“Did you know these were here?” Lily pulled out some eight-tracks from under the front seat.
“No. What are they?”
Lily turned them to read them. “Patsy Cline.”
“That’s the Story album,” said Sandra, peeking over her shoulder. It was one of the few albums she owned that Hugh approved of. “I love that one.” She began to belt “Strange” at the top of her lungs, her voice powerful enough to send a sleeping Ezra climbing across the seat.
“Fuck.” Ezra rolled into a ball on the other side of the car. “I was asleep.”
“There are two of them.” Lily studied them.
“It was a double album.” Hugh sounded far away. “My mother loved it.”
The eight-track started midway through “She’s Got You.” Sandra, a big Patsy Cline fan, picked up the lyrics. To her surprise, Hugh joined her and turned his head, shooting her a smile.
Ezra put his hands over his ears.
They drove through the stark Mojave Desert, peppered with shrubs, the sun cooking them.
“It looks like Palm Springs,” said Ezra.
“It looks nothing like Palm Springs,” declared Lily.
At these moments with them bickering like siblings on a family trip, Sandra thought the four of them could make it as a band—and as friends. Somehow Ezra could stay clean, and Lily and Hugh could stay focused on the band and not each other. Sandra worried she wanted this band to work too much.
“How much longer, Dad?” Ezra leaned back in the seat and covered his face. “I have to piss.”
“You should have gone before you left,” said Hugh, mimicking his father’s voice—something he often did. “We don’t stop for anything in this car.”
“It’s a fucking fourteen-hour drive,” laughed Ezra. “Unless you want these precious white seats soaked with my piss, you’ll pull over.”
“Please pull over,” deadpanned Sandra. “We’ve been on the road since three A.M. I don’t want to be sitting in Ezra’s piss.”
“No one wants that,” added Lily.
She’d pictured fine, neat sands like Lawrence of Arabia, not dirt, brush, and rock. There were few markers on the roads, and each turnoff looked the same. They drove through Flagstaff and Albuquerque, finally turning north in Santa Fe and heading up into the mountains. By five P.M., they entered a town square, and then Hugh took a turn and steered the car down a narrow lane with a tall cactus patch at the entrance and a sign that read PANGEA that they almost missed. The fence was a haphazard collection of slim tree branches.
The house was like a beige sand castle with a bright-red roof. It blended in with the rest of the terrain, and that seemed to be the point. As she stepped out of the car, a smell hit her. “What is that smell?”
“Fireplaces.” She turned to see the tall, thin man from Sunset, who now sported a terrible sunburn that was visible even in the dark, holding out his hand.
“Paul de Passe?” Sandra extended her hand.
“Mademoiselle Keane.” He bowed. He looked at the car with the U-Haul. “May I assist you with your bags? And anything else you may have.”
“Sure.” Sandra reached into the trunk and handed him the bigger bag, keeping the smaller one that held her underwear and toiletries. “I’ve never been to New Mexico.” Sandra wasn’t sure why she was babbling, but Paul simply nodded and kept walking.
“I hadn’t been to New Mexico, either, before I started working at Pangea, Miss Keane,” he said. “I’m not sure what I think of it. Taos. I’m not sure the weather up here likes me.”
His accent was thick, and she didn’t understand him at first. “Do you mean agrees with you?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “I’m not sure this desert weather agrees with me. I’m also not sure it likes me. Soon enough, you’ll understand.” He laughed.
“That smell.” Sandra inhaled. “It’s wonderful.”
“Yes, mademoiselle. People use their fireplaces here all year round. It’s the smell of multiple fireplaces burning. It’s the smell of Taos. Quite wonderful isn’t it?” Paul cleared his voice and pointed a suitcase ahead. “This house is what they call a hacienda-style,” he said. “It’s quite old.”
The house in front of her was vast. Two large brown—almost ebony—double doors opened to a foyer with dark-brown round beams and stark white walls. Hung from the center of the foyer was an imposing crystal chandelier with delicate gold branches. From the foyer, a large courtyard unfolded; beyond that was a tepee.
“Is that—”
“A tepee? Yes.” Paul tapped on the window. “Mr. Markwell wrote us that he insists on staying out there—called it ‘living amongst nature.’”
“Did he?” Sandra looked over her shoulder back at Hugh and Lily. “I’m sorry. I hope it was no trouble.”
“On the contrary, mademoiselle. You’re going to be locked away here recording for a month. Mr. Varner wants you to be comfortable.”
“Hugh is all back to nature—until he needs a modern shower, that is,” said Sandra under her breath. She touched one of the ornate carved double doors.
Something about the Spanish-style architecture gave Sandra a surprising pang of sadness. Weird things had begun stirring in her since she’d brought Rick back from the dead. The green cactuses in the courtyard were almost glowing, like she was tripping on acid. Plus, she was having strange dreams about a farm in France and she swore she could understand what the people were saying. “Where are you from?”
“I am from Paris,” said Paul, pronouncing the city Paree. The sunburned man hoisted Sandra’s suitcase from the floor and walked over to the staircase. “Mr. Varner will be expecting you all for dinner around seven thirty.”
“We’d love to see the studio.” Ezra was hoisting his own bags. “And I do not like sleeping in the great outdoors.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Gunn. We have a room for you up here.” Paul ascended the stairs. “Mr. Varner will be happy to give you a tour of the studio later.”
Shaking off a strange déjà vu feeling that Paul had carried her bags before, Sandra passed the courtyard toward the stairs, noticing an antique church pew that spanned the entire length of the wall. She paused for a moment and decided to poke around the downstairs spaces
before going to her room. There was a sitting room with a rustic
beamed ceiling and a large fireplace that blended with the rest of the stucco walls. Bookshelves lined the walls, and Sandra thought the place looked more like a library than a ranch with a grand piano at the window.
“You must be Sandra.” She turned to see a middle-aged woman with long hair and low breasts leaning against the doorway. “I’m Marie. Welcome to Pangea Ranch.”
“Thank you.”
“You must be exhausted after your long drive. We’ve helped Mr. Markwell and Miss Leotta into the… tepee.” The woman’s French accent was not as thick as Paul’s. “Did Mr. Paul take your luggage?”
“He did.” Sandra followed Marie back into the foyer and up a flight of ornate tile stairs.