Love Is... (Part 1)

The Touch Of Your Fingertips

Paradise Valley, Arizona
Thursday, January 4, 2011
(2:00 am)
********************

"What were you and my brother doing out in the yard so late, dare I ask?"

Stevie was watching Lindsey get undressed in the light coming from the bathroom doorway. He stripped down to boxers and t-shirt and brushed his teeth, and she followed his gaze to the corner of the bedroom, where her little dog Sulamith, who was almost fourteen now, slept curled up in a leopard-printed dog bed in little pink pajamas with ladybugs on them. She watched him smile at the sight of her sleeping baby and thought, I love this man. He even loves my dog when he thinks I'm not watching.

"We smoked a joint, talked a bit...life stuff, catching up...you know." Lindsey had sworn Chris to secrecy and he knew he could trust him. He turned out the bathroom light and climbed into bed beside her, then held out his arms to her as she had to him moments ago, when he'd come into the room and found her sitting up in bed with her journal. He smiled and said, "Ready to go to sleep, angel?"

It had been unspoken between them since last night that they were together. They had made love again in the early morning hour, side by side, lazily, just as the sun was rising on another Arizona day - the last day Lindsey got to stay in the Nicks family universe before he had to fly home. It was then that he had gotten out of bed and gone to his suitcase and extracted The Rolling Stones t-shirt and said, "In case you don't believe me...let me put this on you, sweet girl. It's yours...so whenever you feel alone and I'm not around to hold you, you can put this on and you'll be safe and warm." He had crossed over to the bed and slipped the t-shirt on her as she tried not to cry, and then crawled back under the covers and held her until morning.

She was wearing the t-shirt. He smiled and kissed her before sinking with her under the covers. "I have to go home tomorrow, angel...are you going to be okay here? When do you go back to California?"

"I have to be back next week...Dave Grohl suggested I edit the footage Dave Stewart and I took making the album...make it a documentary...and we start next week."

"That's a great idea," he said as she moved her hair to the side and settled in next to him. He kissed her temple and said, "Keeps the momentum going...I should have filmed Seeds We Sow...then again, my people aren't as cool on camera as your cast of characters."

Stevie giggled and said, "No argument there."

"I think it's a beautiful idea, Stevie, really," he went on. "Something to show those whippersnappers out there how music is actually made."

Stevie popped her head up and said. "That's exactly what Dave said!"

"Which Dave? Your dance card is kind of full of them; sorry."

She giggled at his playful wink. "Stewart," she said. "Don't tell him I said this, but Dave Grohl is a Nineties musician...to me...he's a whippersnapper."

They shared a laugh over something only people in their sixties as they were now could understand. He pulled her in for a kiss, and she melted into his lips with a little "Mmmm" that urged him forward, gently backing her onto the pillows behind her. He was holding her face in his hand, starting to smooth away stray wisps of blonde, and as he looked down into her eyes, slowly tracing the line of her face with his finger, he said, "I love you so much...my sweet girl."

"I love you too, baby." She smiled, her eyes fluttering closed to the touch of his fingertips.

And she did love him. The loss of her mother was so fresh, such a gaping wound, and she didn't know how she would have survived it without Lindsey. He had a way of making her feel special and cared for just by being near her, and with him sleeping beside her at night, she was getting the rest she needed to be strong through her loss. He held her when she cried, he knew when she needed to talk about Barbara and when enough was enough, and he knew that if he didn't offer her food throughout the day, she would forget to eat. Being with him was like the last fourteen years since The Dance had all been a dream, and they were happily married and a team and everything had worked out just as she'd thought it would the night before Thanksgiving 1997, the last night they'd slept in each other's arms in complete love and peace before Kristen had delivered her news.

They made love again that night, slowly and tenderly, Lindsey doing his best to make her feel loved and not alone, Stevie clinging to every moment because she wasn't anywhere near ready to process the enormity of her loss and his touches helped her to forget the reality of why they were in Arizona in the first place. Lindsey woke up at some point in the middle of the night and caught a glimpse of her in the dark, still wearing the t-shirt - "for protection", she'd explained - long golden waves spilling over her shoulder as she gripped the pillow tight and got some much-needed rest for the reality that would set in tomorrow when he had to leave her in Arizona for a few days alone. He rolled over to look at his phone, which sat charging on the table beside him, and he saw that it was 5:37. His flight left at ten. He suddenly flashed to the gray, rainy Sunday morning in 1995 when Stevie had left him in the house where they had made "Twisted" - and had a reunion of sorts - and like that morning, he decided he would make her blueberry pancakes before he left to make sure, before heading home, that she'd eaten at least once that day. He couldn't wait to see her face when she came downstairs and saw him making the breakfast meal that had been their love language for decades.

His phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down and saw two notifications - his Delta app inviting him to check into his flight online, and a text from Kristen. He hadn't spoken to her since this morning, when she'd told him on the phone that she needed to tell him something important when he "got home to his real life after playing grief expert." 

I'll be out when you get home, but I need to talk to you this afternoon.  Hint: We've had this talk three times already. Have a good flight. :)

Lindsey wondered suddenly why Stevie's bedroom had no oxygen. His mind began racing through numbers - dates, days, ages. Lindsey had turned sixty-two in October and Kristen was going to turn forty-two next month. How the hell could this be happening again?! He thought back to the last time he'd been with his wife, realizing with a gulp that it had been in November, right around the time that he'd sat down with Stevie for "the talk" - the epic conversation they'd had that was mostly Stevie talking, telling him exactly how she'd felt about everything that he'd done, right and wrong, since 1968.  He could still hear her voice in his home studio...

"Do you remember how cute we were? Do you remember how we used to walk into a room and everyone would be like hey, it's Stevie and Lindsey, not oh no let's duck if they start throwing things? We were a team, Linds...and a freaking adorable one! We can get that back, you know. We can fix what's broken. I miss our friendship...maybe most of all."

He could not do this to her. Not again. He could not look into the eyes of the love of his life, a woman who'd just lost her mother, her connection to the past, and tell her he wasn't going to have a future with her because once again, Kristen had mapped out his future for him. He remembered Kristen, sweet as pie the night Fleetwood Mac had gone home when the EP recording was done, telling him they should go out to dinner without the kids for once, bringing him upstairs to bed and telling him how proud she was of the work he'd been doing...avoiding all insults about Stevie for once. He was sick to his stomach.

Stevie made a little whimpering noise in her sleep and he pulled her close to him to protect her just in case she was having a bad dream. Angry tears sprang to his eyes when he thought of his life back in California, and how the hell he was going to break the heart of the woman sleeping in his arms...again...when it had already been shattered into a million pieces.

********************