It wasn't a bad day; there were hints of spring in the air and it was fairly warm outside, although there were few such hints in this warm office. There was a window to the outside, looking out over the street in downtown Nashville, but Frank Oldfield wasn't looking out of it. He had work to do. The problem was that it wasn't getting done.

By anything that was right, Jenny Easton should have signed that damn contract last spring, he thought. God, I offered her just about everything I could but the key to the executive men's room, and I can't even get around that oversized lug she married. If he could just get around him and talk some sense to Jenny things would be back the way they should be.

He glanced at the Billboard lying on his desk. He didn't need to see the numbers again, but he'd been mad ever since he read them earlier in the morning. That damn Saturday Night with Jenny Easton was in the thirties on the country chart, which was really pretty damn good. The week after the Great Performances show on PBS of all the damn things, it had bounced up there from some spot in the eighties, and it was still hanging in there. It was, what, ten weeks in the thirties? No sign of it falling off, either. Damn good for a live show recording. It was a hell of a lot of money that should have been coming into Nashville-Murray -- and a hell of a lot less that went on up to that frozen hamlet out in the middle of nowhere. But no, and not even one damn track on the whole disc that Nashville-Murray owned the rights to, after all we've done for her all over the years! God, was he ever going to get bitched at from the parent corporation over that! The bastards, sitting up there in New York, they didn't know what the hell he had to put up with down here in the trenches where the money was made. All they looked for was the bottom line.

This last phone call had been the worst. He'd just got off the phone with Blake Walworth again, and as usual, he'd been brushed off. He'd laid off them for a couple months now; he remembered how crabby his first wife -- or was it his second? -- had been when she was in the late part of her pregnancy. What with Blake kissing Jenny's ass all the time, he knew the chances of getting her to listen to reason were pretty limited, so he'd held off until the kid had been born. But this time it wasn't any better. Worse, if anything. Blake had told him that Jenny Easton Productions was getting set to release an album of harp music, of all the damn things, by that kid who played in the half-ass band they'd put together. What in the hell was a country music person like Jenny thinking of, releasing an album of harp music? They had to be out of their damn minds. Good God, if they sold seventeen copies of that they'd be lucky. They're getting awful damn big for their britches. Someone ought to slap her down, put her in her place, which was back in the arms of Nashville-Murray where she belonged.

Damn it, he'd been prepared to offer just about everything Blake had asked for, a total cave-in on the creative control issue -- and he'd had to fight with those assholes in New York for that -- and a cute way around the worst of the studio issue. It would involve signing the band members for one album at a time, then have them come down here to record so he'd keep the union off his ass. They could rehearse to their hearts content up there in that frozen wilderness, then come down here to civilization for only a few days, a week at most, to blow through an album. It just about gave them everything they wanted -- but he couldn't even manage to tell Blake about it, let alone get through to Jenny! If he could just get past him . . .

There ought to be something he could do, but . . . damn. Maybe go up there in person? It was a thought, even though it was up in the ass end of nowhere. It might work . . . and it might not.

The phone buzzed softly. He reached out and hit the button for the speakerphone. "What is it, Sally?" he asked. Hopefully that damn Wolf hadn't been busted for DUI again. The guy could sing, but he lived the life he sang, not a good idea. Another problem.

"Leonard Hurtibese on one, Mr. Oldfield," his secretary said.

Oh, crap, I don't want to talk to him, he thought. Lenny means nothing but more damn trouble, as if he didn't have enough to deal with. But it wasn't a good idea to ignore him either. He punched the button for line one and said in a jovial voice, "Yo, Lenny! What's happening out there in supermarket land?"

"Same old, same old," the voice on the other end of the line said as Oldfield leaned back in his chair waiting for the bad news. Lenny ran the Nashville bureau of the National Tribune, which as far as Oldfield was concerned, was about the worst of the supermarket tabloids, although the best of them was still pretty bad. The Trib was based in LA and concentrated on entertainment gossip, most of which was pretty much fabricated, although there was occasionally a kernel of truth somewhere buried deep inside. "I hear Wolf got loaded up a bit and kind of busted up a bar the other night."

"Like you said," Oldfield snorted. "Same old, same old." The Trib may have been the worst of the supermarket rags, but they did have some readership around the southeast, in fact a pretty good one, which is why Oldfield didn't have Sally just turn off all of their calls. And once in a while he'd slip Lenny an item to keep on his good side -- and, sometimes it did some good. The Trib had started a wave of stories a couple years before that had pretty well gotten one of Nashville-Murray's bigger stars to lay off the jailbait, at least in public. This was Tennessee, after all, and the age of consent was pretty young, so he hadn't been in legal trouble, but there were plenty of people elsewhere who didn't appreciate stars messing around with underage nookie. All in all, it had worked out pretty good.

"You're confirming it?" Hurtibese asked.

"I don't know anything that hasn't been in the papers already," Oldfield replied. "Off the record, he thinks it's good for his image, you know, like some damn rapper doing some felony time." He didn't really care if Lenny printed that or not, but it was best to not give the son of a bitch too much.

"And you don't think much about it," Hurtibese asked.

"Let's just say that it's an issue that may come up when renewal time rolls around," Oldfield said with malice aforethought. It might work. The headline would come out "Wolf losing contract" of course, and it might even scare some sense into the drunken fool. Doubtful, but you never knew. After all, it had worked before. Boy, if he could use this trash picker get Jenny Easton's attention, it might do some good . . . there was an idea. "You got any other shit rolling my way?"

"Not particularly, but you never know," Hurtibese replied.

"Hey, Lenny, I got to ask," Oldfield said, the idea growing and taking shape. "I haven't seen much about Jenny Easton in your rag lately."

"Mostly because there hasn't been," Hurtibese said. "We did run a pretty bad picture of her wedding back last fall, but she ain't exactly box office these days. She ain't under contract with you anymore, is she?"

"No, not since last summer," Oldfield said, just a little bit irritated. Hurtibese tried to sound a little hillbilly, given that he was covering the country music business, but he was from LA, and a Jew at that. Some hillbilly! "Just thought you might like to know," he continued. "She just had her baby a few days ago. Little boy. Make a nice hearts-and-flowers piece, especially at her age. She's pushing 40 pretty hard."

"Might be," Hurtibese said. "But if it involves going up there to that damn boondocks death camp where she lives, this mother's son ain't interested."

"What's this?" Oldfield grinned. "I thought you guys' motto was, any trash, anywhere."

"There are limits," Hurtibese said. "I learned that years ago, running bare naked ten miles through the woods with about seventeen billion mosquitoes trying to carry my ass off."

"What the hell?" Oldfield almost laughed. At least someone had treated this joker like he deserved to be treated.

"This was back when I was with Hollywood Tonight," Lenny reported. "Me and this camera guy went up there to try and do a hometown story on her. Just bread and butter, you know, no real dirt to speak of. We got pulled over for speeding, and when this great big Nazi of a cop saw the Hollywood Tonight logo on the camera he liked to have split a gut. He threw my camera guy and me in the back of the patrol car, drove about ten miles out in the swamps, got us out, and made us take off our clothes. I figured I was a dead man, but he said, 'Your clothes will be waiting for you by the stop sign at the highway. Get in 'em and don't let me see you again.' You never saw so many goddamn mosquitoes and flies in your life. I swear to God, they like to have sucked us dry, but we got lucky. We made it out to the road and managed to flag down this hillbilly in a pickup truck, and he took us straight to the airport. He told us that people have died out there when they pissed the local cops off. God, I was itching for weeks. There ain't no way I'm going back to that hell hole. I heard a couple years later the Inquirer tried sending a guy up there. He got stopped for a busted tail light or some damn thing and managed to talk his way into sixty days in the county slammer. He didn't like that too much. Nobody's wanted to try it since."

"Can't say as I blame you," Oldfield smiled, stifling a laugh while shaking his head. Yeah, someone gave this bastard what he deserved, all right! "I tried a lot of times to get Jenny to give an in-home interview up there, and it was strictly no dice, all the way. Wouldn't hear of it. Out on the road, on tour, like that, she's pretty good with the press, but at home, well, I hadn't heard that story before, but it doesn't surprise me. So how did you get that photo of her wedding?"

"Got lucky," Hurtibese replied. "Got a guy up there, a local. Can't really call him a stringer, just a contact, and he slips us something now and then. I guess most of the tabs use him, have for years. He's pretty damn dumb, but plays it pretty close. He doesn't want the cops on his ass either, but at least he gets to drive around with local plates. But, it's no big deal. Like I said, Jenny Easton ain't exactly box office anymore. Almost didn't use the wedding photo; it was kind of crappy, but it was a slow week so we buried it inside."

"Yeah, well, that's the way it goes," Oldfield purred, the idea coming to fruition. If he could manage to get Blake out of the picture, or at least in the doghouse for a bit, it might give him a chance to get through to Jenny. She might well like being back in the protective arms of the Nashville-Murray press agents if he handled it right. And if a few tab reporters got to spend some time in the local jail or carried off by mosquitoes, well, that was all to the good, right? "Really, it's none of my business anymore," he continued. "But Jenny was good to us for a lot of years, and I do wish her well. Sure hope it works out with her and that guy she married. I got my doubts, but you never know."

"Something the matter?" Hurtibese said, obviously smelling a story. Damn, Oldfield thought, you just about have to hit the stupid bastard over the head with a brick to get his attention.

"Oh, not really," Oldfield said, giving Hurtibese a little better view of the bait. "He's kept it in the closet for quite a while, now."

"In the closet?" Hurtibese said. "You mean like he's gay or something?"

"Well, I don't know," Oldfield replied, setting the hook. "But back when I first met him, oh, fifteen years or so ago, he did set off my gaydar awful bad."

"Interesting," Hurtibese said thoughtfully. "But, like I said, Jenny ain't exactly what you call box office anymore."

"I suppose," Oldfield said. "Kind of a shame. But I guess, what with being a mother at that age and all, she wanted to get out of the public eye. Hey, look, Lenny, I'd love to sit here and shoot the shit but I got an appointment I'm already overdue on."

"Yeah, well, thanks," the reporter said. "Good talking to you, Frank. Catch you around sometime."

"Yeah, catch you around, Lenny." Oldfield said as he shut off the speakerphone. By God, once in a while you do get a win-win, he thought. Now, what the hell am I going to do about Wolf?

* * *

Randy wasn't the cook that Blake was and never would be, but in the winter when he often put in short days he tried to have dinner under way when Nicole came home from school. He could peel potatoes, he could throw together simple soups and casseroles, he could broil steaks -- and if he really got stuck he always knew he could call Blake for advice even though he didn't always understand the advice that Blake was giving. For example, Randy had yet to figure out what "marinate" was or what it was supposed to do. He'd never had the advantage of living by himself, cooking for himself for extended periods of time; he moved straight from his parents' house to the house on Hannegan's Cove. Anyway, he hoped she'd like what he was cooking tonight. It was a casserole, involving hamburger and cheese and pasta, and it had to be better than the stuff she'd had out on the Appalachian Trail.

But, somehow, he thought that Blake overdid it. After all, Crystal or any of the boatmen at Canyon Tours could throw together some of the finest meals in existence for a crowd of people with only a couple of Dutch ovens and a warped griddle. Of course, the atmosphere had something to do with it -- only a little over two months to go, now. He hoped that Nicole would be half as thrilled as he had been.

There was reason to doubt. Oh, she would like the scenery; the hikes weren't all day-long, pound-'em-out-on-the-trail hikes like she'd done on the Trail day after day for months on end, but they were exciting, and the views were spectacular. Nicole wasn't a whitewater person, though. Randy had been a serious whitewater kayaker ever since Crystal had really broken him into it back at NMU, and then a couple of local guys here in Spearfish Lake got him even more serious. She'd go out in the sea kayaks and sort of liked that. She was an accomplished surfer, but there was something about her and whitewater that just didn't get along. She'd given it a fair shake several times, out on Upper Quaker Rapids northeast of the lake, but she just hadn't taken to it. Finally, Randy got the message and quit pushing. Well, taking a great big honker of a raft down the Canyon was a totally different deal than a stubby playboat. He'd told her that if she got too nervous she could get out and walk most of the worst ones, so she'd gone along with the idea. But, she was still nervous about it.

It was going to help that Myleigh would be going along. Randy and Crystal had only had Myleigh out on whitewater one day, that time back on the Ocoee while he was still in college. As expected, she had been saying she was most dreadfully fearful, fluttering around nervously, but when the time came to run a drop, she'd gotten a big grin and enjoyed the ride. In fact, when they got off the river she'd been so exuberant that they'd gone back up and done it again. She'd have a ball in the Canyon, and he'd have a ball being around her again for a while.

Once again, Randy wondered what was really going on down there at Marienthal. He and Nicole had called down there about once a week and talked to her ever since those bad days back at the first of the year when Blue Beauty had come up missing. Then, Trey had found the harp and returned it to her. She hadn't called until two nights after Trey had brought it back, and Randy had some very lecherous thoughts going through his mind for most of the period. Nice, but lecherous. Knowing Myleigh, it didn't take a lot of effort to imagine what must be going on. But then, when she'd finally called on Monday night and passed along the story -- incredible -- but she still seemed somehow subdued. Happy, but subdued. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Trey just hadn't entered much into the discussions following that. Oh, he was still her hero, but he got the impression that they weren't seeing a lot of each other. He remembered Trey talking about officers and troops down there at Buddha and Giselle's, and he figured that maybe he and Myleigh were trying to lay a little low around each other on campus, and not even let much of it spill over to Nicole and him. There was no way of telling, but Myleigh seemed in decent spirits.

He glanced at his watch. Nicole wouldn't be home for a while yet, and he'd been giving some thought to calling and sounding Myleigh out when Nicole wasn't on the line. It was possible that her presence stifled Myleigh to some extent. Oh, hell, might as well, he thought. She'd probably still be in her office. He could picture her there; after all, he'd been there once. He didn't have to look up the number; he knew it well by now.

It turned out she was there. "So, what's happening down in Marienthal these days?" he asked.

"There is just a mild taste of warmer weather," she reported. "Most of the snow has gone away, and the prospect of the eventual arrival of spring is with us, so it is a most delightful day, even though I'm stuck here in my office with a huge pile of poorly written essays that I must grade."

"You're the one who wanted to be an English lit prof," he laughed. "You ought to have known that it goes with the territory."

"I admit it was my heart's desire for so many years," she said. "I envisioned a veritable paradise of intelligent discussion of the merits of one author and another. Now I find myself up to my knees in a sea of boneheaded freshmen who do not know the difference between a noun and a verb, and think that The Mill on the Floss has something to do with dental hygiene. There are times that it does lead to a small amount of frustration."

"Let it go," he suggested. "Just bag it for now, go home, take your shoes off, kick back and let it out. Tomorrow is Saturday. You can do it then."

"I am afraid I cannot," she replied. "I have office hours and cannot leave just now, so am trying to get done what I can. I fear I shall still have to grade many of these illiterate meanderings in the car, and I am sure that will give me a severe headache."

"In the car?" Randy asked. "You going someplace?"

"Why, yes," she replied. "My poor little Neon is at the dealership undergoing surgery, so Trey agreed to drive me to Chicago. He's picking me up as soon as office hours are complete."

"What's in Chicago?" Randy asked as his mind went Ahh-HA. So they had been laying low around campus! That was a long haul from Kansas City, and there were motels along the way . . . he and Myleigh had played that game on occasion in the past. He and Nicole had done it, too.

"After considerable search upon the Internet, I was able to discover a small shop there that stocks a number of Celtic harps," Myleigh reported. "From talking to the dealer, it appears that they have one that is rather similar to Blue Beauty. After that dreadful experience last month, when I was so incredibly lucky to have my hero return her to me, I have determined that I shall not risk her in air travel again. In addition, I had already been concerned about risking her upon the rushing waters of the Colorado in May. A substitute instrument will not have the same sentimental value. Though I shall miss my dear harp upon those occasions, I shall feel better knowing that she is safe."

"That's a good idea," Randy admitted. "A replacement isn't going to be cheap, I'll bet."

"No, it is not," Myleigh admitted. "In fact, I find the expense most dear, and I awaited this quarter's Saturday Night check from Jennifer and Blake before making this excursion."

"Nice check, wasn't it?" he said. He'd gotten one the other day, and it was downright incredible how big it was. Myleigh's would have been bigger, since it included the shares on the other two "new wave" albums; he hadn't been involved with At Home, which was still a solid seller. And, it was only a partial quarter -- the album had sold darn well. It couldn't possibly keep going that way, but if it did, his income taxes were going to be a mess. Like Myleigh, he only had a relatively small share of the proceeds from the album, but Bubba Winslow wasn't going to have to worry about where the money was going to come from to keep the Number 27 in tires this year, even at four hundred bucks a pop.

"Very nice," she agreed. "I shall be ecstatic indeed if Harp Strings sells a tenth as well, as my share of it is considerably larger."

"Don't get your hopes up, but you know that," Randy said.

"Oh, I am aware that it is a debut album of a very unusual nature, but am I not allowed to dream that lightning may perchance strike?"

"I sure hope it does," Randy said, flipping a notion over in his mind. Well, he could float the idea without committing himself. "Got a question for you," he continued. "I was flipping through the mail today, and there's a construction trade show down there the first weekend in March that I thought might be a little interesting. Nothing's settled, but I was thinking maybe Nicole and I could fly down, check out the show, maybe have dinner with you and spend a little time, if you're free."

"That would be wonderful," she said. "And I should love to have you. Is there any chance you might be able to be present Friday evening?"

"Possible, but there'd be a little trouble breaking Nicole free. We could probably do it if we had to, take a sick day or something. Something special?"

"Oh, my yes," she bubbled. "As you may be aware, after Trey lost his employment in the wake of his tirade at the airport after rescuing Blue Beauty, my hero was able to wrangle several more hours at the campus radio station to make up for some of his lost income. One evening, just for something different to do, he took the proof copy of Harp Strings and gave a sneak preview of it on the air, with my permission, of course. Dr. Hamilton heard it and determined that he should sponsor a release party in the student union lounge. I should be most honored to have you and Nicole as my guests. Blake was a dear and has agreed to ship down several hundred copies of the early pressing of the album, so even though it's somewhat in advance of the actual release date, there will be some available for sale."

"Don't want to miss a chance," Randy agreed. "But why not have it closer to the release date?"

"Because we shall be on spring break then," Myleigh said. "It would be a most inconvenient time."

"Yeah, I guess it would," Randy said. "You planning anything special for spring break?"

"I confess, my plans are in a great deal of flux. Blake and Jennifer have been able to develop two concert dates that week, one of them in Florida, at a college that is not on break, and there is a possibility of another one or two in the vicinity, which are not yet settled. I shall admit to considerable nervousness to play to a strange crowd with a strange harp, but Trey has agreed to accompany me for moral support. We are considering doing the trip by ground so we can take Blue Beauty should the dates make sense. We have been giving some consideration to staying over a day or two at Buddha and Giselle's and again enjoying the restless surf while there. It appears that Crystal, Scooter, and Michelle may still be in the area, and if so we may be able to enjoy it with them. However, if the other dates come up and we have to drive, then we probably shall not have the time to go by their establishment."

"Nothing like a road trip," Randy snickered. "Especially if you can cover the costs by selling a few cases of CDs in the process." Not to mention the motel stops off campus, he carefully didn't add.

"My hero's words exactly," Myleigh laughed. "These are not going to be large audiences, probably nothing even on the order of here at Marienthal December last, but Jennifer said that I should get my feet wet before I jump in."

"You'll do just fine," Randy smiled. "Especially with Trey along to help."

"Oh dear yes. My hero has been most accommodating in that matter," Myleigh smiled. "I have discovered him to be a most interesting and honorable gentleman, and I am sure I shall positively enjoy the drive to Chicago and back with him this weekend. Randy, I hate to put you off, but I do need to get a few things done that I may be able to meet Trey at my apartment on time."

"Yeah, sure, no problem," he said. "I'll talk to Nicole about coming down there for the release party. Probably won't know for sure until the first part of the week. Good luck with the trip to Chicago, and pick out a good harp."

"Oh, I shall," she said. "I fear there is no way any other harp could have the soul of Blue Beauty, but I do hope to find a serviceable substitute. Do call the first of the week, and I shall let you know how successful our quest has been."

"Will do, Myleigh," he said. "Good to talk to you."

"It has been good to talk to you again, too, dear Randy. Please pass along my best to Nicole."

"I sure will," he said. "Talk to you the first of the week."

Randy hung up the phone in considerable relief. It was possible that Myleigh had been holding back when Nicole was with him on the phone, but from the trend of that exchange, it didn't sound like it. There were no deep, dark confidences, just a pleasant conversation. But, one thing was clear -- she'd really found a friend in Trey! She'd really needed one down there. Even if she wasn't getting into his pants -- and, knowing Myleigh, that seemed unlikely -- it at least sounded like they were firm friends by now. There was no telling what the long-range possibilities might be. Randy had no idea what Trey planned to do once he graduated at the end of the year, but she didn't seem concerned about it. There was probably a good chance he'd stay around KC anyway, if he had good reason to.

In any case, it was a tremendous load off of Randy's neck. Yes, he was still concerned about Myleigh. He liked her a lot and probably always would. But as long as she was out there rattling around loose with no one to support her, she was a threat to him and Nicole, even though she had no intentions that way.

Once he'd thought Ron had relieved him of that worry, but Ron had turned out to be imaginary. Trey wasn't a figment of the imagination. Randy had surfed with him, sat around campfires, drank coffee and told stories with him; he was as real as could be, and he'd be able to physically check the two of them out together soon, just to be sure.

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