CHAPTER NINE

I woke with morning light streaming in through a tiny crack in the curtains. As soon as my mind had a coherent thought, the memory of the night before came flooding in and I knew there would be no more sleep. Ah! There were the white sweats hanging in the bathroom, concrete evidence it hadn’t been a dream.

I had an immediate hunger to visit the fields with Sammy and hopped up to throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. This one happened to be bright red and bore my favorite film star, Bugs Bunny, on the front. I washed my face, pulled my curls over to a side braid, stuck on my favorite straw sunhat and snuck out the back door to retrieve my walking companion. Our walks had been much less frequent in the past two years since I usually remained at the dorm for the weekends.

Nothing brought me back to center faster than a romp through weeds, over fences, and through a couple abandoned, forlorn houses in nearby fields. Sometimes I would flop down on a hill to relax in the sun, lose track of time and turn to find a half-moon of cows munching as they studied this strange creature invading their territory.

Country walks in all seasons were therapeutic for me, but spring really was the best. Baby animals were everywhere. Things would fall so easily into proper perspective while watching a foal or calf running and bucking on spindly legs. If there just-so-happened to be a soft spring shower or, better yet, a good old-fashioned Texas thunderstorm, I was set.

Living in tornado alley, the weather could turn very exciting at a moment’s notice. If I heard we were under tornado watch, I would rush outside to see the show. I had even made mom very nervous for years by entertaining the idea of becoming one of those storm chasers. “Could there be a cooler job?” I would ask her.

But on this particular morning, after my brush with the storm labeled “Sky,” I felt like Dorothy, trying to adjust to the real world after Oz.

Thus the next hour and a half were spent stomping through weeds, climbing fences and failing miserably to wrangle my internal cyclone.

Sammy and I walked to my favorite barn, pushing our way through the giant sunflower forest standing guard around it. As spring and summer progressed, gaining entrance would be practically impossible without a machete. I supposed years of feeding farm animals had created the sunflower forest due to the seeds in their food.

This was my haven. We didn’t own it. I was totally trespassing, but no one could love it more. It was a classic barn; bare, unpainted wood bleached gray by the sun, large open breezeways facing east and west, small stalls tucked under eaves, and a flight of stairs hidden to one side leading to the upper level where hay had been stored. It was large, airy, and lonely. Perfect.

I passed through the first level to the little wooden door at the bottom of the stairs. Sammy, always protective, scouted ahead. The most intimidating creature I had met on my visits had been a large, gray-brown barn owl that swooped in one rainy day to stare at me as if to say, “So you’re the reason it smells funny in here.”

When time allowed, I had spent countless hours here writing in my journal, reading a good book, singing any ridiculous song at the top of my lungs or just swinging my feet from the open second story, uninterrupted and peaceful in my own private sanctuary.

Sammy and I spent a few contented moments lounging in the hay and watching the huge ravens circling high in the sky. I wanted to remain longer (I always wanted to remain longer) but mom and dad would be wondering about my unannounced visit and might even be holding breakfast for me.

Thus, Sammy and I traipsed back to the house, windswept and dusty, but relaxed. As we approached the fence encircling the yard, I noticed a mid-size black car in the drive and, wondering who would call so early on a Saturday, I paused before climbing over. There was a small, familiar face framed in the window. It couldn’t be.

The back door flew open and Jeremiah tore out to greet me while I remained on the fence, stunned.

“Esther,” he yelled, “We came to see you! Isn’t it brilliant?”

I hopped down to give him a quick squeeze. “What are you doing here?”

I tried to feign interest in Jeremiah’s observations about the cows and Sammy, who decided on the spot that Miah was a kindred spirit, but in truth, I was too dazed for words.

We walked across the patio with Sammy dancing around us and, when I pulled open the door to the house, mumbling, serious voices halted. That’s never a good thing. I peered around the door.

Several grave faces greeted me. Wally and James sat at the newspaper-covered kitchen table with mom and dad. It was great to see them, but their expressions told me this was more than a social call.

“Miah,” said James from the table, “why don’t you go play while we talk to Esther?”

Just then, Sky emerged from our family picture gallery hallway. I cringed to think of him viewing the infamous family portrait when I was at the height of the frizzy hair and braces era. He strode over and smiled down with the comment, “Nice hat,” but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“What’s up?” I said when no one seemed eager to speak.

Wally placed an arm around my shoulder and led me toward the kitchen. “Good grief,” I laughed, “Who died?”

“You might want to sit down,” he said and indicated the newspapers with a nod of his head.

On the front page of the entertainment section, the bold caption declared, “Sky enjoys visit with Texas Rose.” Several photos gleaned from the evening’s events accompanied the headline along with an article describing Sky’s after-concert activities.

I felt sick as I scanned the article, complete with grainy picture, obviously taken from a building across from Sky’s hotel room, of the two of us lounging on pillows. The photographer had apparently done his job well, even including a photo of our fond farewell.

The worst part though, was a related story on the same page that contained a picture of me taken in the pressroom. It left no doubt as to my identity. My full name was included; even the name of my school. Thus, the night before was reduced to a naughty story to be clucked over with the morning coffee.

I looked up at my dad’s sad eyes. My face burned with shame. What could I say?

“Sky already told us what happened,” Mom said. “And what didn’t.”

Good ol’ mom.

I would have been fine if I’d had to go on the defensive. As it was, I found myself blinking back tears. “Thanks,” I said to Sky who pulled up a chair next to mine. At least my family wouldn’t believe I was a tramp.

The irony of the situation was ridiculous, really. I’d spent the entire night trying to do the “right thing” and the opposite had been published for all to see.

Sky spoke. “I’ve made a statement to the press to try to clear up the implications, but they love to believe the worst. I mostly made the trip out here to say I’m sorry. I should have known better.” He reached a hand and placed it on top of my own that were clutched tightly together on the table. Even at a moment like this, it felt really nice. “You’ve raised a remarkable young woman.”

It felt as if all eyes were on me: the eyes in this kitchen as well as those reading the morning paper, shaking their heads over the little Texas floozy who threw herself at rock stars. Desperate to get the focus off of me I asked, “Don’t you have a concert schedule to keep? “

“We’re flying to the next site this evening,” Wally informed. “The rest left this morning.”

Oh great. Now I was responsible for screwing up their plans. “You could have just called or something.”

“Are you trying to be rid of us?” asked Sky.

There I was, the center of scandal, and all I could think was, “Why couldn’t I at least have been clean when they showed up?”

My dad spoke up, “Listen, since you’re all here, why not stay for breakfast?”

There were polite protests but soon the smell of fresh coffee and bacon filled the house, and after sneaking away for a change of clothing, I assisted mom, the queen of the hearty southern breakfast, as she rolled out biscuit dough and barked orders, putting everyone to work. Even Sky stood at our stove, stirring gravy clad in a ruffled apron mom tied over his linen shirt, while Wally and I set the table with napkins he taught me to fold in the shape of birds.

“OH-MY-GOD!!” The Tarzan-worthy yell echoed off the kitchen walls. We turned to see my brother, John, standing in the doorway to the family room, dressed only in boxer shorts and a pillow-tattooed face, staring at Sky as if at a ghost.

“John!” reprimanded my mom, who thought no circumstances were worthy of tossing around God’s name.

“Sky’s in our house! Sky’s in our house! Why’s Sky in our house? Am I dreaming?” John babbled as I crossed the room to him.

“Yeah, you’re dreaming,” I said as I took my brother by the shoulders and turned him toward his bedroom. I could at least bring him up to speed before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

I basked in the sound of Sky’s laughter as I pushed my dumbfounded brother from the room.

But I had to sympathize. Discovering his idol in that ridiculous apron in our kitchen was too much.