“Is he always this friendly?” I asked.
A grunt from Garrett.
“No. Not usually. He’s started getting confused sometimes, poor old boy,” said Smith. “You’re female and hanging out with Garrett, so he probably thinks you’re Grace.”
A flash of pain crossed Garrett’s face. There and gone in an instant.
“She got him when he was a puppy and actually fit in her lap,” continued Smith. “Didn’t have the heart to stop him from doing it as he got bigger and bigger. You wouldn’t believe how much fun it is having a dog this size on a tour bus or a private jet. But Grace insisted.”
I waited for Garrett to go off again, but he didn’t scold Smith for talking about his wife this time. He just headed for the bar cart and poured himself a scotch. A whole lot of scotch. Guess beer wasn’t sufficient for tonight’s reunion after all.
“Let me guess,” I said, my gaze on the doggo. “Gene for Gene Simmons from Kiss on account of the ridiculously long tongue?”
Smith smiled, delighted. “You got it in one.”
“My dad is a fan.”
From the mighty collection of albums, Garrett selected one and put it on the turntable. The sound of a woman’s voice soon filled the room. Then he sat back down. An interesting choice. I’d have expected him to go for more testosterone-fueled music. Some classic hair rock or early punk perhaps. But this sweet voice accompanied by an acoustic guitar was a pleasant surprise.
So this was how rock stars lived. This was how the rich and the famous spent their downtime. They hung out together, listened to great music, and drank expensive liquor. I could now officially say I’d been there and done that. Hanging-out wise.
“How many fingers of scotch is that?” asked Smith. “Four hands?”
“If you’re going to insist on talking about her, I’m going to need it.” Garrett set his ankle on the knee of his other leg. His feet were both bare and sizeable. They were also very clean, thank goodness. He set his head against the back of the chair and stared up at the ceiling, obviously lost in thought. “She loved this album.”
“Yeah,” said Smith. “Grace was a big Joni Mitchell fan.”
Garrett flinched at the name, but again said nothing. It was as if Smith was dabbling in exposure therapy. And it actually seemed to be working.
I drank some wine and patted the puppy.
Smith watched his friend for a moment before turning back to me with a pained sort of smile. “Tell me about this town of yours, Ani.”
“Ah, Wildwood is great. If you’re into trees and mountains and mist and such,” I said. “We have the general store, where I work. A bar and grill that has a nice seasonal menu along with the basics. And there’s a great winery just down the road that does a charcuterie board like you wouldn’t believe.”
Smith nodded and waited for more.
“That’s about it.”
His brows rose in surprise. “It really is a small town then, huh?”
“Well, we also have a church, a gas station, post office, bank, a hardware, and a health clinic. There’s also a vet who has an office just outside of town and a lady who converted her garage into a hair salon. We lost the diner about four years back when Eileen retired to San Diego. But the drugstore, pizzeria, mystic tarot card reader/crystal place, and the antique shop all closed down in the last year or two. The ice cream parlor didn’t open this summer, which was sad. Times have been tough,” I said. “This asshole inherited a bunch of buildings on Main Street and basically tripled the rent, making it impossible for people to stay in business. Though the inn is still going strong. They get the hunting, hiking, and fishing types who come through who don’t want to camp.”
“I see,” I said Smith. “Garrett, what the hell are you going to do out here on your own?”
His friend drank like it was his life’s calling. God help his liver.
Smith stared into his wine for a moment. “When you hid out in that apartment in New York for months on end, I understood. You needed time. Then you moved to the French chateau. Though really it was just a half-built crumbling old castle with basic amenities. But it was sort of cool, and you could enjoy the quiet and maybe write some songs and sort yourself out. It seemed like a step in the right direction.
“But then you disappeared into the wilds of New Zealand. I was more than a little fucking worried about you backpacking on those trails alone, until I found out they don’t actually have bears or cougars there. Just those weird little birds with long beaks that don’t fly. But you were reasonably safe so long as you didn’t walk off a cliff or try to fight any orcs. Finally you tell me that you’re coming home. And the relief I felt, man. You have no idea. Only you don’t come home, you come here instead.”