Free Jane by April Lindner Page A

voice when she spent time with her father. But while she wasoff at school or asleep, I imagined I should keep out from underfoot. I thought about asking Lucia what was appropriate, but when I saw her in the hall she was gesticulating wildly with one hand, the other pressing a cordless phone to her ear. “Not Friday! I could be dead by Friday. Tomorrow. We need delivery
tomorrow
.”
    I read while Maddy slept, bedspread pulled up to my chin. The scent of baking bread wafted upstairs from the kitchen. I was feeling around the bed for the bookmark I’d dropped, thinking about closing my eyes for a brief nap of my own, when the intercom crackled, and Mr. Rathburn’s voice startled me. “Jane? Are you there?”
    I jumped to my feet. “I’m here,” I told the intercom.
    “Could you come here a second? I’m in my dressing room.”
    It seemed an odd request. I considered it for a moment, wondering if maybe it would be unwise to join him in such an isolated part of the house. But then I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door and realized how silly I was being. I looked completely unlike the women he had dated. Maybe he wanted to discuss Maddy? “I’ll be right there.”
    I had to think hard to remember the location of his dressing room, just off his bedroom in the wing opposite mine. I hurried first to Maddy’s bedroom and peeked in. She was still asleep, clutching her pink pillow. When I reached the dressing room, I found him standing there, piles of clothes flung on various surfaces. He was holding a shiny, black button-down in front of his T-shirted chest.
    “You’re the demographic I’m trying to impress,” he said. “Or one of them, anyway. What do you think?”
    This was an interesting turn of events. I thought for a second. “It depends. What’s the occasion?”
    “We’re doing a photo shoot for the tour program this afternoon. Javier is home with a migraine; usually I would ask him. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the photographer and Mitch. I want to go in there with a set idea, so I don’t get sidetracked into some ridiculous, trendy…” He tossed the black shirt on the chair and reached for a plaid flannel one. “How about this?”
    “It’s not very flashy.”
    His eyebrows shot up. “Well, right,” he said. “I’m not going for flashy. I haven’t been flashy since my first album.” I’d been standing in the doorway; he beckoned me closer.
    “What
are
you going for?” There must have been ten piles of shirts, pants, and scarves strewn around the room.
    “What
am
I going for?” he asked the ceiling. “What should I be going for?”
    “What does your new album sound like?”
    “More acoustic than the others.” He reached for a candy-orange silk shirt. “More folky. Lyric intensive, if you know what I mean. Less dynamic, more reflective. Intimate. My fan base is going to hate it; it will remind them they’re not teenagers anymore.”
    I thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t dress too formally, but I wouldn’t go too far in the other direction and wear a ripped T-shirt or a lumberjack shirt or anything like that.” I looked around; a crisp burgundy-colored shirt slung over a chair in the corner caught my eye. “That one would be nice — with blue jeans.”
    “That one?” he asked. “Why that one?”
    “I think that color will suit you,” I said. He waited, as thoughexpecting a more persuasive rationale. “But maybe you should get somebody else’s opinion,” I added. “I’m no expert on clothes, as you can see” — I gestured to my denim skirt and oxford shirt — “and I don’t know anything about rock music.”
    “You don’t?” He sounded shocked. “What do you listen to?”
    “Classical music, sometimes.”
    “Do you listen to
my
music?” he asked in a somewhat quieter voice.
    “I’ve heard it. My brother played your third album all the time, so I know it very well. And I’ve listened through all the