Page 95 of Caught in a Storm
“You’re never gonna guess what I’m looking at,” Poppy says, smiling. It’s still light on the West Coast.
“Bet it’s the same thing I’m looking at,” says Margot.
Both women aim their phones over their shoulders to capture the power of outdoor advertising.
“You’re so famous,” Poppy says.
“Eh,” says Margot.
“How’s the album coming?”
“We have a few songs in decent shape, and a few that aren’t.”
“How’s Nikki?” Poppy makes a face. Margot loves her for the fierceness of her loyalty.
“Nikki is Nikki. She’s trying.”
“Mm-hm.”
Margot asks if Poppy has talked to Lawson.
“Willa moved out,” Poppy says. “You probably know that, though. The entire western hemisphere knows that. Apparently, she’s getting back with that TV actor she dated before Dad.”
Margot does know these things. Once she lifted her Us Weekly ban the floodgates opened, and now she flips through it every week when she gets groceries. Photos of a moving truck outside of Lawson and Willa’s house in L.A. and Willa with a pretty twentysomething blond boy from a vampire show.
“You aren’t writing, are you?” Poppy asks. “I can tell.”
“I don’t need to write. I’m here to drum.”
They walk together in silence, thousands of miles apart, linked by technology.
“You can call him, you know?” Poppy says. “It’s weird that I have to tell you that, because you’re an adult and famous and accomplished and you’re my role model, et cetera. But apparently you need to be told basic things about how to be a human being.”
“I’m your role model?”
“Most of the time.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Regarding the other part of what I said, though?” says Poppy.
“I know I can,” says Margot. “But that doesn’t mean I should.”
Her daughter rolls her eyes, like she did when she was five, twelve, seventeen, twenty-two. “That’s dumb. Good line, though. If you were writing, like you should be, I’d tell you to jot that one down.”
“I’ll remember it for my memoir,” she says.
“Oh, I was gonna ask you. Caleb—you know, Billy’s kid. Is he really picking Baltimore over Palo freaking Alto?”
Margot mentioned this to Poppy back in the spring, before Margot came back to New York. Still, it’s a jarring turn in the conversation. Margot diverts around a sniffing dog on a long leash. “Yeah,” she says. “Apparently Baltimore’s got quite a hold over its men.”
Chapter 52
Jackson Barber is the best student Billy has ever had. He’s the best student Billy will ever have, Billy knows, because that’s how talent works, like a once-a-century rogue wave on a beach that nobody sees coming. If they’re lucky, music teachers have a Jackson Barber somewhere in their past, present, or future: the kid who sits down one day, takes a deep breath, and stuns them.
That’s what happened three days after Margot left. Billy had forgotten all about their first scheduled lesson until there was a knock at the door. Oh shit! Jackson! He was still living in the apartment over Robyn’s garage. When Billy answered the door, Jackson stood on the steps, shy and tiny next to LaVar Barber, because who wouldn’t be shy and tiny next to a man who knocks people to the ground for a living?
“Piano Man! You ready to get this party started?”
