Long Way Gone by Charles Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

signed it and handed it back, lingering next to the bed and studying me. She tapped her fingers on the handrail that kept Mary from falling out and said, “Mary, did Cooper ever tell you about that CD?”
    Mary shook her head. “What do you mean?”
    “Did he ever tell you he played on that album?”
    Mary’s eyes grew big. “No!” She looked at me. “He never told me that!”
    Daley nodded. “That’s what I thought.” She slid the stool next to the bed and sat down, then turned the CD over in her hand. “Did he tell you that he wrote eight of these?”
    Mary nearly came off the bed. “What?”
    Daley moved her finger as she spoke. “He wrote this one, and this one, and this one . . .” As she pointed at each one, Mary’s eyes grew larger and rounder. “And that guitar you hear is all him.”
    Mary looked up at Daley. “That means . . . Coop wrote five number one songs?”
    Daley nodded. “Yes.”
    Mary turned and threw a pillow at me. “Cooper O’Connor! Twenty-five years I been lying here, melting farther and farther into this bed, and you never uttered a peep. Never even offered to play one of your own songs.” She threw a second pillow. “I can’t believe you never told me.”
    I shrugged and set both pillows back on the bed—out of reach.
    Daley patted her hand. “Just thought maybe you’d want to know.”
    Mary crossed her arms and smiled. “And I fully intend to take this up with him when you are not here and I don’t look like such a fool for screaming at the top of my lungs.”
    As we were leaving—again—Mary called out, “Cooper?”
    I poked my head back in the door. “We’re even.”
    She was laughing at the top of her lungs as I shut the door. “Oh, we’re not even close to being ev—”
    Daley was quiet until we reached the parking lot. We climbed into the Jeep. I cranked the engine, pulled my Costas down over my eyes, and was about to move the stick into reverse when Daley gently placed her hand on top of mine. She leaned her head back against the headrest and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes. “Thank you.”
    “For?”
    She nodded toward the building we’d just left. “That.”
    “No, thank you . You just made a lot of people’s day. And you made Mary’s year. Decade, even. You’re probably going viral on YouTube right now.”
    “I didn’t give them anything compared to what they gave me.” Daley closed her eyes. “It’s been a long time since anyone posted any video of me anywhere.”
    When the sun fell behind Mt. Princeton, the cool crept out of the cracks and shadows. Out here the cold never really leaves. Not even in summer months. It just hides behind the rocks and in the water until the sun goes down. But here on the threshold of October, it crawled out from behind the rocks a little quicker.
    Pulling out of the parking lot, I glanced in my rearview. Big-Big was standing on the lawn, watching us drive away.
    He was smiling.

7
    T hough nestled in the bosom of the Collegiate Peaks, Buena Vista is not a winter ski destination like Vail, Aspen, or Steamboat. Winter life here is quiet. Not much outside influence coming in. Summer is a bit different. Given accessibility to the Continental Divide, world-class hiking, four-wheeling, rafting, kayaking, paddleboarding, and mountain biking, the population swells as a couple thousand adventurous college kids bunk here in order to staff raft companies, summer camps, gear shops, and other outdoor adventures. The few thousand locals who call “Bew-nie” home tolerate the ebb and flow of the adventure-seeking tide like snowmelt in the springtime.
    Necessary.
    The Ptarmigan Theatre was built as a church in the 1860s. Constructed out of granite blocks cut from these very mountains, its walls are four feet thick and rise inside to a vaulted ceiling and balcony that overlook an exquisitely carved stage. Around 1900, given a dwindling congregation, it was deconsecrated, and a local entrepreneur turned it into a