What Have We Done (33)

“Thanks for buyin’ the tickets,” Donnie says to Reeves. “You’ll get reimbursed, I hope?”

“Me too,” Reeves says. The trip was last-minute, so he probably didn’t anticipate the expense.

“But don’t worry about the money. This gives us a little extra private time so we can work on the book.”

Donnie nods. The flight attendant offers him a beer and he gladly obliges. Better to make sure whoever pays for their tickets gets their money’s worth.

“So I thought we might step back, take things from the beginning. When you learned how to play guitar…”

Donnie rests his head back, a smile involuntarily spreading on his face. “I was in foster care in Chestertown the first time I ever touched a guitar.”

Reeves has his laptop out now. On the home screen there’s a photo of a woman. She’s in a hospital bed, tubes in her nose with monitors behind her, but she’s smiling, a haunting, beautiful smile.

Before Donnie asks who she is, Reeves says, “You’re originally from Fort Payne, Alabama?”

He’s already typing.

“With an emphasis on the payne,” Donnie says, grinning.

Reeves doesn’t seem amused. “How’d you end up so far from home, in Chestertown?”

Donnie’s already told him to drop questions about his childhood, but Donnie supposes he can throw the guy a bone. “You mean, how’d my mom get the idea to move from one of the poorest towns in the South to one of the poorest towns in the Northeast?”

Reeves doesn’t push.

“The short version is that my mom met a dude who, like all the dudes, convinced her he loved her and we’d be a family if she followed him. She did, we weren’t, and next thing I know I’m in foster care and my mom’s been arrested.” That should be enough red meat for the writer.

Reeves types on his laptop, eyes on the screen.

“Anyhoo, my first foster family, they were a nice elderly couple, the Jensons. Mr. J played guitar and still noodled around with the church band and he taught me to play. Gave me my first guitar. I named her Susie. I’ve still got her.”

“Susie, like the name of your second album.”

“You’ve done your research, Hemingway, hot damn,” Donnie says, smiling.

Reeves keeps typing. Not looking up, he asks, “How long were you with the Jensons?”

Donnie swallows down a lump in his throat. Not long enough.

“A year. They were a sweet couple, but not in good health. Mr. J had a heart attack and they couldn’t take care of me anymore, so I got sent to a group home.”

Savior House.

“Mr. J taught me the four chords I needed, and I took it from there.”

“Is the group house where you met Ben Wood?” Reeves asks, taking his chances.

Donnie doesn’t answer. Instead, he launches into a tired story about the time he got a DUI driving a golf cart on the way to a show in Dublin. He then excuses himself to the restroom.

As he tries to target the stream of urine into the small bowl, he’s startled by a memory: the four of them at the bank of the river, on their knees, the gun barrel put to the back of Donnie’s head.

Ben’s voice echoes in his head. You don’t have to be scared anymore, Donnie.

A tear rolls down Donnie’s cheek.

I’m not so sure about that, Benny. I’m not so sure.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

JENNA

“Are you Tabitha?” the perky woman in a stylish outfit asks.

Jenna hesitates, then remembers that she’s using her Tabitha credentials—and credit card—at Saks Fifth Avenue. She called ahead, asked for an appointment with a stylist.

“Nice to meet you,” Jenna says, shaking hands. The woman wears a name tag that says: BLUE.

“Your name’s ‘Blue’? How pretty,” Jenna says.

“Do not get me started. My last name is Flowers. I’m Blue Flowers. My mom was into gardening.”

Jenna smiles.

Blue Flowers continues, “I’m lucky she wasn’t into astronomy. Probably would’ve named me Uranus.” She offers a bright smile and says, “Follow me.”

The store has a strange configuration, like it used to be something else, a three-story old-time bank. Nestled in the Friendship Heights neighborhood that straddles the D.C.-Maryland border, it’s the only high-end store in the area. The area used to be synonymous with luxury retail—the Mazza Gallerie shops, Neiman Marcus, Dior, Louis Vuitton—but somewhere along the way, there was an exodus. Except for Saks.

On the walk, Blue says, “Sounds like you’ve had a day. In town for a big party in Kalorama and the airline lost all your luggage, I mean, girl…”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Well, don’t worry, you’re going to be the talk of that party when I’m done with you.”

And for the next two hours, Jenna is Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman. Trying on expensive dresses, having drinks brought to her, flattery abounding.

Blue Flowers is right. Jenna, or Tabitha, looks stunning in the Elie Saab bead-embellished silk gown, the Rene Caovilla satin heels, and the Saint Laurent leather clutch.

At the register, Jenna tries not to wince at the $8,498.32 price tag. The cards have high limits.