Maria the bank teller is moonlighting—waiting tables down at the other end. Her bank boss is at one of the counter stools, leaning over a bowl of chili. Grandpa is holding court with a posse of other guys in their seventies. Lots of laughing. Not many teeth. Grandpa sees Bron and tips his beer. Bron nods and raises his water glass, which is the only thing on his table at the moment.
Just as he turns to see if there’s anybody around to help him out, a waitress spins out of the kitchen, grabs a laminated menu, and plops it in front of him. She’s moving so fast she’s a blur in his peripheral view. But even so, Bron can tell she’s somebody he’s never seen before.
“Thanks,” he says, “I was just about to—”
“Order up!” The cook yells from the smoky kitchen as he pushes two heaping plates onto the pass. Now the jumpy waitress is torn: pick up the waiting food or take Bron’s order. She glances at the sweaty cook, who wears a red bandana across his forehead like a pirate. He gives her a death stare.
No contest.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says to Bron. “Be right back, I promise!” She’s calling over her shoulder as she heads for the waiting food, and in one blink, Bron takes a mental snapshot so vivid he could describe her to a police sketch artist.
Late twenties. Long legs and a short black skirt. Dark blond hair pulled back into a ponytail with a few crazy-wild tendrils. Dark eyebrows that almost meet in the middle. And bright blue eyes.
He’d have a harder time describing the feeling in his gut. Hunger pangs? Nope. Something else.
Bron watches as she picks up the plates and quickly delivers them to the wrong booth. Then to a second booth. Wrong again. Finally, she gets it right. Third time’s the charm. Shaking her head and blushing, she heads back to Bron’s table and pulls out her order pad, which sends her pen flying onto the napkin holder. Bron hands the pen back to her.
“Thanks. Sorry. So sorry. It’s only my second night.”
In a movie, this is where Bron would have a witty comeback—a charming remark to make the pretty waitress feel that she’s found a kindred spirit, a fellow outcast, some relief from the loneliness in this empty one-horse town.
But that doesn’t happen. Not even close. Because Bron can hardly put two words together. This whole time, he hasn’t even looked down at the menu. Because he’s been looking at her.
“I… well,” he stammers, “what do you recommend?”
She leans close, pretending to write on her pad. “Is he looking?”
“Who?”
“Kevin. The cook. Is he looking?”
“Nope. He’s cooking.”
She talks fast in a low voice:
“Okay. Listen. You seem new. And I want you to come back. So I’ll give it to you straight. Burgers are fine. Stay away from the baked ham, which I think is actually Spam. Avoid anything with red sauce unless you like leftovers. Fries are so-so. Milk shakes are great. Pies are excellent, especially the coconut cream. If you want dessert, I would order it with your meal, because I might forget to ask you later.”
“Fair enough,” says Bron. He orders a burger, fries, a milk shake, and the pie.
When his food arrives a few minutes later, it’s just as she promised. The burger is juicy and tasty. The fries are fine. The milk shake is creamy and smooth. And the pie—well, he’s never had better.
He finishes his dinner and sips his water. He thinks about ordering coffee. But he’s not about to add more pressure. This girl looks like she could crack at any minute.
“How was everything?”
Now she’s reaching across him to clear his plates. Up close, he can see a sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks. Her arm accidently brushes his shoulder. She smells like lemons. He’s searching for something memorable to say.
“Compliments to the chef,” is all he can come up with. Weak.
“Let’s not give him a swelled head,” she says.
“No thanks. I’m good.” Give it up. Cut your losses.
She rips the check from her pad and puts it face-down on the edge of the table.
“Order up!” The pirate calls. And she’s gone, backing away. “Have a good night,” she says.
Bron turns the check over. Under the item prices and circled total, there’s a scrawled signature, “Sunny,” with a little smiley face.
Sitting alone in his booth, Tyler Bron actually smiles back at it.
Chapter 15
Ten miles away
Nailed it. Enough for one day.
I switch off the Selectric and roll back in my chair. The view on the monitor cuts from the diner to the street as Bron heads for the motel. The techs are bored and yawning, ready for the end of their shift.
I have to admit, giving Bron a physical job was pretty smart. It wears him out early. And once he’s in his room, away from everybody, I get some time to think.
This write-me-a-life stuff is not easy. I’m basically making it up as I go. In every writing class, they tell you to start with an outline—work things out in advance, so you won’t be surprised. But the truth is, I’ve never had the patience. And I kind of like being surprised. So I just wing it. Which drives Daisy nuts. On the other hand, watching her and the minions scramble is half the fun.
I pop two beers and walk outside. Once I close the door behind me, the only light comes from the moon—and from Daisy’s laptop screen. There she is, about twenty yards out from the hangar in a lawn chair, just clicking away. I pick up another chair, carry it out and plunk it down next to hers. I hand her one of the beers.
By coincidence we’re each wearing a baseball cap with an S on it. Only mine is from Salem State—and hers is from Stanford.
I guess she’s just going to keep tapping away at her keyboard unless I say something. So here goes…
Chapter 16
ENLIGHTEN ME,” I say. “Ten miles away there’s a town that’s stuck in the Middle Ages. And out here, you’ve got perfect reception.”
She doesn’t even look up. “Do you really want me to explain it to you?”
I think for a second. Actually, I don’t.
I pull a pack of Marlboros out of my jacket. I take one out and light up.
I’m expecting a lecture from Daisy about damaging the ozone layer. Instead she gets a look like I’ve never seen on her before. She’s staring at me—actually, at the cigarette. I raise my eyebrows. She raises hers.
I hold the pack out. She takes a cigarette and puts it between her lips. She leans over and places the tip of her cigarette against the burning end of mine until hers catches.
She sits back, takes her first deep drag, and closes her eyes.
“Oh, my God,” she says. “That is heaven.”
Holy shit. A chink in the armor. I decide to push my luck. I want to know more about my main character.
“So Bron has never had a girlfriend?”
Daisy sips her beer and flicks the ash off the tip of her Marlboro. She looks right at me.
“Don’t you do any research?”
I admit I’m not exactly Woodward or Bernstein. I write fiction. I make stuff up. And web searches are not a go-to technique for me—especially because I don’t own a computer.
“Humor me,” I say.
“You want me to start at the beginning?” she asks.
“I do.”
I settle back. The slight beer buzz feels great with the cool night air. The only thing missing is a campfire. Because I’m about to hear a story.
First, Daisy tells me, Bron is not one of those up-from-nothing guys. He was born rich. Super rich. Family estate on Boston’s North Shore. Summer home on the Vineyard, right next to Carly Simon. Bron was an only child. Dad was an international banker, never home. Mom spent all her time at charity events and sailing. Bron was always kind of a nerdy kid. Loved mechanical stuff and electronics, hated sports. Dad dropped dead during a golf game with Gerald Ford. Mom drowned a year later during a regatta off Nantucket.
Bron skipped his last year of high school. Got a free r
ide to MIT. Dropped out his sophomore year when he invented a software program to control satellite telemetry.
Time out. “Satellite telemetry?”
“Automated digital communications. The way satellites talk to the controllers and to other satellites. His programs were pure genius. Revolutionary. Everybody wanted them. Business. Government. Military. So he started his own company. Age twenty-two. Then started building and launching satellites of his own. And that’s all he’s ever done.”
“No friends?”
“Maybe a couple work colleagues over the years. But nobody close. He never wanted to mix work with pleasure.”
“No problem when all you do is work.”
“Bingo.”
“No girlfriends? No hot affairs with female astronauts?”
“Has he been on dates? Probably. Here and there. I don’t think he’s a virgin. But he doesn’t really know how to talk to women. Obviously.”
Now that I’m on a roll, there’s another question I just have to ask.
“So, Daisy… why me? Why do you think somebody with an off-the-charts IQ is reading my books? Why would he pick me for this project instead of some wonk with a Nobel Prize? I don’t get it. You’re looking at a guy who flunked high school biology.”
She takes a slow sip of her beer. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”
True enough.
Daisy and I clink bottles and just sit there side by side, staring at the sky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her brush a loose strand of hair back from her face and tuck it under her cap.
I have to say, the moonlight looks good on her.
Chapter 17
Two nights later
Knock, knock!
The second he opens the door, Bron feels underdressed. Luke and Timo are waiting on the deck in snug-fit Diesel jeans and matching linen shirts. Timo’s buttons are open to expose more of the angel tat than usual. Luke has buffed his bald dome to a high-gloss shine.
“Ready to party?” asks Timo.
“Ready and willing,” says Bron. And he means it. Whatever Luke and Timo have in mind is better than another night in his room flipping between channels 9, 11, and 13. Bron pulls the door shut behind him and steps out into the warm night air.
The three of them head off down the street, nodding and waving to people along the way, calling everybody by name. Another novelty for Bron. At his office, he’s always running into people he feels he should know, but doesn’t. Awkward. Especially because everybody recognizes him. Usually, “Hey, there!” is the best he can do. His workers seem generic, interchangeable. They come and go. But here… he doesn’t know how to explain it… everybody stands out in clear focus. Memorable characters.
It’s just a three-minute walk to the bar. Bron has passed this place a dozen times, but it always seemed like a place for hardcore locals only. By noon every day there were already a few regulars at their usual spots. At five, they were still there.
But tonight the vibe is totally different. The front of the place is just about empty. Bron, Timo, and Luke head down a narrow pathway between the bar and the tables. There’s music coming from the back, and with each step, it gets louder and louder. Somebody in this town knows how to set up a sound system.
They push through a doorway covered by what looks like a flowered living room curtain. Beyond it—the room is packed with people and jumping with energy.
And whoever decked out the town in Christmas lights took it up a notch in here.
The place is glowing.
There’s no real bar back here—just a long folding table for the booze and a few industrial-size plastic coolers for beer. But, for this crowd, it’s the undisputed center of the universe. And the mood is contagious.
Timo and Luke greet everybody with big smiles, hugs, and backslaps. They may be new in town, but they own the room. Timo pulls out his iPhone and tosses it to the bartender. The bartender patches it into the audio system and flips a switch. Suddenly, the generic club music is replaced by Timo’s smartly paced playlist—Pitbull, Bruno Mars, Madonna—and the energy level shoots up even higher.
The man can throw down a mix.
After a couple quick beers, Luke and Timo hit the dance floor—and it’s game on.
These guys can move. Really move. The crowd clears some space on the floor as the two of them strut, gyrate, boogie, and bump their way through a thumping Adele track. They’re totally into each other—but they also play to the room. By the last measure, their shirts are plastered to their torsos with sweat.
On the downbeat of a Tito Puente salsa track, Timo thrusts his arm out and points into the crowd. He catches the eye of Maria the bank teller. She puts down her drink and moves onto the floor—blushing, but game. Timo can dance rings around her, but he pares his moves down to her level. She’s embarrassed and thrilled at the same time. All around them, the dance floor fills with gyrating bodies.
Working her way in from the side, in tight jeans and a halter top, Willow the librarian is showing off some moves that would not be appropriate for story time. Hands weaving in the hair, hips pumping, eyes closed, totally lost in the beat. Now Luke is behind her, hands on her waist, moving right along with her. Crazy. Funny. Steamy.
Bron leans awkwardly against the bar table, sipping a Corona and just trying to stay out of the way. For him, this is strictly a spectator sport. At the opposite corner of the room, thirsty guests are dipping into a beer cooler. Out of the corner of his eye, Bron sees the lid close to reveal a headful of wild blond hair.
Sunny.
No surprise that Bron has never been a big party guy. On the night of his high school prom, he was away at the Westinghouse Science Talent Search. At company gatherings, he always ducks out before the real fun starts. So this might officially be a first for him—seeing a girl across a dance floor and feeling like his heart is about to explode.
Sunny doesn’t see him. As she turns, a muscular young man in overalls pulls her onto the dance floor. He swings her, spins her, dips her. And she’s no slouch, either—matching him move for move while holding a cold beer in one hand. Bron feels flushed—and it’s not from the heat.
He loses sight of Sunny and the stud in the crowd. As he turns to toss away his empty beer bottle, he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns back. It’s Willow—smiling, swaying to the music—and crooking her index finger at him.
No escape.
Out on the floor, Bron’s moves are a little stiff—and that’s being kind. But Luke takes mercy, coaching him in a few moves that have Willow spinning and laughing in delight as the music gets even louder. She twines her arms around Bron’s neck. The sound system blares “Shut Up and Dance.” Willow shakes her hair—along with everything else.
Chapter 18
Many hours later
The dance mix fades out and somebody cranks up the Karaoke machine. By now almost everybody in the place is drained and drenched, guzzling beer to replace lost fluids. But some people are still full of energy. Luke is first up on the platform for an impressive rendition of “Say My Name,” complete with authentic Beyoncé hair tosses—minus the hair.
The bartender gets bold and decides to shoot for stardom. He gets four bars into “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” before the crowd boos him back to the bar table.
Sunny and Maria are in a corner, heads leaned together over their drinks.
Bron starts to edge his way through the crowd in their direction. Suddenly, he feels a pair of firm hands on his shoulders pushing him toward the stage.
Timo. Strong guy. Resistance is futile.
Now Bron is standing on a beer-soaked square of indoor–outdoor carpeting, holding a sweaty microphone. Luke and Timo are on either side of him, their beery breath mixing with his.
The tune blasting from the speakers sounds familiar, but the lyrics scrolling across the monitor are all in Spanish. The three Anglos do their best, but they’re hopeless.
Fortunately, the room has their back. Half the crowd sings along
in Spanish, the other half in English—all at the top of their very drunk voices—beautifully butchering a One Direction classic:
I drive all night
To keep her warm
And time is frozen…
Tyler sees Sunny singing along in a far corner. At least he thinks he does—the Karaoke spotlight is hitting him right between the eyes. And by the time the song ends and he gets a clear view of the room… she’s gone.
Chapter 19
Meanwhile, back at the hangar
The techs are already in their bunks, sleeping off a long day. It’s just me and Daisy in front of the big flat screen—watching the action wind down.
“That was fun,” says Daisy.
Okay. I cock my head, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know she’s not big on compliments, and this one doesn’t feel a hundred percent. I feel a but coming, and sure enough…
“But you can go deeper,” she says. “I think there’s more to him.”
I admit it. I’m frustrated. I’m tired. It’s late. I just created a scenario that felt more complicated than Gone with the Wind, and we actually pulled it off. What more does she want from me?
“Look,” I say, “I’ve already uprooted this guy from his normal existence—taken him away from everything he’s ever known. Given him new friends, new job. And look at him! Look how he was tonight! He’s a totally different guy. All things considered, I think his new life is going pretty well.” I’m worked up now. A little pissed off. “What the hell do you mean by deeper?”
On the monitor, Bron is walking out of the club, leaning heavily on Luke and Timo—but, to be honest, it’s hard to tell who’s supporting whom.
“What are we talking about?” I ask. “Cattle stampedes? Tornadoes? Blood orgies? Is that what you want? I’m full of ideas. But I’m not sure you could keep up.”