Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

I glance at the clock.

Six a.m.

Obviously, sleep isn’t in the cards for me.

I rol out of bed.

I’m strangely excited about this trip. Partly for the obvious reasons. Partly because I’m going to meet Frey’s son and the mother of his child. Partly because for the first time in a year I’l actual y have a say in what happens to me.

Frey said he had to stop by school this morning and turn in his grades so we should be on the road by ten. Al I have to do is throw some clothes in a duffle and I’m ready to go.

Living mostly in jeans and Tshirts makes packing a snap. I haul the duffle downstairs and leave it by the front door. Time for coffee.

Frey dropped a map by early last night. It’s spread out on the kitchen table and I study it while waiting for the coffee. I’ve never been to Monument Val ey. Our proposed route is marked with yel ow highlighter. We’l start out on Highway 8

— not the most scenic route, Frey explained, but the fastest.

Counting gas and food stops, we should make it in fourteen or fifteen hours.

Frey is excited about the trip, too. I’m not sure how long it’s been since he’s seen his kid. He won’t tel me, but I have a feeling it’s been quite a while. And though he’d never admit it, the timing is perfect. This is just the diversion he needs to take his mind off Layla. For a few days at least.

The pesky sense that I’m to blame for Frey’s breakup with Layla rushes back. I’d probably feel worse if I thought she was right for him. It irks me that during that long weekend he and I spent together, the weekend most likely responsible for Layla’s leaving, Frey had been a faithful monogamous partner.

She doesn’t deserve him.

Probably something I should be careful about bringing up on our road trip.

I refold the map, lay it on top of the duffle by the door and return to the kitchen to fil a mug. I tick things off a mental checklist—

David knows I’l be gone for a few days. He’s fine with it.

He didn’t mention trying to contact Judith Wiliams or find the twins. Hopeful y, he’s so relieved to have passed the first series of tests, and to be able to resume his sex life, he’s content to let it go for now. I was afraid to ask.

I talked with Stephen. Let him know I was going out of town, too, for a couple of days. I tel him it’s work, since I don’t want to go into details. His voice is ful of the excitement of preparing for his first big network shot. I’m smiling when I ring off.

Tracey’s sister is doing much better. I caught snippets of the press conference on last night’s news. Tracey was terrific. What witnesses thought they saw was explained by adrenaline and hysteria. The bottom line — no charges. Case closed.

There have been a couple of telephone cal s left by reporters requesting interviews but as other more pressing stories arise, mine wil be quickly forgotten.

Harris hasn’t cal ed back again, either.

So far, so good.

Coffee mug drained, coippets pot emptied, counter wiped.

I’m ready to go. It’s fifteen minutes to ten. I’m fidgeting like a kid with a sugar rush. I want to get out of here before the next disaster strikes. Everything that’s happened in the last few days either started with a telephone cal or an uninvited guest. Here. In my home. It’s a disturbing trend.

Gathering my stuff, I lock up and head for the street. Better to meet Frey out on Mission.

I realize standing on the curb that I have no idea what kind of vehicle Frey wil be driving. I picture a sedan, white or maybe gray, four doors, medium size. Something sedate, befitting a schoolteacher in his forties who is just now taking to the streets on his own.

When the bright red Jeep Wrangler slides up to me, my first impulse is to wave it on. Then I peer inside. Frey is looking back at me. He has sunglasses on his face and a Padres basebal cap on his head. He’s dressed in a pair of floral print board shorts and a navy blue tee with the Quiksilver Mountain and Wave logo on the front. He’s got leather huaraches on bare feet. He looks very much at home behind the wheel of the Wrangler, and it takes me a second to adjust to this new surfer-dude image.

I toss my bag in the back beside his. “Wow.” I slip into the front seat. “When you go native, you don’t fool around.”

He puts the Jeep in gear and pul s into traffic while I’m stil adjusting the seat belt. When it clicks into place, I turn in the seat to look at him. “When did you get a Jeep?”

He works the gears smoothly, maneuvering through busy midmorning traffic as we head for the freeway on-ramp. “A week or so ago.”

The top of the Jeep is open; only rol bars separate Frey and me from a glorious summer sky. A breeze ruffles my hair and I push it out of my eyes, wishing I had a cap like Frey’s to tame it.

As if privy to my thoughts, he reaches behind his seat and without taking his eyes off the road, pul s out a second Padres cap. “Need this?”

I answer with a grin and coaxing breeze-blown strands behind my ears, I pul the cap down over my forehead.

Then I relax back in the seat. I knew Frey could drive, I just didn’t know he could drive this wel. He’s always had a driver.

Or that he would enjoy driving so much. He steals a sideways glance at me every once in a while, I think just to see if I notice. I do. I settle in to let him have his fun.

THE HALFWAY POINT ON OUR TRIP WILL BE PHOENIX.

Anyone who has traveled this route wil tel you, the drive from San Diego to Phoenix is dul er than dul. Butt-numbing stretches with not a Mickey D’s in sight. Miles of nondescript desert. Habitual road construction projects that slow traffic to a crawl. Tempers and radiators overheat with enough regularity to keep state troopers and a dozen tow-truck companies in business.

The halfway point on the halfway point is El Centro. There the reclaimed desert is dotted with farms and patches of green. From the road, it appears like an oasis in the distance. Since we know there won’t be much after El Centro, we pul off to get Frey some food.

El Centro is one of California’s great mysteries. That is to say, the mystery is why anyone chooses to live here. The summer is unbearably hot, the winter can be frigid. Main Street stretches relentlessly east to west across town. There are two border crossings he. For the last ten years or so, El Centro has been poised to become Southern California’s most promising new commercial and industrial region.

At least according to the El Centro Chamber of Commerce. It must be getting tired of holding the pose. It hasn’t happened yet. Picking lettuce and melons remains the mainstay of the economy.

We pul into a Carl’s Jr. and Frey orders a huge quantity of food: three cheeseburgers, a couple of chicken sandwiches, a large fry, an apple turnover and, with a glance to me for confirmation, two Cokes. I listen in awe. Frey doesn’t have an ounce of fat on his body. I guess his feline alter ego contributes to his metabolism. I’ve never heard of a fat panther, either.

I watch as he walks to the counter to pick up his order. He looks damn good in those shorts. Nice ass. Lean muscled thighs. He and I were lovers once. Long time ago. Wonder what wil happen when he sees his ex? Now that he and Layla are broken up, maybe things wil heat up again between him and the mother of his child.

As soon as I catch myself having those thoughts, I give myself a mental slap alongside the head. Keep your mind on the purpose of this trip. We’re not here on a matchmaking expedition.

Being happy in one’s love life tends to make a person wish the same for those around them.

Or is it the guilt I feel because I may have been responsible for Frey’s breakup?