Chapter 2

“You turned this place around.” Tim could still see the way the sunlight had found all the natural tawny highlights in Devin’s dark hair as they stood at the edge of the west field and gazed over the growing vines. “You love watching it all grow, and you’re willing to work crazy-ass hours to make it happen right. People see that. It inspires them to push themselves harder. You’re pumping out what it takes to make the machine work, and you do it out of love. If that’s not a real heart and soul, I don’t know what is.”

He’d dismissed Devin’s words as an artist’s fancy, proof of his musician’s spirit, but they hadn’t disappeared as he expected. To this day, they linger. Devin might as well have written them down like his letters. Tim can’t forget any of those, either.

* * * *

February 2, 1997

Dear Tim,

In case you didn’t notice from the envelope, I’ve moved. I’m staying with this guy I met at Snapper’s. That’s a local club, great dance music, though you’d never be able to guess from looking at it. Ralphie plays drums with a band that plays there a lot, and he’s let me sit in on a few of their rehearsals, so when he heard I needed a new place, he volunteered his sofa until I find something more permanent. I had to move out of Kristina’s, because her boyfriend’s an asshole. He’s the jealous type and thinks that anyone who looks twice at Kristina is a threat. We tried telling him I was gay, but short of a personal demonstration—which frankly, I would’ve given him if I didn’t think I’d get my teeth knocked out for even trying—nothing was going to convince him.

I know what you’re going to say about Ralphie, and I’ll just head you off at the pass there. Yes, he’s trying to get into my pants. No, I’m not going to let him. This is a temporary arrangement, and we both know that. I told him I have a jealous boyfriend back in Napa, and as soon as that stops working as an excuse, I’m out of here.

Don’t get mad. I didn’t say it was you. I just borrowed some details about you to make my fake boyfriend sound more menacing. Shit, that sounds bad. You’re not menacing. I didn’t mean it like that, and you know that, hopefully. But you have to admit, taken out of context, certain parts of your life make you sound pretty tough. Like the stuff about dealing with your dad and his alcoholism. Those are the details I stole, except I changed it to a drug problem. Ralphie said it would make a great song. I’m actually thinking about it.

Hanging out with Ralphie has other benefits, though. He knows a load of people. Producers. Owners. Other musicians. He grew up here, and he’s been in the scene since he was twelve. His uncle is the lawyer for half the club owners in town. I tag along as often as he lets me. Networking will get me my break, I know it. In the meantime, I’m working on my own music so I’m ready when the chance comes. This is when I miss all your feedback. It’s hard to trust my own ear after having your honesty for the past year.

Don’t bother writing for now. I don’t want to be here that long. You could call, though. I’d never say no to that.

All my best,

Devin

* * * *

“Where’s Pat? We’re supposed to go through the list of new potential vendors together.”

George Mayer was the second most imposing man Tim had ever known. He was a massive man, even behind his oversized desk, with eyes like stone when he deigned to look away from his ledgers. Now was not one of those times. “I had to send him to Seattle.”

Though he didn’t flinch at the mention, Tim’s stomach lurched. “Why?”

“To post bail for Devin.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Tim didn’t dare ask. Mr. Mayer didn’t care about his personal life. More importantly, he had no idea how close Tim had gotten to Devin, or how much closer Devin had wanted them to be. All Tim could think about was how excited Devin had sounded in his last letter, talking about the unexpected chance to replace a guitarist in a recording session who’d shown up too high to play. He’d even promised to send Tim a tape of it when it was done. He’d signed off with another plea to call, but Tim had shoved the letter into the box with all the others.

Was that a mistake? How many was he going to make with Devin?

* * * *

Hiding is not a viable long-term life strategy. He learned that when he turned twenty-nine. That was the year he moved back to Modesto after a decade of working shitty jobs in LA, though he was only there for a month before landing the job as a viticulture technician at the Mayer vineyard. His father laughed his ass off when he heard.

“Tell me you don’t appreciate the fucking irony,” he said. Then he’d grabbed his second six-pack of the night and headed out to his Saturday pool game with his buddies. He ran over a parking meter—the third one in his lifetime—on his way home that night, but lucky for both of them, got his buddies to give him a tow before cops got involved.

Tim never told him, that was irony.