Department of Mathematics that his son would be more than welcome the following year should he choose to take some time off to travel the country. So NinetySeven went on tour. Denise and Dave had married that spring, so Denise traveled with them while David continued to work at home and pay the bills.
When the band received an offer from PolyGram records, Michael told his father he wasn’t going to Princeton after all. Michael had grown up, filled out, and was no longer a skinny awkward kid. His youthful confidence had grown to a real power. Everyone could see it, especially his father. Anthony took one look at the contract the band had been offered, tore it up, and drew up another that at least would assure his son a shot at some real money. Anthony then took all the savings that had been earmarked for his only sons’ Ivy League education and offered to send Denise to law school, providing she specialized in entertainment and would look after her brothers’ business affairs. Denise agreed, and after the release of the first album, Dave went out with the band on tour.
In six gleeful months, Michael tasted every formerly-forbidden fruit. Drugs did not appeal to him. He didn’t like the feeling of being out of control, and worse, the loss of creativity. Too much alcohol made him physically sick. Women, however, had no distasteful side effects. With his beautiful blue eyes, blazing smile, and adorable face, he found himself drowning in them. He was careful, respectful, and considerate. He thought he had been in love a couple of times. But when he had looked into Diane Matthews’ big, brown eyes, he knew he had lost his soul.
He couldn’t believe how lovely she was. Not one of the usual beauties that drifted in and out of the vague world known as show business. Most of the women who had appealed to him until now had been model-thin, with translucent skin, straight, streaming hair and serious, intense eyes. Diane’s skin was dark and warm, her hair thick and curling. She had smiled and laughed when she could have been shrill or severe. Her face was all ovals - large, bright eyes, full, smiling lips, high cheekbones. Her body round as well. When he held her, she was soft and yielding, no hard bones and angles. And her lips had been soft, sweet and warm. On top of all that, she was smart and funny. He could not get her out of his head.
Saturday morning after the concert, he started calling her at nine in the morning. No answer. He left a message, then tried calling again after fifteen minutes. An hour later he went to his computer, downloaded directions to her address, and was on his way. She had said she would see him. She had said she would be home. No point, he thought, in wasting the day.
Her house was in an older neighborhood, the streets lined with shade trees and brick sidewalks. He pulled into number 17, a white, expanded Cape Cod, with green shutters, and lots of daffodils blooming. The front door was closed. A Subaru wagon was in the driveway, and the garage door was open. She was home. He went up the walk and rang the bell. There was no answer, but he could hear music. He walked around the house, past the garage. A post and rail fence surrounded the back yard, and as he pushed through the gate, he could hear the faint jingle of a brass bell that was attached to the gate. It should have announced his coming into the yard, but the sound was drowned out by the music that blasted out of open French doors.
Diane was toward the rear of the yard, trying to dig up an oversized azalea bush. He could see she had already prepared a new hole for it, right beside a large, slate patio. She was dressed in overalls, faded and baggy, caked with dirt. She was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt underneath, and her hair was pulled up and off her face in a spiked ponytail. She had been working for a while, and had almost completely dug up the bush, but it was stuck, and as she strained to uproot it, he could see the muscles on her arms tighten from the strain. Sweat trickled down the side of her face, soaked the neck of her shirt. She pushed against the shovel with all her weight,