On the job site (because that’s the way he was trying to think about it now, not as Lana’s hotel, but just a site where he went to make a pay check while he decided what to do next), Taft was working in the laundry room. The old machines had been swapped out for new, shiny white models, two front loaders and one huge dryer that held four loads. He turned off the main water and started working on the plumbing. It was close to the arrangement they’d had, but different enough that every single pipe adaptor he bought at the hardware store was a little bit wrong. It took him seven trips, and his anger at the old pipes almost overtook his anger at Lana by mid-afternoon.
He swore as he banged at a washer that had probably been tightened in the stone ages. It was never going to loosen.
Taft missed hearing Lana laugh on site, listening to the way her voice rose and fell. When she laughed, it almost sounded as if she were singing.
He’d be better off forgetting it.
Lana wasn’t at the site on Monday.
Or on Tuesday.
The dog was around. Adele appeared to be watching her, but she let her run all over the construction site. Emily Dickinson’s favorite thing in the world seemed to be finding Taft and yapping up at him, painfully loudly, barely pausing for breath.
“What’s her problem?”
Jake laughed. “She hates you, man.”
Like dog, like owner.
When Taft finally dug up the nerve to ask where Lana was, Jake said all he knew was that she’d needed to do something in Nashville.
Yeah, right, she’d quit the industry. That obviously hadn’t stuck. He couldn’t blame her for it, either, though he wanted to.
He checked his phone. Ten more messages, probably all from press, about Palmer. It would blow over – it had to – but his anger wouldn’t.
His disappointment.
The fact was, though, that he was equally as disappointed with himself.
Outside the laundry room, heavy footsteps sounded. A thud reverberated through the wall and someone – no, two people – sat on the porch swing in front of room five.
“Where’s Taft?” It was Jake’s voice.
“Saw him head for the hardware store about an hour ago,” Socal said.
“Good God, he’s never going to get that connection right.”
Taft’s spine straightened.
Socal laughed. “I know. He tries, though.”
Pity? Was that pity he heard in their voices?
“What do you think about the rumor?” Jake asked.
“Palmer Hill’s son, not actually related to him? It’s crazy. I think we never have any idea what’s really going on behind the scenes.”
“You think he’ll keep singing?”
“Dunno. Maybe that’s why he’s on this job. Maybe he knew it was only a matter of time and he needed a backup pay check.”
Taft heard Jake sigh. “He’s good enough. He knows wood, for sure. Plumbing and electricity, though? I wouldn’t trust him to wire my house without me watching every move.”
That wasn’t fair. Taft just didn’t have as much experience with wiring as he did with sawing and hammering.
“Nice guy. I like him a lot. But nah, I don’t think he’s going to stick around. He was here for Lana, and now that she’s blown it, he’ll be gone within a week or two.”
Jake said, “But he bought that house.”
“He’s rich! God knows it’s easier to find a vacant house to buy in this town than it is to rent a room.”
“What would it be like, to have that kind of money?” Jake sounded more curious than envious.
“We’ll never know how the other half lives. You think your show will come through on the filming soon?”
“Maybe. They’re trying to get a camera crew here.”
Taft frowned. Jake and his brothers were on a reality show called On the Market, but Jake had said they weren’t filming a segment for another few weeks, until after this job.
Jake went on. “I’m just kind of worried he’ll split now that Lana’s broken his heart, and we won’t get the press from them being together.”
“Don’t you think he’ll figure it out? That you hired him to make the network happy?”
“Hey, that was Aidan’s idea, not mine. He’s the TV mastermind.”
Once Taft had ridden in a small rodeo to raise money for charity. A bull had kicked him in the chest. The champion rider who’d been training him told him it was just a touch.
It had felt like the bull’s foot had almost gone through his body.
This was the same feeling.
Socal said, “Let me get in the laundry room with the pipes. He can help Sturgeon out with the sheetrock. Every single time he goes back to the hardware store, it’s costing you money and time, you know that. I told you it wasn’t a good idea, didn’t I?”
Taft stood from the crouch he’d been frozen in. His left knee popped so loudly he held his breath. He would step outside. He’d say, “I’m back from the store,” and he’d watch their jaws drop.
They wanted him for marketing. To promote the Ballard Brothers company.
“Nah, I still think it’s a great idea. It’s nice to have him around.” Jake sounded cheerful.
“He’s costing you money.”
“I gotta argue with you there. He came up with the ceiling fix in room seven that none of us were able to figure out.”
“He’s a singer.”
Taft held his breath. This was where they’d say Yeah, but he’s not ever going to be Palmer Hill, huh? Especially now.
“I know,” said Jake. “Honestly, he’s my favorite singer in the whole world.”
Socal laughed. “Really? Even over his father-who-isn’t-his-father?”
“Taft’s Under the Hill album is genius. Every track. He produced it, too, did you know that? It got me through a hell of a rough time, I tell you what. I owe that man a lot.”
Socal grunted. “Okay. I hear you.”
“He’s gifted. We’re lucky to have him here. I don’t care if the network doesn’t come through. That was Aidan’s idea, not mine. I’m just glad to know the man and call him a friend.”
Taft’s face burned. He held his breath, suddenly unwilling to risk making a single noise.
“You wanna get back up in the attic?”
Taft listened to them climb the ladder on the porch.
He finished fixing the line to the washing machine. He got it right, finally.
Jake was a fan. For the right reasons.
If Jake was out there, surely there were more people like him out there, too.
What if he just hadn’t been putting on the right suit? He’d been trying for so long to be Palmer Hill’s son, what if he just had to be Taft Hill?
A rush of hope filled him, one he hadn’t felt for a long time. A hope that he could make the music work.
Who was he kidding? He didn’t want to quit. He might want to build more things, but he wanted to keep performing.
He probably always had.
What if he could be successful just being plain old Taft Hill, son of a nobody who played guitar pretty well?
But that was a lot to hope for.
And without Lana, what did it matter?
As soon as the work on the hotel was complete, he’d pack his shit and he’d get out of this town as fast as the first flight out of SFO could take him. Maybe Thailand. He hadn’t been there in years. Or New Zealand. Was that as far from California as a person could get? Antarctica, maybe.
He didn’t know if it was possible to outrun a broken heart, but he’d never know till he tried.