“But once I was there,” she said, pressing a hand to her heart and closing her eyes, dramatically. “Sheer heaven. The surf. The sunsets. Oh, and my fans. I just felt like I was finally myself again. You know?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, although it had been a while since I’d felt anything like myself. All night I’d kept seeing Dexter in my mind, arms waving, calling after me.

“So I came home on an earlier flight, hoping to share this new feeling of contentment with Don, but-he’s not here.” She took another sip of her Ensure, glancing out the kitchen window. “I guess I was just feeling hopeful.”

“He hasn’t been around at all,” I told her. “I think he worked, like, all weekend.”

She nodded gravely, putting the Ensure down on the counter. “It’s been such a problem for us. His work. My work. All the details of each. I feel like we haven’t even had a chance to really bond as husband and wife yet.”

Uh-oh, I thought again, as a warning bell sounded softly in my head. “Well,” I began, “you’ve only been married a couple of months.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And while I was gone, I realized that we really have to focus on this marriage. The work can wait. Everything can wait. I think I’ve been guilty too long of putting other things first, but not this time. I just know things are going to be better now.”

Okay. So that sounded positive. “That’s great, Mom.”

She smiled at me, pleased. “I really believe it, Remy. We may have had a bumpy adjustment, but this one’s for good. I’m finally realizing what it takes to really be a partner. And it just feels great.”

She was smiling so happily, with this new conversion. As if somewhere high over the Southeast seaboard, she’d finally found the answer to the puzzle that had eluded her for so long. My mother always had ducked out of relationships when the going got tough, not wanting to dirty her hands with messy details. Maybe people could change.

“Oh, goodness, I just can’t wait to see him,” she said to me now, walking to the table and picking up her purse. “I think I’ll just run down to the dealership and bring him lunch. He loves it when I do that. Honey, if he calls, don’t let on, okay? I want it to be a surprise.”

“Okay,” I told her, and she blew me a kiss as she sailed out the door and across the lawn to her car. I had to admire it, that absolute kind of love that couldn’t even wait a couple of hours. I’d never felt that strongly about anyone. It was nice, this rushing need to say something to someone right this very second. Almost romantic, really. If you liked that sort of thing.

The next morning I was in line at Jump Java, half asleep and waiting for Lola’s morning mocha, when I saw the white Truth Squad van pull up outside, rattling to a stop in the fire lane. Ted hopped out and came into the store, pulling some wrinkled bills out of his pocket.

“Hey,” he said when he saw me.

“Hey,” I replied, pretending to be engrossed in a story on redistricting on the front page of the local newspaper.

The line for coffee was long, and full of cranky people who wanted their drinks made with such intricate specifics that it gave me a headache just listening to the orders. Scarlett was working the espresso machine, trying to keep up with a slew of nonfat, soy-milk double-tall requests with a sour look on her face.

Ted was a bit behind me in line, but then the guy between us, disgusted by the wait, walked out. Which left us next to each other, so we had no choice but to talk to each other.

“So Lucas told me you guys have a meeting with Rubber Records,” I said.

“Yup. Tonight, in D.C. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Really,” I said as we slowly crept forward about an inch in the line.

“Yeah. They want us to play for them, you know, in the office. And then maybe at this showcase on Thursday, if they can get us a spot. Then, if they like us, it might get us something permanent up there.”

“That’s great.”

He shrugged. “It is if they like our stuff. But they’re pushing for some stupid covers instead, which, you know, totally goes against our integrity as a band.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I mean, the other guys, they’d do freaking anything for a contract, but, you know, to me it’s about more than that. It’s about music, man. Art. Personal expression. Not a bunch of corporate, upper-management bullshit.”

A businessman holding the Wall Street Journal glanced back at us, but Ted just looked at him, indignant, until he faced forward again.

“So you’re doing ‘The Potato Opus’?” I asked.

“I think we should. That’s what I’ve been pushing all along. Like us for our original stuff, or not at all. But you know Lucas. He’s never been behind the potato stuff at all. He’s so freaking lowbrow, it’s ridiculous: I mean, he was in a hair-metal band. What the hell does he know about real music?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to this.

“And then there’s John Miller, who’d play anything as long as he doesn’t have to go back to school and push paper in his daddy’s company some day. Which leaves us with Dexter, and you know how he is.”

I was startled, slightly, at this. “How he is?” I repeated.

Ted rolled his eyes. “Mr. Positive. Mr. Everything’s-Gonna-Be-All-Right-I-Swear. If we left it up to him, we’d just go up there with no game plan, no set of demands, and just see how it goes.” He flipped his hand in a loose, silly way, punctuating this. “God! No plan, no worries whatsoever. Ever! I hate people like that. You know what I’m talking about.”