At His Fingertips

“It was just an idea, Mitch. No big thing.”

“It was a good idea. Give yourself some credit.”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, but Mitch knew he was just afraid of trying something new. Dale’s band sold a decent number of downloads off MySpace, but it wasn’t enough to make a living, to be independent, to build up any security.

“The director was encouraging. And you’re good with your students. Working with kids would be great for you.”

Nothing.

“Make an effort here.” He took a weary breath.

“I’m getting on your nerves, living here so long, huh? I can stay at Bailey’s or with Sarah.”

“No. I’m glad you’re here. I have the space.” And, frankly, he enjoyed the company. “I just want you to—”

“Become you. Yeah, I get that. I don’t intend to bust my hump six days a week like you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my life.” He had rewarding work, friends, a nice home, money in the bank.

“You need to get laid, bro,” Dale said. “You’re a lot easier to get along with when you’re gettin’ it regular.”

Mitch rolled his eyes.

“You don’t even play anymore. Hell, you used to write.”

“Not interested,” Mitch said. He hadn’t even thought about music in years. His guitar was in his closet, way out of tune. Music used to be everything to him—making it, listening to it, analyzing it—but that came from being young and ambitious and obsessed with making a mark.

“I’m getting on your nerves. I should move out.”

“Stay. For God’s sake, I’m just trying to—”

“You’re mad that I trashed the kitchen making that reduction?”

“Not at all.” Dale aspired to be a gourmet cook, except he preferred improvising to following recipes. Which worked fine in music, not so fine in the kitchen. “Maybe less salt next time.” He’d choked down some of the glop to be polite. “Meet me at the workshop, would you?”

“You’re not gonna let up? I’ll try to be there. You hungry? I’ve got vegan chili in the slow cooker.”

“Sure.” What could Dale do to chili, after all? Mitch followed his brother into the kitchen, which looked like a food bomb had gone off, scattering chunks of onion, garlic cloves, spices and pinto beans everywhere. The counter was littered with grocery bags and Dale’s exotic cookbooks—he had an entire book for braising, one for cooking chiles, another for Mongolian fare.

Dale flipped on some music and Mitch recognized the Xtent of the Crime demo the band had cut. “What made you play that?”

Dale shrugged. “A little voice in my head.” He grinned the grin that made him look like a kid again. He was as sunny as Esmeralda. She had a purpose, at least, kooky as it was. Dale bounced around, did whatever felt good.

He’d stayed in L.A. for six years after the band had broken up, surviving on studio work and band hookups, until he’d come home dead broke. How could he be so aimless?

It made Mitch nuts. Life was more than just getting through the days undamaged. You had to grow, accomplish things, make a difference.

“Wait’ll you taste this.” Dale scooped chili into two bowls. It smelled good, at least.

“Not too much for me.” If it was terrible, he could nibble, then dump it when Dale wasn’t looking.

The next song came on, and he realized he’d sung this one to Esmeralda that night. He’d only written a couple of ballads—thank God, since the overwrought lyrics made him cringe. She’d sighed with pleasure, making him want to roll her onto the grass and never stop kissing her sweet mouth.

He noticed a grocery sack from the nearby Chinese market. Beside it, a wire mesh bowl held fruit—small, bright-red strawberries, a couple of kiwis, a clump of what looked like pale, oversized raspberries. He picked one up. “What’s this?”

“That’s a lychee,” Dale said. “Put out the rest.”

In the sack he found more kiwi and several yellow, grooved fruit the size of small apples that he recognized. “Star fruit?”

Dale shot him a look, surprised he knew. “Yeah.”

“A friend of mine likes these.” He sniffed the cool surface. Pears. Yeah. And Esmeralda’s mouth. Mmm. He was getting moony over a piece of fruit and a pair of turquoise eyes.

And a mouth. Don’t forget the mouth….

Dale handed him a bowl and a spoon.

Maybe if Dale knew about Esmeralda, he’d be more interested. “Remember the girl I met at that fair we played before we went to L.A.?”

“That chick you were sitting on the hill with all night?”

“That’s the one.”

“She was hot.”

“That’s who runs the foundation. And the workshop.”

“You’re kidding. Small world, huh?”

“Yeah.” Esmeralda seemed to think their meeting had cosmic significance. Good Lord. She made him…nervous. One minute she made sense, the next she said something loony, then she joked—

“So you like the chili, I guess.”

He stopped, the spoon near his mouth. Thinking of Esmeralda, he’d mindlessly sucked down half the bowl. He paused to actually taste it. Blech. Grainy and dry and bitter with garlic. “You’re getting there,” he said, trying not to gag. “So you can meet her tomorrow night?”

Dale shrugged.

“Save me a few of these,” Mitch said, tapping a star fruit. He would take them as a peace offering. Go early and offer to help. Say nothing to offend her. Kook or not, she was in charge of a million-dollar foundation and could be Dale’s ticket out of limbo. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt. At least until he heard from Craig.

THE NEXT DAY, ESMERALDA GRABBED her yogurt from the office kitchen and headed to the front desk to check the afternoon schedule. Belinda should be at lunch, but she was hunched over a palmistry book, chewing a nail.

“Belinda?”

She jerked up. “Oh, Esmeralda. Sorry. I’m studying. It’s my lunch break, though, so I’m not robbing the foundation.”

“It’s fine. I just wanted to check the schedule.”

“I booked you back-to-back till five. Is that okay? Or do you want an hour in there to work on proposals? You know, I could save you time by prescreening some grants if you—”