The Millionaires

40

“Oh, this is yours?” Charlie asks. “We were just… just checking out this awesome 8-track.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder to point, but she doesn’t bother to look. Her dark eyes lock on his and don’t let go. She just stands there, arms crossed against her chest. I don’t blame her. We shouldn’t have been snooping through her stuff.

“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I offer. “I swear, we didn’t touch anything.” Locking on me, she puts me through the exact same test. But unlike Charlie, I don’t lie, fumble, or condescend. I give her the absolute truth and hope it’s enough. “I… I just wanted to learn more about you,” I add.

Perfect, Charlie smirks.

He thinks it’s an act, but in many ways, it’s the most honest thing I’ve said today. With everyone else after us, Gillian’s the only one who’s offered to help. As she stares me down, her arms are still crossed in front of her chest. The free spirit’s gone. And then… just like that… it’s back again.

“It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” she asks as her shoulders bounce.

I smile a thank-you. Suspicious of the kindness, Charlie looks around like she’s talking to someone else.

“The 8-track,” she explains, moving excitedly toward the nightstand.

With a shove, she pushes my brother aside and sits on the bed, right next to me. She scoots back, then forward, then back a little more. “Wait’ll you see what he did to it,” she tells me eagerly. “Hit the Pause button.”

She’s got that same singsong laugh as before. Next to her, though, Charlie motions down low, where her bare toes are balled up like fists against the carpet.

See? Charlie scowls with that I-told-you-so look he usually reserves for Beth. But we both know Gillian’s no Beth.

Gillian flicks the power switch on and leans back on her hands. “Just hit Pause,” she adds.

Following instructions, I reach down and press the Pause button. The ancient machine hums with a mechanical whir. It’s such a familiar sound… and just as I place it, a plastic CD tray – complete with a shiny compact disc – slides out of the widened opening where you’d normally put the 8-track.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Gillian asks.

“Where’re you from again?” Charlie blurts.

“Excuse me?”

“Where’re you from? Where’d you grow up?”

“Right here,” Gillian replies. “Just outside Miami.”

“Oh, that’s so weird,” Charlie says. “Because when you just said Pretty cool, I coulda sworn I smelled a hint of New York accent.”

Clearly amused, Gillian shakes her head, but she won’t take her eyes off my brother. “Nope, just Florida,” she sings without a care. It’s the best way to take him on – don’t take him on at all. She turns back to me and the CD/8-track. “Check out the disc,” she offers.

I reach down and spear it with a finger: The Collected Speeches of Adlai E. Stevenson. “I take it your dad did this?”

“I’m telling you, after he left Disney, he had way too much time – he used to always-”

“And when did you move in here again?” Charlie interrupts.

“I’m sorry?” she asks. If she’s annoyed, she’s not showing it.

“Your dad died six months ago – when did you move in here?”

Playfully grinning, she hops up from the bed and crosses around to the foot of the mattress.

See that? Charlie glares my way. That’s the same trick I use on you. Distance to avoid confrontation.

“I don’t know,” she begins. “I guess a month or so ago… it’s hard to say. It took a while to do the paperwork… and then to get my stuff over here…” She turns toward the window, but never gets flustered. I listen for a New York accent, but all I hear is her short-O Flooorida tone. “It’s still not that easy sleeping in his old bed, which is why most nights I’m curled up on the couch,” she adds, watching Charlie. “Of course, the mortgage is paid, so I got no reason to moan.”

“What about a job?” Charlie asks. “Are you still working?”

“What do I look like, some trust fund beach bunny?” she teases. “Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights at Waterbed.”

“Waterbed?”

“It’s a club over on Washington. Velvet rope, guys looking for supermodels who’ll never show… the whole sad story.”

“Let me guess: You bartend in a tight black T-shirt.”

“Charlie…” I scold.

She shrugs it off without a care. “Do I seem like that much of a cliché to you? I’m a manager, cutie-pie.” She’s trying to make nice, but Charlie’s not biting. “The good part is, it leaves the days free for the paintings, which’re really the best release,” she adds.

Paintings? I scan the canvas in the corner and search for a signature. G.D. Gillian Duckworth. “So this is yours,” I say. “I was wondering if-”

“You painted that?” Charlie asks skeptically.

“Why so surprised?” she asks.

“He’s not surprised,” I interrupt, trying to keep it light. “He just doesn’t like the competition.” Pointing to Charlie, I add, “Guess who used to go to art school – and is still a wannabe musician?”

“Really?” Gillian asks. “So we’re both artists.”

“Yeah. We’re both artists,” he says flatly. He quickly checks her fingers – if I had to guess, I’d bet he’s looking to see if there’s any paint trapped under her nails. Strike two, he warns as if it means anything. “You ever sell any of these?” he continues.

“Only to friends,” she says softly. “Though I’m trying to get them in a gallery…”

“You ever sold any songs?” I jump in. I’m not letting him hit below the belt. Besides, whatever else his imagination comes up with, Gillian is letting us pick through the whole place. Of course, Charlie can’t stop staring at the dust that blankets the nightstand.

“Did I say something wrong?” Gillian asks.

“No, you’ve been great,” Charlie says as he takes off for the door.

“Where’re you going?” I call out.

“Back to work,” he tells me. “I’ve got a closet to rummage through.”