the love from the hearts of every other man who’d laid
eyes on her, just so he could have her to himself. I imagined he made some kind
of pact with a sea witch when he moved me here. He said it was good for my
arthritis, the salt air, but I think there was some other devilry going on.”

The old woman’s laugh made her sound young again. “I’m
kidding. They were good kids. And how about you both? Planning to get married?
Your grandfather and I said our vows when I was twenty-one, now—Oh look, we’re
here,” she said, interrupting herself.

Brighton took her time getting out of the MG, because she was
canned in there or because of trepidation, Alex wasn’t sure.

Constance doddered down the grass path between gravestones.
They were on a hill overlooking the water when she finally stopped in front of
a large marble stone, etched with an angel and a fox. Constance handed Brighton
the flowers and took her hand. Alex hung back, but the ocean breeze carried
their words to his ears.

“You were only a whisker higher than that headstone the last
time you were here. Then again, he had to get a tall one so he could see to the
ocean. He misses us every day, especially you. I’m sure of that. There you go.
Let’s place those right down there.”

Brighton set the flowers down, crumbling to her knees. Alex
rushed over. Constance laughed. “Now girl, don’t go dragging me down with you.
I’m liable not to get up.”

Alex pulled Brighton into his arms.

Constance stroked her hair. “Go on now, let it out. Let your
tears water the ground around you, leave them here to grow fondly into grass or
daisies. It’s alright to be sad…”

Chapter Twelve

When Brighton’s tears dried in salty streaks on her cheeks,
she got to her feet. Constance reached her withered arms up, planting them on
her granddaughter’s forearms.

“Now, you listen to me, Brighton Phoenix Holmes, it is okay
to be sad, but I can see the weight of grief that you’ve been carrying around
bowing your shoulders. If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up gazing at
the ground instead of the stars, like me. You’re too young, too pretty, and too
much my son to let that happen. It’s time to let it go. Now Alexis, if you
please, I need a nap,” she said, motioning to the car.

After saying goodbye to Brighton’s granny and borrowing the
keys for Windover, Alex let the top of the MG down, and they set off, winding
along the coast.

“That was brave,” Alex said after a time.

“She’s brave. She handles it so gracefully. Her own son, she
outlived him, that’s tragic.”

“Your story is too.”

“Yeah, but—Yeah.”

“You should keep in touch with her. I wish I had more family.
There are a few disapproving aunts, uncles, and cousins peppered around the
countryside. A distant relation took my dad to court once, claiming some stake
in his wealth. His sister is mad about a gold watch that belonged to their
father. Nope, it’s just him and me.”

Brighton took his hand in hers. “And me I hope.”

Alex smiled as broadly as the shore lining the sea as he
turned to a wrought iron gate, creeping with flowering vines. He reached out
the window to a keypad. “Phoenix, huh?” he said.

“What? My middle name?”

“Fitting.”

“Why? Do you really expect I’ll rise from the ashes or do you
assume my parents conceived me in Arizona and in true rock and roll fashion
didn’t want to forget?”

“No, it just happens to be the passcode for this gate. Your
grandmother told me.”

“Oh.”

The MG motored into the circular driveway as if it belonged
there in a time long past when men wore three-piece suits and women were
demure. A fountain dribbled in the middle. The lawn was manicured and the
flowers in bloom. The only thing that betrayed the estate’s vacancy were the
dusty sheets covering everything inside.

“Welcome home,” Alex said.

“It’s coming back to me,” she said, alighting on the foot of
the stairs and shaking a board loose just below the first riser. She started
laughing when she uncovered a plastic pony, a pack of crayons, and a cache of
guitar picks. Her face relaxed. “This
is
home,” she said, looking
around.

Alex sat down beside her, taking the pick she wore around her
neck into his fingers.

“How’d you know?” she asked, looking down at the coordinates
and then into his eyes.

“Lucky guess.” He kissed her lightly. “Want to go exploring?
I promise I won’t chase you with snappy crabs or insist you say pah-tay-toh.”

She nodded, and they set forth, exploring each room in the
house. Brighton shared an anecdote about nearly every one of them as they
tiptoed from the depths of her memory. Just then, they heard a crackling noise.

“What was that?” Brighton asked.

“It sounded like a radio or an intercom.”

“Good to know it still works.”

Alex strode to the window. The same black car that had pulled
over in front of them on the highway peeled away.

“What do they want?”

Alex narrowed his eyes at another car farther down the road.
As the taillights faded, Alex was sure bumper stickers covered the boot, most
notably a black and white one spelling,
The Gracks.

“Who was that?”

“No one,” Alex said. “Nothing. Better to ignore it.”

As the afternoon rolled on, they left the manor for a surf.
Alex had the peculiar feeling that eyes and lenses recorded his every move. The
day had turned sunny and bright, reflecting off the waves like gems. He
reclined on his surfboard, letting the salt wash away his worries. After
Brighton caught one wave, she sat in the sand, watching him or the seagulls or
thinking about her mother, he wasn’t sure.

That evening when they went back to the Pub for dinner, Milly
rushed up to them with excitement. “You’ll never believe it, there was a
reporter here, well, not like the old kind. She was young, seemed a bit loopy.
I still don’t understand you young people and the holes you put in your faces,
but she was asking all about the two of you. She told me her magazine is doing
a feature on Bang Bang. She was especially curious about you, and how the
children of two infamous rock stars found each other and if you were in love. I
told her you were staying at the Inn around the corner, hope you don’t mind. I
imagine she’ll leave you a note with the desk requesting a proper interview.
Isn’t that exciting?”

Alex caught the look Brighton shot; it was obvious Milly hadn’t
registered he was also in a world-famous band, but more importantly, he hoped
Brighton hadn’t picked up on his hunch about the identity of said loopy
reporter.

Chapter Thirteen

After saying a temporary farewell to the coast, Alex and
Brighton took the long ride north, to Scotland, to visit his father, Chaz. The
strange sense Alex had that someone intimately involved with the band was
tipping off the paparazzi chased him to the comfort of his father’s home.

They pulled up to the imposing sandstone structure with
spires and iron gates. Nimbus clouds pooled in the sky, greeting them with a
proper Scottish hello as Alex pulled the MG into the long driveway on the
outskirts of Glasgow.

Chaz appeared from a side door, impervious to the buckets of
rain dropping from the sky. “My boy,” he said, pulling his son in for a hug.
“And Brighton. Don’t worry, I won’t remark on how big ya’ve gotten since I last
saw ye.” He hugged her too.

Her smile told Alex that she liked him already, not that they
were strangers, but she’d noted it had been a half dozen years since he’d
visited Claire in New York.

“Och. I see you brought the MG. El and I easily put a-hundred
and seventy-five kilometers on that baby. Good memories, even the time he boked
in it before I could pull over. Horrible stench. How’d she run?” Chaz shook the
rain out of his hair. “How silly of me. Brighton is getting drenched, and we’re
having a spa. Let’s get inside. Ya get used to the rain after a time.”

After bringing in their luggage, Chaz showed them into the
kitchen where a woman fixed tea and sandwiches.

“Salut! Comment vas-tu?” Alex asked Adrienne, the
housekeeper.
 
She smiled shyly. “So
Da, how are things?”

“I’ll tell ye, those louts are goin’ to hear from me if they
keep calling after ye. Poor Adrienne here has been fielding calls all day every
day. She’s all riled up, not used to the phone ringing anymore, I s’pose. She
don’t understand ‘em either. I hear her hollerin’ in French. Time I get rid of
the house phone anyway. No one ‘cept solicitors and yer crazy fans call here.
Shite how they got the number.”

“Who exactly has been calling?”

“Photographers, magazine reporters. Cockney bird if I ever
heard one, but trying to hide her accent. I’ve always been able to tell. Some
of ‘em are ashamed, see?” he said to Brighton.

“It all started up ‘bout last week. Driving me nuts. But then
again the media these days are off their head. Enough of that havering. Tell me
about yer travels. Adrienne, joindre à nous pour le thé,” he said in
surprisingly good French.

With fresh cups of tea in hand, Alex filled his dad in on
their travails through London, then Brighton-by-the-Sea, and visiting
Constance.

“She’s a sweet ‘ole gal. Like a mother too me too. Now I
s’pose Alex wants to show you around his home turf. I regret never buying up the
estate next to Windover, but between El, Neil, and I we had a place to stay in
every UK region, ‘cept Wales. Neil missed his chance on that one. His girl from
Dodwy, said, ‘You’ve been married four times, I’ll not be number five,’” Chaz
said in a high-pitched imitation of an aggrieved girlfriend.

They all laughed.

“If you head into the city, don’t stay out too late, you’ll
give poor Adrienne a heart attack.” He put his hand gently on hers.

“Gee Da; you seem awfully concerned about Adrienne these
days.”

The housekeeper pursed her lips, gazing into her cup of tea.

If his father’s skin weren’t already ruddy, he’d swear he
blushed.

“She looks after me. Lord knows I need looking after.
N'est-ce pas?”

“I actually think we’ll stay in tonight. Enough excitement
for one day, huh?” Alex said, turning to Brighton.

She shrugged, but she looked tired as if she hadn’t been
sleeping well or the previous night’s antics caught up to her.

“How about I’ll show you around the house and then we’ll have
some dinner.”

“Adrienne’ll cook something good, ye can be sure of that,”
Chaz added.

Alex showed Brighton the myriad rooms, nooks, and secret
passageways in the palatial home. It wasn’t quite as grand as Windover, but it
had a lived-in, manly quality that he loved. Chaz had the place in London and
if Alex didn’t stay there or with one of the guys in the band, he called the
house in Glasgow home.

In the great room that his dad used for entertaining, one
wall was windows, another covered in an enormous mirror Alex called the
narcissists’ downfall, and a third illustrated a painted mural of Glasgow.
Brighton looked up at it or right through it as if memory or worry called her
to another city entirely. But she was there, with him, and he wasn’t going to
let her succumb to her fears.

“As you can see my dad has a lot of hometown pride.” Alex
pointed to the area Chaz grew up in saying it was just moldering tenements and
block housing. “Here, this is Bearsden, that’s where I met Finn.” The name
tasted bitter in his mouth.

“Finnery,” Brighton said, laughing.

“Not anymore,” he mumbled. “My dad bought a house there for
his mum, my gran, after his father died. It was the farthest she’d go, but not
very far at all. He didn’t want to leave her alone, in the flat she’d lived in
since he was a baby. It really was no place for an older woman, especially when
she was looking after me. My dad knew all too well what the kids in that
neighborhood got up to. Gran griped about it, but he’d had enough of the street
fights and squalor. There’s poetry and art in the flickering of neon signs,
sooty trains, and lots filled with rubble. It’s inspiration to create a better
life or just eff stuff up. But he was beyond slumming it once the royalty
checks rolled in. Yanno?”

Alex pointed out a few other areas on the map, but his mind
wouldn’t leave the little place that marked where he’d met Finn; they’d been
best mates. What really had gone wrong?

After dinner that night, Alex took Brighton to the music
room, sharing stories as she gazed at the photos and awards lining the walls.
There were a fair number including photos of her father. His fingers ached to
play a guitar and jam. He flipped on some low lights and took out one his
favorite guitar in his dad’s collection, a Gibson Thunderbird.

Brighton seemed hesitant to move from the spot, even as he
turned circles around her singing the first nonsense that cleared the backwash
of thoughts about Finn and Suzie. Music always did the job to get the grounds
of unwanted thinking to stop percolating.

He wondered if she feared what she could do with any of the
guitars on the shelf. Her sonic-rock light was powerful. “Come on, let’s jam,”
he said encouragingly as a chord rang out, piercing the uncertainty on her
face.

She eyed a row of Fenders and picked one he didn’t recognize.
She strapped up and plugged in. The next hours ignited in a fury of lead guitar
parts, solos, clashing chords, and harmonies. After an impassioned roar of
feedback, Alex clutched her by the shoulders and kissed her hard, realizing
exactly why Finn had a problem with her, he was jealous, not because Brighton
absorbed the better amount of his attention whether they were together or
apart, but because she rocked harder than anyone he knew.