King's Folly

Matt, Two Weeks Later

I pace the length of my dining room, with a club soda in hand. Annie—because she believes in me and I don't require her stone cold sober solidarity to keep mine—has a white wine spritzer. Poodle, always following in her foot steps, is sipping the same. Street—my different stride, my ultimate pride, though he doesn't really know it—sips an espresso, though he has a flask of Amaretto that he nips in discreet moments and thinks I don't know.

Leed has a tequila. Ashlynn and Bodie club sodas. Marley a red wine.

On the big screen in some kind of Facetime or Meet or Zoom—i don't know what the fuck, Bridge dealt with that—Trace's drink is not visible, but if I had to guess? He's nursing a beer. Very lovely and very pregnant Katheryn is sporting nothing but a sleepy, exhausted  expression. Split screen from them, Adam has a glass of dark liquor—bourbon, I'd bet my life—and our beautiful and probably most talented family member—MacKenna—is sipping from a can of ginger ale.

Unusual. Her glass is usually filled with a dusky pink blend rimmed in salt that I always assume is a Salty Dog- a classic southern cocktail of grapefruit juice and vodka. But not tonight.

I look at her face. Her bones are prominent, but her skin glowing.

Pregnant, my gut flashes. I look at Adam. He looks...content with his arm around her. He's so steady, I doubt a pregnancy would shift him that much, at this point.

Yeah, probably they're expecting another baby. But I'll file that suspicion away, until they confirm. My old-fashioned instincts are sometimes wrong now, when it comes to the kids. Hell, she could just as easily be on a cleanse, or a Neo-Christian meditation program, or whatever.

I look to the last person I admit as family. Devlin Cavendish. He's looking piously serious for a change, but I don't even need to give him a glance to know it's a false front of sobriety he's adopting and that his glass is filled with a perpetual G&T.

There. Now.

I've run the temptations in the room. I've identified every drink nearly against my will. I've noted the fellow addicts keeping their sobriety, the same as me.

Such is the life of an alcoholic under stress.

I'm worried. No one has seen Row or talked to her on the phone in two weeks. She replies to texts saying she's fine, everything is going well, but she's declined all attempts from everyone to spend time with her.

I heard some scuttlebutt that there was some big deal thing  going on with Row a couple weeks back. Sounds like it was something she was keeping from Riley. I heard it from Street, who overheard Annie and Bridge talking about it. Apparently Bridge over heard Ashlynn on the phone at the MdM offices. She was trying to talk Leed down because he was angsty about some secret he was sure Kat was avoiding telling him, who probably heard it from Trace who knew something about something from Bodie. Or possible Doc Gorgeous. Leed wasn't sure, according to Ashlynn's overheard comments by Bridge-and-Annie via Street.

So that's why I've called all their asses here. To get to the bottom of this.

Because if Riley is back to his asshole, manipulative, stalker-husband ways, and manipulating Row into going along with it because she feels sorry for him, there's about to be an intervention of one on Riley's face. I don't care what shape his legs and feet are in.

Before I get to all that, Annie is insisting we start at the top and admit why I think Row is a little pissed at her mom and me, and therefore not communicating well with us lately.

"Okay. Here's the deal," I say, pacing. "I'm going to say a thing, but I don't want anyone to be confused. The thing I'm about to say is not the thing we're here for tonight. The thing is just a... preamble. A thing that no one really knows, except Row, whom Annie told a couple months ago because she thought it would be helpful to her."

I give the gorgeous and formidable love-of-my-life a mild glare. I wasn't down with her little instructional "love can survive divorce" letter to Row.

The main reason being I'm not down with Row and Riley reconciling. I wasn't for their whole manager/artist/husband/wife dynamic in the beginning, and it played out exactly like I feared. He fucking owned her and she let him, but I knew enough not to get in the middle of things then. I was hoping Row would take her power back that they'd get through those early marriage struggles.

It didn't happen. Instead, she stalked around so fierce and rebellious she caught the attention of another predator. By then, she was easy prey.

It's true Row made a mistake cheating.  But what was that, really? The thrashing against the bars of a caged animal. I should have sprung the lock on that cage long before she felt compelled to escape through blow and adultery.

The aftermath was an even bigger disaster. If Riley had been controlling before, he turned full on abuser after. And Row kept her cheating and his awful, isolating, manipulative behaviors a secret for half a year, until he finally got tired of punishing her and decided to straight up divorce her.

Then, just when I thought Row was finally clear of Riley and coming out the other side of her terrible depression and looking toward a future that he didn't dictate for her? He runs his car down a canyon and breaks his back and wakes up realizing what a manipulative asshole he's been. Now he wants her back, I suppose. I suppose he thinks he deserves a second chance.

Except I see it like he's had his second chance. And third, and fourth, and fifth. Dozens, really. He was controlling her long before she cheated. It started pretty much as soon as the honeymoon was over and she signed on with the show. For years, I watched my strongest, most willful child turn into a girl I didn't recognize. A girl who became worried and anxious and unhappy and constantly stressed about pleasing a man that could not be pleased.

If he was so fucking worried about her down there in New Zealand by herself, why didn't he move down there? There's no law that says a manager has to live in the same place as his artist. I mean, yeah, he might have lost his sideline clients but there's no way these Soundcrush kids would have dumped him. And if he's as good as they say he is, he could have keep them running from New Zealand. Maybe.

Okay, probably not, but I don't care. If he loved my daughter, he should have put her first. I mean hell, it's not like his career is a money thing. She didn't even make him sign a prenup. In two years time, what is going to be hers would have been his and he wouldn't have had to work for no man, if he didn't want to.

And I'm sure he loves his work, blah, blah, blah, but I love my daughter. And if he loved her like he said, he should have put her first.

Annie is sipping her wine returning the glare. She's not worried at all that I don't like what she did, sharing our secret with Row. She is mostly an easy woman to live with, but when she makes her mind up about something, she does it whether she thinks it might cause static between us or not.

God, I love her strength to stand up to me.

For my part, I would have taken our secret to the grave. It's not even a thing, anymore.

I think of Annie as my wife. I call her that in interviews, in public, all the time. I've pledged my soul to her so many times—in bed, in song, in the trivial practicals ways of the day and in the life we share raising our children, I honestly am never thinking that we aren't technically, legally, married. It means nothing to me. Our verbal ritual of seeking the day together and agreeing to stay the night together is all the vows we ever need, and they are more beautiful to than some drunken ceremony half a century ago that I could hardly remember the next day, much less now.

"So this thing...it's no big thing, but it might come as a surprise. Like I said, Row knows. And Riley. I'm wondering who else knows now."  I turn to Street and Bridge, sitting on a couch together. "You two?"

Street and Bridge exchange a glance. Mirror images. The porcelain refinement of their mother. Except Street, like Trace and Row, has my lighter eyes and Bridge has Annie's dark ones. Their expressions are opaque but they hold each other's gaze too long.

Annie gives the her assessing gaze. "They know," she says decidedly.

Street meets my eyes. "I kinda always knew. I mean...I always wondered."

I nod. My gaze—as well as Annie's—falls to Bridge.

She sips her wine. Her head falls slightly to the side of DevBlu. For once, he doesn't look like a shit-stirrer. He puts an arm around her and whispers something brief and indecipherable in her ear. It's just after that, that her eyes meet her mother's.

"Row told me," she says simply. "About your letter. I told Street, but...it wasn't a surprise to him."

Annie reaches across for Poodle's hand as I move to grip Street's shoulder. Both of them only return acceptance.

"We can talk about it later," Street says. "Right, Bridge?"

She smiles, a bit remotely. But she nods.

"What's the big secret?" Leed interjects impatiently. He crosses his legs—he's wearing salmon corduroy pants and a dark jacket. "What the fuck, fam?" He looks in irritation from me, to Bridge, to Annie. Beside him, sitting Indian-style in a flowing dress, Ashlynn grips his hand, and he turns to her, his flaring resentment resolving into good grace.

The Lion hates secrets. I gotta hand it to him. He's...more righteous...than me. He's got a few real fucking core values that he just won't bend. Transparency in the family unit being one.

Annie, a vision of composure in all black—leggings and tunic, but barefoot—she never wears shoes at any family gathering—raises her glass, takes a swallow, and clears her throat.

"I divorced Matt, twenty-two years ago. Obviously, we reconciled. But we never remarried." Annie rises on her slim legs, her feet making a silent path toward me. I reach for her; she sticks at my side in the move that has long felt like magnetism. I stare into her eyes of assurance.

"It's no big thing," she echoes. "To us. But we recognize it might be a mind-fuck to you kids."

I tuck back my snort. It's always impressive to me, how Annie can manage to sound so classy when employing the word fuck.

She's looking between Street and Bridge now who are aware and resigned. I can't help giving Trace my primary attention.

It's complicated with him. The family stuff. Annie has been my girl since high school. On and off. I was only with his mother a little less than two weeks. In actuality, this news really shouldn't change his landscape, because his mom and I were an interlude in my love story with Annie, and he already knows that. I didn't know about him, but he was born before Street was made, before Annie and I married. And divorced. And reconciled. But this news changes the over all family narrative. Of all my kids, Trace is the least secure in his place in our family, so I'm checking his reaction.

My eyes are on him. His girl's eyes are on him, thinking of their struggle to the altar, I suppose.

Eventually he meets me with an amused expression.

"No shit?" he says with raised eyebrows.

"No shit," I confirm with a grim smile.

He stares at me for a long moment, then gives back a chin tip. "Hey. It's all good," he says breezily. "I know now how tricky that matrimony craze can be."

Kat chuckles, leaning her exhausted head on his shoulder.

I raise my glass to them, then kiss Annie's temple.

"Alright, alright. But the thing is not the thing, you said," Bodie murmurs.

He's a driver, more than anyone in this room, except me and possibly his wife. More than Trace. More than Leed. I can only imagine it was his life circumstances and experiences that make him feign more chill than he really feels.

"Right," I sip my club soda. "So the thing is...Row has dropped off the fucking planet since we shared this news with her. She's texted a few times. But over the last couple of weeks we've hardly heard from her. We don't know how she is. Or how Riley is. Or how they are together..."

"So what's this?" Trace asks suspiciously. "Some kind of Row-ley reconnaissance bullshit?"

"Not bullshit," Annie says calmly. "Row and Riley are in an intense season of their life. They need our support. We just want to make sure they are both okay. Anything you've heard about Row's state of mind in the last couple of weeks...anything you feel comfortable sharing. That's all this is. Family concern."

Bodie and the Doc exchange a long look. "I believe they are finding their way," she says slowly. "I think maybe Row is still working to recover her voice with him, but I'm not overly concerned about their dynamic."

See? I know these Soundcrushers no more than they are saying.

"When did you seem them last?" I ask the Doc.

It's unlike her to deflect but she looks to Bodie.

"We saw Row two weeks ago," Bodie says. "She dropped by the house. It was a good visit."

"Good how?" I probe.

He shrugs and sips his club soda. "Just...good."

The lion shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"What do you know?" I say to him.

"I don't know shit," he says quickly. "If there's some secret—good or bad— they don't tell me. Because they think I will out it."

He glares at Bodie, who laughs at him. Ashlynn pats him on the leg.

"I'm sure there's no big secret," she soothes him. She looks around the room and tosses her long golden hair in mild irritation. "I've been the subject of a lot of gossip. It's not fun, guys. We should respect that Row knows what she's doing. If she needs support she will ask. Like apparently, she asked Bodie. Or Marley. Or whatever."

"Okay," I concede. "But this isn't gossip. There's...peripheral shit going on. Riley is not taking care of business. I'm getting calls. From her producers on the show. She and Riley aren't communicating with them. Also...Row isn't taking care of her own business, either. She hasn't confirmed her next nerve therapy treatment in London. There's some pre-treatment questionnaires and shit she has to do that she hasn't done. They called me. So...let's shoot the straight shit. What's the word, people? What's going on in that house? Should Annie and I be worried?"

We go around the room. No one has had more than a cursory "we're great" conversation or text with Row or Riley in weeks, until we get to Trace.

Trace rubs his chin. "Riley seemed like he was ramping back up into work, working most afternoons, but something's changed over the last couple of weeks. Don't you think, Marley?"

She waggles her head as if she's trying to decide. "He's still working, just more efficiently. I can see why that would be your perspective, thought.  He's working with the label and the recording studio and the lawyers to get everything nailed down for the new album . He's still communicating with Ari and I daily but letting us communicate more with all five of you."

"You're saying he's still in the driver's seat, but he's letting you do the handholding and bullshitting—not just on the road but full time now." Trace grins at her. She winks her response to him.

"That's not like him, though," Street says. "The dude lives to work. And he's a lot better and he getting back on track, so why the sudden change-up?"

"Okay. So. Out of an abundance of caution...somebody needs to go over there," Adam says. "If only to ask if they need help with some of their business stuff."

"Exactly," I nod at him. I'm probably least close to Adam on a daily basis, but we get each other in all the ways. I can always count on him to vibe me.

Leed uncrosses his legs and rattles his drink. "Alright. It should be me."

"It should be you?" Street challenges with amusement.

"Well, obviously I'm up to any situation needing both kick ass empathy and infallible intuition, but even I'll admit I'm second string in this particular gig. It should be Trace. The intersection of his relationship with both Riley and Row puts him at the apex of the Rowley curv. But Trace is homebound. Kat is about to drop our Ballard buns any minute in the fucking conventional North Georgia boonies—" Ashlynn slaps his thigh, "I'm sorry, I mean, in a perfectly adequate community hospital with the oversight of our absofuckinglutely-favorite-surgeon-but-completely-unqualified-midwife.  While my mother, may I note—who is a completely qualified midwife that delivered our daughter in an absolutely blissful experience— is literally twenty minutes away from TrayKat's farm—"

"Not your call, baby," Ashlynn whispers towards Leed as she pats his leg.

"Also...Kade delivered Lennon, you fucking cretin," Mac says mildly.

"Did he really, though?" Leed says thoughtfully. "Because I remember you begging for our mom, and her being on the floor with you..."

"Oh my fucking god! Just...fucking shut-up Leed! They will not give me the fucking good drugs at Utopia," Kat is suddenly animated, hissing at Leed. "Which is pretty fucking ironic, since they are goddamn hippies!!!"

"Hey. They are responsible hippies," Leed interjects.

"Okay, I think we're getting off track here," Trace interjects, giving his wife a sweet smile. "Leed is wrong."

"Of fucking course," Kat hisses.

"That's right," Bodie sounds in, like he's at church or something.

"About who should deliver Kat's babies, and also who should go check on Row-ley," Mac clarifies.

"Marley should go," Adam expounds.

"That's right," Bodie says again.

Marley looks embarrassed.

"Are you kidding? Bridge should go," Mac gives her husband an confused look. "Hello. Twinness trumps all."

Bridge looks thoughtful. "Mom should go."

Marley nods. "I agree."

Annie sips her wine. "I've already reached out to her, sharing my own marriage trauma. Street should go. It's less pressure."

Street looks at the floor. "Bodie should go. He's more chill with Row and he has a background managing conflict with Riley."

"I could go," Dev offers cheerfully. "Advantage in the unexpected caller, right?" he looks at Bridge.

"What?" I sneer. "Are you fucking kidding?"

"Well, isn't this why you called this meeting? To nominate who should go check on them?" Dev says imperiously.

"Hell no!" I yell at them all. "Obviously I'm going. What the fuck is wrong with all of you? Are you new? There's no fucking majority rule here!!! This is just...disclosure. Where you all spill your guts on what I need to know before I go! What the fuck, baby?" I look at Annie, seeking consolation.

She sighs and pats my back. "This not 1989 and they are not SkidMarcs.  You're not the king of these cats."

"And did you notice how nobody said you should go? Except you." Leed says.

"Nobody said you should go, either. Except you."

Kat sighs. "Well...Leed would be better than you. Sorry, Matt, but you kinda hate Riley right now...and I get it, but he's hurt and Row loves him and it will just piss her off if get hostile with him..."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Fuck. Two votes for Leed? Are you serious?"

"And two for Marley,"  Adam says.

"Yeah, and I don't think Leed's vote for himself really counts," Bodie adds. "No offense, brother. But...Marley, then."

"No," I insist. "Me. It's not a vote, people."

Trace is laughing his ass off at me. "Then you shouldn't have called a band meeting..."

"Shut your mouth, son..."

"Now you see what my world is like..." he smirks.

"Hey, Trace" Adam says. "Democracy works, asshole..."

"Especially when we all seek the collective good," Leed nods.

"And when we all have access to the financials to make an informed decision, thanks to Riley," Bodie amends.

"And when we keep our creative vision in the forefront," Mac interjects.

"I fucking love you, Priestess," Trace nods at her.

"Oh my god, is this over? I have two aliens trying to rip open my belly right now," Kat whines. She whacks Trace on the arm. "Look at what your spawn are doing to me!!!"

She tightens her shirt and we all stare in horror at two tiny feet imprints on her belly that just look...all kinds of  wrong, because they are anatomically impossible, from one skeleton. I smile fondly, remembering similar squeamish sights, when Annie was pregnant with our twins.

Dev makes a sound of disapproval and looks away. "Your belly should come with a warning label. Rated mature for horror."

Dev is trying to be funny, but he's not. Not at all.

"I hope your plan backfires and your father legitimizes you anyway, Dev. So you can walk the fuck-line straight to your own personal hell and know what it's like!" Kat says with false cheer.

Trace and Leed laugh.

Bridge looks furious, Dev looks apologetic. There's an entirely different story behind Kat's retort.

"Props, girl" Mac nods simultaneously raising a hand to Kat and giving Dev a lethal look. "The woman speaks truth. You're my boy, but you're surprisingly squeamish and you run your damn mouth too much, Devlin. Kat, that's freakishly cool and you look miraculous, considering you are growing two healthy, full term babies. Ignore Dev."

"My comments were...careless, and completely insincere. The product of a drunken tongue, but inexcusable. My deepest apologies, Kat. You and your nearly here offspring are always in my highest esteem." Dev says curtly. "And for offending you as well, Madame Heartley." He looks forlornly at my daughter. "And of course,I also offer sincere regret for grieving you, Bridget."

Bridget refuses to look at him.

"Dev, I owe you an ass-kicking. Dad, Mare—we know nothing specific we're at liberty to share. I think they are okay. We're out," Trace says tersely, throwing a bird I can only assume is meant for Dev then hugging Kat's head to kiss her temple as he blacks out his feed.

I put down my drink. "Okay, I'm going over there."

"What, now?" Annie says with mild alarm. "Matt, no."

"Well, these kids weren't helpful, and obviously some of them know something they aren't saying."

"I think so too," Leed giving Bodie a pointed stare.

"Man, y'all so uptight. My girl is alright, I'm telling you," Bodie laughs at us.

"Not your girl. My daughter. So I'm going to make sure."

"You better let her know you're coming, dad..." Bridge says.

"I vote with Mom and Bridge."

"This family is not a democracy," I toss back.

"I'm texting her right now," Annie says.

"No, it's a monarchy," Dev laughs. As I pull on the jacket that rested on the back of my chair, he raises his glass to my wife. "Long live the Queen."

It's a very short drive to their house—his house—whatever. When I pull up, the place is dark. I get out and walk right up to the front door, thinking not for the first time that this place is extremely unsecure. I can't believe they don't even keep security here at night. I ring the doorbell—the camera should activate—but it doesn't. I punch it a bunch of times. Is it broken or are they just ignoring me?

I decide maybe they are in the heated pool or the hot tub. That seems like a therapy thing they would be doing a lot of. I walk around back. The patio is awash in the typical attractive lighting, but silent. I look through the patio doors, into one of a couple of sitting areas in this split level. The mid-level is entirely dark, except there's a lit trio of pillar candles, sitting on rocks a large platter on a side table. Very close to the wall.

I peer in, up the steps to the kitchen area. Also dark. It's early, but did they go to bed and leave the candles burning? If one of those candles melts and leans, it could set the wall afire.

These damn kids. They're not even high out of their minds, like I was at their age. Their just irresponsible.

I test the patio door. Unlocked. Of course. I do at this point, consider that I should respect my adult daughter's ex-husband's domain. I'm not a complete asshole.

I text them both.

Hey. I dropped by to say hi. Guess you guys turned in for the night already.  You left some candles burning. The patio door is unlocked. I'm going to step inside and blow them out, unless you text back...

I walk around the pool for about five minutes. No response.

As soon as I open the slider, I forget all about the candles.

I hear music. At first I think it's on a speaker somewhere. I spin around, trying to orient in myself. The music is coming from downstairs. I've never been past the common areas in their house. To be honest I've hardly ever been here at all because Row has hardly ever lived her.

Something about the expressive harmony and the lilt of the perfectly blended voices draws further into the house. By the time I traipse down to the lower level I realize it's Row singing. I pass an office. Yeah, I guess this is a rec area down here. I think there are two or three bedrooms on the other side of the kitchen, on the upper level.

I stand in the hallway just past the office, listening behind the closed door of what must be a music room, or a home studio. It's what I'd put down here...

Who the hell is she singing with? Who's playing the guitar? It is her? No, she would tell me.

The guitar must be a demo tape with the male vocal track. That's a damn good set-up she's got in there. The guitar sounds live.

I listen for a while longer, enjoying her voice. It's not a style I've ever heard her sing. It's a darkish, sexy version of indie folk. This song itself was an old song when Skid Marcs was brand new. I can't place the name, but I do know the new trendy label they've given to the style itself.

Southern Gothic. Who knew my California girl could sing somewhere between old school country and modern folk?

Damn, Doodle. You are all over that guy's tenor with your alto. It sounds amazing.

Is this something for the show? It's definitely not that fucktard Mosteller singing on the track. He's all over the place in his vocals...ranging from Leed to Chris Martin and comes off like a whiny man-child but all they usually need from him is one good chorus, Row says, so it's fine for tv. But this is definitely not his voice.

Is she singing along to a demo some artist sent her?

Wait. It's not Heartley singing on the track is it? It sounds a little like him. Sensitive, expressive, good variation in his rhythm. I listen closer. Nah, this isn't Heartley. This guy has slightly better color than Adam.

Is she thinking about a feature with whoever this is? She should. Hell, if the guy is looking for a long-term gig, she should seriously think about dumping that crappy ass tv production and exploring a serious collaboration. I mean, as a duo or part of his band, because what I'm hearing doesn't come together often.

Ha. Riley would probably not like that. Row having a new male lead. But so what? He's going to get better and this caregiver situation is going to play out and they will have to decide. Are they getting back together or parting ways? If she has this kind of opportunity—if there's more of this sync of sound that she could explore—maybe it's just the thing to decide them. Maybe he could do that right thing and let her move on.

The music stops. It's completely quiet.

I check my phone. She still hasn't responded to my text. Neither has Riley. He's probably asleep across the house. I definitely don't hear his sarcastic British clip commentating what's going on in there. If I walk in there and she's alone, it might scare the hell out of her.

I never forget the trauma she's been through.

Yeah, I should go.

I make it down the hall before I change my mind. What if that was her playing the guitar? It sounded like it was happening in real time.

Shit. I'll just peak in on her. Super quiet-like. It won't scare her.  It'll be just like I used to do when the girls were little.