Текст книги "Dazed"

Автор книги: Kim Karr

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

Chapter 3
Story of My Life

In a hopeless effort to will the memories away, my fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. Although the sky is clear, my mind is anything but. And, tonight of all nights, the traffic is light and I exit the 405 in no time. However, instead of taking my usual right, I go left and head south. I’m not in a hurry to get home and be alone, but why I head this way—I don’t know. As I drive through this small sliver of California that I usually avoid, I can’t help but allow Levi James to seize my mind. He was the first boy I ever loved, the boy I gave my virginity to, the boy who took away my faith in men, and the one who stole the precious window of time I had left with my uncle.

Tonight was unlike anything I’ve felt for a long time, if ever. But Jagger Kennedy wasn’t interested in me—he wanted something from me. When he asked if I would have lunch with him, I should have said no, but I couldn’t. A small part of me wanted to believe he was sincere. So I said I’d think about it and took my foot off the brake. I needed to leave. I glanced at him as he walked back up the steps. He stopped on the landing and with his hands in his pockets he watched me. He looked sincere—or maybe that is just what I wanted to believe.

Pulling over near the shore on the south bluff, I stare out into the water thinking about how I dislike the beach—and yet I never used to mind it. Why do things bother me so much now—how the sand that gets in my clothes is annoying, the wind that batters my hair is always distracting, and the jellyfish I have to sidestep are no longer wonders of beauty but hideous creatures. When I was younger I loved all of those things. Even before I followed Dahlia to Laguna, I had spent many days here. My uncle’s house was hidden away on the bluff and summer after summer this beach had been our playground. My uncle wasn’t married and he didn’t have any children, so I was like the daughter he never had. My parents didn’t go on vacation—they wouldn’t ever leave work long enough—but my uncle did, and he took me with him. We frolicked on the beach, he took me into LA, and he showed me all of California. And then before returning to Chicago, he’d fly us anywhere I wanted to go—Hawaii, London, Milan, and even Greece.

But after the heartbreak of that last summer I’d spent in Laguna with Levi, I didn’t return until it was too late. For the longest time I felt like Levi took the few years I had left with my uncle from me. Now I know it was me who robbed myself of those years, because I didn’t want to go back. I wish I had made different decisions and often feel guilty that I didn’t.

I loved my Uncle Ian. Maybe more than I loved my parents. What wasn’t to love—he was fun, full of adventure, had no rules. And he was unbelievably famous. As the lead bassist for the band Dazed, he lived the life of a rock star. Rolling Stone once said Dazed was the only band ever to have more influence on music than Led Zeppelin. And I believe that my uncle was the only musician to ever command a magazine cover more confidently than Robert Plant. Dazed may never have sold as many records as Led Zeppelin, and they might not have attracted as many concertgoers, but their sound will never be forgotten. But Uncle Ian’s death put an end to his legacy—or so I thought initially.

He was diagnosed with lung cancer just before my high school graduation and only lived six more months. The cancer was ravaging his body and when we’d spoken on the phone, his optimism always made me feel that he would get through it, but I should have recognized how sick he was. When my parents told me we were all going to Laguna for the summer, I knew then that we were nearing the end and I didn’t even wince at the thought of seeing Levi. I knew my uncle needed me.

By the time we arrived, his health had deteriorated so much from when I had last seen him a few months previously. Madeline, Levi’s mother and my uncle’s next-door neighbor, had been helping him out. But when we arrived, she no longer had to. I spent every minute I could with him. A hospital bed was set up in his study and I slept on the couch beside him.

He didn’t want to die but he tried to prepare me for it. Nurses came every day, and he only got weaker. By the time the end of summer neared, he was sleeping more and more and had stopped eating solid foods. He had to talk in whispers to conserve energy. Sometimes he would hallucinate, sometimes he would cry, and sometimes he would laugh. He would pick at the sheets and I’d hold his hands to stop him. I’d stay with him for hours and just sit and talk—to take his mind off the pain.

Then summer ended and I begged my parents to let me hold off on starting school until the second semester, but they refused. So I went to USC during the week and went back to my uncle’s on the weekends. And then it happened, when I was there. On a Friday night he asked me for a sip of water and coughed it up. We both noticed it was black. I told him I was sorry I gave him coke, so as not to worry him. But that night he couldn’t swallow his pills, so the nurse gave him some kind of shot in addition to extra doses of morphine through the pump. The next morning he was awake and grabbed my hand and tears spilled from his eyes.

“My little darling, I’m dying,” he whispered.

“I know,” I cried.

After the nurses left that morning, my parents begged me to go back to school. But I couldn’t. I knew he would be gone before I got back. So instead I stayed by his side. I kept my hand in his as his breathing quickened and grew shallow. Tears leaked down the side of his face and I’d wipe them. His eyes glazed over, but I knew he saw me. When his top lip turned bluish in color, his breathing slowed even further and he was staring. I thought he was staring at me until I noticed his breathing had stopped completely. And just like that, he was gone from my life.

And now Warner Bros. was making a movie about him. I’d already met with the executives last year and agreed to consult on the movie script. I wasn’t privy to all the information about my uncle’s life, but I was confident I knew enough. I was the keeper of his belongings—awards, albums, documents, and his guitars.

The first meeting with the film producers was both a classic rock love-fest and a contentious boxing match between the biographers and the scriptwriters. The movie manuscript took over a year to come to fruition—but I read it last month and couldn’t be prouder. Rather than be involved in the day-to-day workings of producing a movie, I released my rights and decided to let them do what they do best. I felt comfortable with the direction the movie was taking and work had grown crazy with so many new demands now that Damon was overseeing Sound Music, I just didn’t have the time to dedicate to it. My attorney wanted me to add an addendum that any major re-writes had to be approved by me, but I didn’t think that was necessary. Last I heard Brett Hildebrandt had been named the director, and I was happy to know they had hired one of the best.

I have to admit the idea of Jagger playing the role of my uncle intrigues me. Jagger is taller, much thinner, has darker hair, and honestly, better looking, but he does exude a similar confidence to my uncle. His looks could be downplayed. And for some reason I felt a certainty that beneath his lean, long body was a tower of strength—the same strength my uncle exuded. Shoving my own insecurities aside I decide that I’ll help him.

The beach parking lot is deserted and just as I put the car in reverse, I get a text message from a New York number.

Are we on for lunch tomorrow?

Assuming it’s Jagger, I respond quickly: I haven’t decided yet.

How can I persuade you?

Let me pick the place.

Done. So I’ll pick you up at noon?

No. I’ll meet you.

That’s not how dates work.

I didn’t think this was a date.

Time seems suspended as I wait for a reply. Staring at my illuminated phone, I jump, startled when my phone rings from the same number that just texted me. The thunder in my pulse makes my finger shake as I slide it across the screen.

“Hello,” I answer.

“I would have called you to begin with, but I wasn’t sure if you’d still be awake,” a low sultry voice says through the line.

“I’m not even home yet,” I answer, looking at the small silver watch on my right wrist.

“It’s almost 1:30. I thought it was an hour drive? Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” I laugh. “I just had a stop to make. I’m heading home now.” I ease my foot off the brake and start to pull out of the parking lot.

“An oil change?” he jokes.

“No, definitely not an oil change.”

“Well, when you’re in need—you let me know. I just might be able to hook you up with an excellent service center.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So about lunch tomorrow. I thought you should know—I really want to see you again. It’s not just about your uncle.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, sounding incredibly stupid, but not knowing how else to respond. I’ve never been asked out on an afternoon date. Then, I hear voices in the background.

“Is that Dahlia?”

“No. She and River went to bed. It’s just me, the TV, and the dead bodies.”

We both laugh and the sound of his laugh makes me laugh harder. Once our laughter fades he asks, “So I’ll pick you up then?”

“No, let’s meet at the Loft in Laguna. Say one.”

“Do you not want to ride in my car?”

“How’d you guess?” I tease.

“I knew it.”

“No really, it’s just easier that way.”

“Okay, for this time. You need to get your comfort level up. I get it.”

And he did. What could I say to that?

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. What is it?” I manage to sound relaxed when I’m anything but.

“Do you ever take the top down?”

I’m not the joking kind but I know exactly how to answer. “No. Never. In fact I’m not even sure I know how.”

A beat. A pause. I can tell he’s thinking. He’s been doing this all night—asking me a question and then quietly processing my answer.

“Jagger, I’m pulling into my neighborhood, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I hope so, Alice,” he responds before the line goes dead.

There’s a line from Alice in Wonderland that tugs at my thoughts. The quote says something about being different yesterday than you are today and it strikes me as overly philosophical to have come from a fairy tale written in the 1800s, and yet it’s completely on the mark. Signaling, I take a right and head toward my house tucked deep away in Laguna Canyon. Easing past the community pool and the tennis courts, I come to a stop in front of the attached garage of my cape cod–style townhouse. My home backs up to a wooded hill and has a beautiful private patio where in the mornings I could sip my tea and listen to the birds sing while the sunlight filters through the large trees—I could, but I never have.

The garage door lifts and my car fits perfectly in its immaculately clean space. After walking into the house, I flick on the overhead lights in the kitchen. I set the brown bag on the counter and peer inside. A single cupcake sits with a Post-it note stuck to the side of the bag that says, “I really am sorry I stole your cupcakes. Please forgive me.” Closing the bag, I remember Jagger’s advice and put it in the refrigerator with a grin. Then I look around at my kitchen—striking espresso hardwood cabinetry trimmed in brass, shiny old world black appliances, and beautiful marble counters top it . . . the look is one of old Hollywood elegance. I passed on purchasing this place after my initial walk-through because the all-white walls and nautical theme was more than I could bear. But nothing else I looked at compared to the location and layout of this place. So two years ago I made the decision to buy it. But before I moved in, I planned out every detail of the remodel with my designer and I must say the results were fabulous. Yet, sadly, I realize, as I look at my Herman Miller barstools, that the only person to have ever seen it is Dahlia. I have allowed work to occupy my life and socializing has lost its place.

I walk into the living room and just admire it. Cameron, my designer, steered me toward using hues of burnished metals and lustrous minerals—malachite, onyx, rose gold, silver, and copper. A metallic swivel armchair is strategically set by the large picture window showcasing the wooden hills behind it. A Murano glass chandelier rests above the polished travertine cocktail table flanked by twin velveteen sofas of which I’ve only ever sat on one. A gas fireplace centers the room and a TV hangs above it, neither of which I can recall the last time I switched on. Finally, an old speakeasy bar I’ve never had a drink at burdens one corner. Everything is perfectly coordinated.

The staircase is fitted with a very safe iron railing and I take the steps one at a time, a glass of water in one hand and my purse on my shoulder. Upstairs are the master suite and guest bedroom, which I’ve turned into my office and furnished with a marble and brass desk, two plush burnt orange chairs with brushed nail heads placed perfectly in front of a floor to ceiling window, and an old wooden file cabinet that belonged to my uncle. This is the room where I spend most of my time. Glancing around I think it would probably be good for me to go through my uncle’s things. I’d moved them from a storage unit I’d had since college into this room’s closet and file cabinet. But I’ve never really gone through them.

The lamps cast a soft glow around my bedroom as I enter. The custom rose-petal colored wallpaper reflecting off the mirrored wall that includes the sliding doors of my closet makes the room look like a silk lined jewelry box and it’s my favorite place in the house.

Once I’ve pulled out a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a tank top from my drawer, I consider skipping my nighttime routine of washing my face and brushing my teeth. It’s late and I’m tired, but I just can’t do it. Walking into the room that reminds me most of my grandmother, a starlet who graced the silver screen, I admire the surroundings. It’s sheathed in glass tiles that remind me of her golden colored hair. The light fixtures of mottled glass and hammered metal punctuate the double sinks and the artful bronze knobs. My grandmother was a collector of costume jewelry. Her collection, now mine, was vast and I used some of the pieces to decorate this room. Her favorite broach holds back the shower curtain and glass beads sewn onto panels of silk stream down the window.

Looking into one of the large oval bathroom mirrors, I pull my yoga clothes off and stare. My uncle always said I looked like my grandmother and judging from pictures, I do. My prominent cheekbones are the same as hers, but my overbite was taken care of with braces where hers only leant to her offbeat beauty. I have a few curves that I work hard to keep from getting bigger. I tug my burnished golden hair down and let it flow over my shoulders in waves. It’s long enough to cover my breasts. I never wear it down but in every picture I’ve seen of my grandmother, her hair is always down and draped to one side.

A yawn overtakes me and I hurry through my nighttime routine until I’m finally lying under the silken coverlet of my bed. Before shutting off the light, I pick up the picture on my night table—Ava Daniels, my grandmother, was a striking woman. She was born in Brooklyn to wealthy parents. She attended finishing school in Switzerland and met my grandfather there. He was much older than she and passed away shortly after my uncle was born. After he died she brought her boys back to the United States and embarked on a career on Broadway before she was signed to a contract with 20th Century Fox.

Like the roles she played, she battled a troubled emotional life . . . one that often included hospitalization and shock treatment for depression. She found her career hard to manage and eventually gave it up. My father and my uncle were raised by nannies. My father never talks about my grandmother, but my uncle always did. He too fought all his life against the encroaching darkness—but unlike her, I think he managed it much better. Unfortunately, my grandmother died of uterine cancer when I was five years old, before I ever really got to know her.

Setting the picture down, I notice the red light blinking on my phone and glance at it.

Just wanted to say bonsoir.

The metal of the lamp reflects on the screen and with a grin across my lips, I snatch it from the table and assign the number a name—Jagger Kennedy. He’s now an official contact in my list.

Goodnight and thank you for the cupcake

* * *

After running three miles on my treadmill in the morning and showering, I stand in front of my closet in my thick terry cloth robe and just stare at its contents. It’s a showcase of clothes, but staring at the right side, I can’t decide what to wear. I’m a shopper. I love the thrill of finding the perfect pieces that complement one another. I never buy just one piece—always an ensemble. My outfits are perfectly coordinated—pants hang with their perspective matching tops, but today nothing seems to suit the occasion. I untwist my wet hair from the clip on top of my head and decide to check the weather. Pulling open the French door, I step outside on my balcony and breathe in the cool air. I haven’t been on a date in months and that one didn’t go so well.

Zane Perry, the new lead singer of the Wilde Ones, and I met at River and Dahlia’s wedding. He had a smile that made me look twice and when he asked me out, I said yes. I met him at a movie theater in LA. It was the most awkward date I’d been on in a while because we hardly knew each other and the movie had many over the top sex scenes—sitting there listening to the woman’s moaning made me want to slide down my chair and fade into the darkness. Once the movie ended we went to dinner. That part of the date went much better, but not great. We ate and talked, but the conversation was forced. So when he invited me back to his place, I was surprised, but wanting to give him a chance, I went. After a few glasses of wine, he moved closer to me and I asked him to turn the lights off. Once he did, he kissed me, but there was no spark. I was used to that, as it seemed to be the norm for me. When his hands slid inside my blouse, I allowed it. When his fingers trailed up the inside of my thigh, I encouraged it. When he unzipped his pants and hovered over me on the couch, I craved the human contact. But as his cock slid inside me, and he thrust over and over, I failed to feel even a hint of desire stirring. I made the noises I needed to make and he assumed I was just as into it as he was. That’s why I prefer the dark. It’s easier to fake it. Once we were done, I got dressed and told him I had to leave. He called me a few times after that, but I was busy with work. Sometime later, I’d heard from Dahlia that he and the label’s representative for the band had been having a thing on and off and that was all I needed to know—we wouldn’t be going on anymore dates.

Shivering, I step back inside and decide on denim. I pair my favorite skinny jeans with red high-heeled booties and a tight white sweater. I decide to leave my hair down– I’m not sure why, but I did like the way Jagger wrapped his finger around a stray strand yesterday. Next I decide on an Art Deco 1930s-style necklace from my grandmother’s collection. Its red glass pieces tilt back like butterfly wings. Clasping it and selecting simple gold earrings, I’m ready to go.

* * *

Butterflies swarm my stomach as I pull into the restaurant parking lot. I see him instantly—the wayfarers cover his gray eyes, the tattered jeans fit snuggly on his narrow hips, the scuffed boots with the orange laces, the messy but somehow perfect dark hair, and that blue vest. He’s got one leg canted against the brick wall of the building and the other planted on the ground. His head is bowed, and he’s got earphones in his ears. God, he’s sexy. My pulse races and I smile as I park my car next to his.

Guys don’t have this kind of impact on me—ever. Men have actually always been a bit of a struggle in my life—not that I’m into girls. It’s just I fell in love for the first time when I was sixteen and that ill-fated relationship kept me away from other guys until my freshman year of college. Then for the next four years I dated a handful of men each year. But I was always subconsciously looking for a reason to break up and easily found one. Sex is also something that’s always been a struggle for me. I don’t see what it is that women find so enticing about it. I’ve been with probably a dozen men, so it’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing. I get the mechanics; I just don’t understand what it is I’m supposed to be feeling.

He opens my door before I even grab my purse and stretches out his hand. I take it and he tugs me out of the car. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say back. My fingers are tingling from where they were wrapped around his hand.

“I’m glad you didn’t stand me up.” His mouth stretches into a slow grin.

“I thought about it, but decided I couldn’t do that to River,” I joke.

He bites his lip and the sight takes my breath away. “That makes me one lucky bastard to be his cousin.” He’s teasing me back. I’m already catching his stride.

“Yes it does.”

Looking around over the top of his sunglasses, he glances toward the restaurant. “Ready to go in?”

I nod and he puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. The Loft is a casual bistro-style place with spectacular panoramic views. It has the best food around with a six-foot rotisserie and the most extensive cheese selection in all of California. We enter and he removes his sunglasses and tucks them in the slight V of his sweater. I watch his eyes as he evaluates the place. Today they’re like gray storm clouds—deep, rich, slow moving, even languid.

His gaze swivels to mine. Those eyes sweep over me in a now familiar way and send a shiver through me. “You look beautiful. Red really is your color,” he says fingering the faceted glass squares around my neck.

“Thank you. It’s a piece from my grandmother’s collection.”

“May I help you sir?” a voice says from behind me.

His hand drops from my neck, but finds its spot on the small of my back. I like it there.

“Table for two?” the hostess asks.

“Yes,” he answers.

“Would you like to sit inside or out?”

I say “inside” at the same time that he says “outside.”

He leans forward. “It’s a beautiful day. What do you say we enjoy it?”

“Sure, why not,” I answer, although I’m thinking I never eat outside. The noise and the wind are just too distracting. The hostess leads us up to the second floor and we’re seated at a round table with four chairs circling it with a beautiful view of the beach. Jagger pulls a chair out for me and I sit. He selects the one next to mine, facing the ocean.

The hostess hands us our menus. “Your waiter will be right with you,” she says before leaving us alone. We’re the only people sitting outside and I notice it is actually really peaceful. We sit close and look over our menus.

Jagger leans forward. “So what’s good?”

“I always order the grilled salmon. But I hear the flatbreads are amazing. Dahlia gets them sometimes when we eat here.”

“The vodka infused halibut on parmesan flat bread it is then. What about you?”

“The grilled salmon.”

“Maybe you should try something different today?”

I look at him trying to figure out if he’s making fun of me or maybe teasing me, but his expression stays neutral and his eyes remain focused on mine.

I sit up straight. “Sure, why not. Live a little. Right?” I’m not sure why I say yes, but I think it has something to do the sexy, smoldering smirk I knew it would put on his face.

He leans even further toward me and an incredulous smile plays around his lips. “Right!” And there it is—it makes my stomach somersault and my pulse race.

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asks.

“Yes,” Jagger replies. “The lady will have,” he pauses and looks at me.

“A sparkling water and the grilled flank steak sandwich,” I say.

With a grin on his face he orders a sparkling water with lime and the flatbread. Then he inclines his head toward the sun. The view from the table is amazing. The water crashes against the rocks, the sky is bright, the clouds are fluffy and serene, and the wind stirs around us at just the right speed.

“What made you decide to change from modeling to acting?” I ask.

He chuckles. “That still sounds so strange, almost pretentious.” He runs his hand through his hair and bows his head then looks up with a crease in his brow. “I never had supercharged aspirations to be a model and since there’s an expiration date on that career, I thought it was time to start down the path I’d paved.”

I look at him quizzically.

“What I went to college for—film.”

“That’s right—The New York Film Academy.”

He nods. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved modeling and if I don’t succeed in Hollywood, I’ll go back to it. It’s just I’ve toyed with the idea of acting for a while and when I heard Tom Ford was directing a movie, I went for it. Now that I’ve had a little taste, I’d say I’ve been bitten.”

“I have no doubts you’ll be a success. You’re motivated to go the extra mile. In Hollywood that will carry you far,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I hope so. The decision wasn’t easy, but it was the right time.”

“What do you mean, the right time?”

“You know what, that’s a long story for another day, but I can say it just felt right.”

“Here we go.” The waitress arrives with a long thin plate in one hand and a sandwich in a bamboo basket in the other. She sets our food down. “Anything else?”

Jagger looks at me. “Some ground pepper.”

I’m touched that he remembered and can’t wipe the smile from my face. The waitress brings a large wooden grinder and adds pepper to both our dishes.

“Anything else you need?” she asks.

I swear she bats her eyelashes at Jagger. He looks at me and I shake my head.

“I think we’re good for now,” he replies.

I pick up a sweet potato fry and smile sheepishly. “I have a feeling these just might be addicting. Would you like to try one?”

“Absolutely,” he responds.

I don’t know what comes over me. I’m not the flirty kind, but I lean forward and dangle the fry near his face. He opens his mouth and I slowly feed it to him.

He makes a low purring sound. “Mmmm . . . those are definitely addicting.”

My fingers were on his lips and although the air is cold, I feel warm, almost feverish. I sip my sparkling water and lift my eyes to watch him eat. He pauses and looks up. His hair isn’t as styled today as it was yesterday, but it’s still equally attractive with pieces falling over his ears and eyebrows. “So what about you? Your career?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Your profession is much more interesting. Tell me what Fashion Week is like.”

He reaches for his napkin and wipes his hands. “Nothing like you’d think. A typical day would start with me riding the train to the studio to take a test shot for any new campaigns, and then I’d hurry to a fashion show, and then hurry from that show to the next, then to a fitting. By the end of the day I’d be exhausted and fall asleep in the cab back to my apartment.”

Picking up a piece of flatbread, he offers it to me. “Try this.”

I open my mouth automatically and take a bite. “Mmmm . . . that’s really delicious.”

His grin makes my toes curl and then he pins me with his gaze. “Your turn now. Tell me about you.”

“Well, it’s really not that . . .”

The crash of glass breaking grabs our attention as both of us twist our heads toward the noise. A waitress dropped a bunch of plates. Jagger rushes toward her and helps her pick up the pieces.

When he sits back down he leans toward me and I can smell his scent of lavender and sage combined. “Sorry about that, you were saying?”

I breathe him in and then exhale before deciding to share the basic details of my life with him. I start by telling him about my grandmother the actress, my parents the film advocates, my college years with Dahlia, and that it was the impression my uncle left on Josh Wolf that got me my job at Sound Music Magazine.

Our conversation flows easily and time flies by. When Jagger glances at his watch, I do the same. It’s after five and I look around realizing the waiter must have long ago cleared our plates. Jagger flags the waiter and gestures that he’s ready to pay the bill.

As the sun starts to hang low, he stands and extends his hand. With a slightly sly smile he says, “Come with me. There’s something I’ve been dying to do.”

I give him my hand and at the touch of our skin that flutter in my stomach turns into a pounding.

“Give me your keys.”

I blink at him over and over. “Why?”

“We’re going to do something.”

I hand him my keys, again not sure why, but his commanding tone just mesmerizes me. He clicks the key fob then ushers me into the passenger side of my own car. He darts around to the driver side and he unclips the handle above his window and then reaches across me to do the same.

“I don’t think this is a good—” I start to say, but he cuts me off by placing his finger over my lips. I think about how my insurance policy doesn’t cover other drivers, but decide not to fret over that.

“It’ll be fun. I promise.” He winks.

He hits a button and, just like that, the top of my Audi is down. I twist my hair and knot it into a bun, and before I know it we are cruising onto the Pacific Coast Highway. He takes the dizzying twists and turns with the same ease he displays in his confident walk. I take the time to appreciate the view.

“Did you know this road took fifteen years to build?” he asks.

I glance over at him and can barely hide my amusement. “No, I have to say that is not a fact I have stored away.”

“Well, it did. It opened during Franklin Roosevelt’s tenure.”

“Interesting, since it has been many years since Mr. Roosevelt was in office and this road is still in a state of construction.”

A gentle glow over the horizon signals the sun will be setting soon. Jagger pulls up to a small grocery by the side of the highway that’s caught his attention. “Come on, let’s go in and try the artichoke bread.”