Page 18 of Torch Songs

He tossed the sweats Chris’s wife had given him in the hamper, with the resolution to return them sometime in the next week after he’d done laundry. On his way out the door, he paused at the threshold, glanced around, and sighed. He’d spent some time on the place when he’d moved in nearly three years before, when he’d taken the job as a uniform in Sacramento. He’d wanted to be a detective—was well on his way, in fact—but Bodega Bay, where he and April had grown up, had such a small force, the odds of him getting promoted before he was forty were pretty decrepit, much like all their detectives were getting.

Tad had been so optimistic back then. He’d put up curtains and contact paper since he couldn’t paint or wallpaper anything. He’d bought a nice little dinette set—wood, with country-style cushions he’d picked out himself. His couch was leather and comfortable, with one of April’s afghans on the back and one that his mother had made him when he’d been younger too. He had bookshelves with books and Lego models on them, area rugs that added color, and prints of some of his favorite movies or locations on the walls.

He particularly liked the one of a field of poppies in the Sierra Nevada mountains, with a white-topped peak behind it and a brilliant blue sky, along with a companion print of a view of the rocks off Doran Beach.

He did love his native state.

He’d done all the right things here to make his little apartment a home, but without another person to take up the downtime slack there, it was… sad. Lonely. Dark.

He thought of Guthrie, alone the night before in the hospital, and threw his backpack over his shoulder with some oomph.

He sure would like that to change.

PAPERWORK WENTlong, and afterward he and Chris caught a bite to eat at a nearby teriyaki place—Tad’s treat, to say thanks for letting him crash on the couch the night before. Then Tad was on his way.

He realized halfway there that the only landmark he knew related to Guthrie Woodson, musician and office manager, was the Washoe, and he wasn’t sure when Guthrie’s set started.

On a burst of hope, he headed there, and while the sun was still out at six o’clock, just barely lowering in the mist surrounding the still-green hills, he could hear the music starting as he pulled up to the place.

Walking up the wooden porch of what had once been a B and B and restaurant, he almost felt like he was coming home.

He smiled at the hostess and found his way into the bar, surprised to see Guthrie singing in the front of the stage, guitar in hand. His left hand—the strumming hand—was wrapped in a thick bandage, but he seemed to be doing an okay job in spite of the blood seeping through while his right hand worked the frets.

He was doing “Little Suzi,” a song made famous by a cover done by Tesla, and as Tad watched him sing, he became so focused on Guthrie’s complete immersion in the song’s dilemma—whether or not to let a lover go and fulfill her ambition of stardom or to hold on to the notions of hearth and home any young lover would want—that if there were misses or flubs he didn’t hear them. He was singing along with the rest of the bar not to bring her down because she just wanted to fulfill her dreams.

As Guthrie wrapped up the final chords—mostly heartbroken cries—the crowd went nuts, and Tad put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

Like dark river stones, Guthrie’s soulful brown eyes were suddenly focused out in the crowd, and something sweet happened to Guthrie’s narrow, intent features when Tad waved.

Guthrie gave a little wink from across the room and segued into the intro for a Cage the Elephant standard, “In One Ear.”

For the next forty-five minutes, Tad was lost in the music. Guthrie’s band didn’t discriminate between time or place, or even genre. Roberta’s violin often did the vocals for Beyoncé or Lady Gaga, and Guthrie sang everything from Harry Styles to Eminem to John Legend.

Depending on what was needed—and whether a song could live on a keyboard version of the guitar melody—Guthrie would play percussion or lead guitar, and only because Tad was watching closely did he see the sweat start popping out on Guthrie’s brow.

When Guthrie did Blink 182’s “All the Small Things” as their finale, Tad turned to the woman behind the bar and said, “You wouldn’t have an ice pack ready for him, would you?”

She grimaced. “Yeah, actually he asked me for one when they got here and started to warm up. I may talk to the crowd and have them give him a break tonight for the second set. Roberta and the kids can do those classical versions of pop songs and let him sing.” She grimaced. “Oops. He just got blood on my stage.”

Tad winced. “Does he have any more gauze for backstage or—”

She pulled out a first aid kit. “You a friend of the band’s?”

“Of Guthrie’s,” he told her. “But the night is young.”

She laughed a little—same bartender as always, she had the sort of face made for chewing gum and cracking wise.

She wasn’t doing either right now, though. “I’m Sarah. Guthrie’s been playing here since he still played with his dad and his uncle Jock. You… you be kind to our boy there, ’kay?”

Tad nodded soberly. “It’s the only kind of friend I aim to be.” He winked at her, but her expression didn’t change, and he understood suddenly what she was talking about.

He wasn’t foolinganybody,or at least not Sarah the bartender. But she also knew better than to say it loud and clear in a room like this.

“I promise,” he said softly, and her intense expression lightened up a little as the song wrapped up.

“Good,” she said. “Go meet them in the back room. There’s a sink, and maybe you can wrap his hand a little better. I think he changed the bandage himself this morning.”

Tad’s heart throbbed hard in his chest. He had some Band-Aids on his knees and his elbow, and a bruise on his cheek. Chris’s wife, Laura, had dressed all of those that morning, replacing the EMT’s work. Like a perfect mom, she’d bustled into the living room and told him to rise and shine. She’d started coffee, and if he wanted to shower, she had a change of clothes for him to wear to his apartment.

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