Realizing what he was doing he withdrew his hand and she took hers back, too.

"When would she go?" he asked, meeting her eyes.

"As soon as school is out. The album's scheduled to come out in September. They've already released

one single from it. We'd have to get into the studio and record our song in June so there'd be time for mixing and mastering and distribution."

"How long would she have to stay?"

"That's up to Casey. You can record a song in a single session. Sometimes it takes two, sometimes you actually get two songs done in one session. Just depends. If she comes, though, she can stay at my house until she finds a place of her own."

He stared at her, thinking.

"I know lots of people in Nashville," she reassured him, "at radio stations and at the Opry, all over town.

She won't have any trouble finding a job. You know the story-there are big stars who started out as

ushers at the Opry. Kris Kristofferson started that way." Still he looked unconvinced. "Oh, Kenny..." She touched him again, then thought better of it. "If it hadn't been with me it would probably have been without me, and isn't it better that I'm there to see after her?" He hooked his hands over the edge of the bench, hunched his shoulders and stared at his knees. She could almost read his mind. "I suppose you're thinking, 'Why did Tess McPhail have to come back home?' " "Yeah," he said, "that's exactly what I'm thinking." Their eyes met again and they sat absolutely still beside each other, realizing there was more than one reason for him to think that. Finally he straightened his shoulders, seemingly bone by bone. "Come on," he said, sliding off the bench and tugging her after him. "Take me for a ride in your shiny new car and make it up to me, okay?"

They walked downstairs together and she waited while he turned off the lights in the vestibule, then shoved the heavy door open and let some night glow show the way down the bank of steps to the street out front where her car waited. Lights shone from the windows of the houses around First Methodist, from a streetlamp a half block away, and from scattered stars.

The moon, however, was far from full.

"See?" she said, pointing up. "Half-moon. It's not full at all."

"Ahh... well, in that case, your neck is safe."

They got in and slammed the doors. When she'd started the engine she left her foot on the brake.

"So where do you want to go?" she asked.

"I thought we were going home."

"I thought you wanted a ride."

He studied the reflection of the dash lights in her eyes. "All right, then... go on up to the stop sign at the

highway and turn right." While she pulled away from the curb they both rolled their windows down and let the spring night rush around their heads. He lay back in the seat and closed his eyes. After a while he opened them and watched her as she drove. She was shorter than he, her seat pulled farther forward, so he could study her undetected. When necessary, he told her where to turn. The air scrolling around his head smelled of greening things and night damp, and farther out of town, of dusty gravel roads and pastures. Sometimes it smelled of her, some faint perfume he couldn't quite catch. She kept her speed around thirty-five so the night sounds could be heard-insects, and gravel hitting the undercarriage, and the wind patting theirears. "I thought you would be a speeder," he said. "I think you have a lot of misconceptions about me."

"No more than you have about me."

"You might be right. Anyway, why hurry? It's nice to get away from the house for a while."

"Mary tells me you two don't get along so well."

She glanced over. "When did she tell you that?"

"At the hospital."

"I think it's mainly age difference."

"My mother and I got that way, too, as she got older."

"I thought you two got along fabulously."

"As long as I bit my tongue."

"It's funny, isn't it," she mused, "how they can test your patience with the smallest things. You know that

curled up, pitiful plastic doily the color of a pee ring that my mother keeps in the middle of her kitchen table? I threw it away while she was gone to the hospital. As soon as she comes back she sees it's gone and picks it out of the garbage and washes it and it's right back on the table. She probably had to lash herself onto her walker to keep from falling over while she did it, but she managed somehow while I wasn't looking."

He chuckled.

"And we argue all the time about what I'm going to cook for meals and how I'm going to cook it. You have to understand, I'm the world's worst cook to begin with." "You don't like it?" "Nuh-uh!" she said with great passion. "At home I have a housekeeper who does it for me or if I'm at the studio a caterer brings food in. Anytime I have to cook for myself it's chicken breast and salads. Who cooks at your house?"

"All three of us."

The reminder of Faith dropped between them like a mudslide. They rode awhile without talking, thinking about how their conversations always seemed to roll around to Faith.

Finally Tess said, "Could I ask you something?"

"About what?"

"You and Faith."

"No."

"But I-"

"No."

She shot him a sour glance, but he wouldn't look at her. She gripped the steering wheel tighter and

decided she could be as stubborn as he. Well, all right then, be that way. But I really don't have toask, do I, Kenny? Because we both know that you sleep with her. Neither of them said anything further till he ordered, "Turn here." They swung into a rutted driveway lidded by an aisle of trees that led to a cluster of buildings. One metal pole barn was larger than all the rest.

"Where are we?"

"At Dexter Hickey's. Pull up next to that fence." She did, and killed the engine. They got out and

sauntered toward a chest-high wooden fence that appeared back-lit in the moonlight. Inside the paddock a half dozen horses stood close together. Roused from sleep, some lifted their heads while others slept on. Out of the cluster one dark shape separated and moved lazily, head hanging, hooves plopping softly on the battered earth as he approached them.

Kenny waited, his arms crossed on the fence, till the horse arrived and blew softly at his elbow. The white blaze on his face showed clearly against its darker hide. Kenny laid a hand between the horse's eyes and said, "This is Rowdy."

"Hi, Rowdy," she said quietly, waiting, letting the horse take her scent. He reached out his enormous head and put his whiskery nose to her hand. "You smell good," Tess said. He didn't of course. He smelled like the paddock, fecund and equine, but it pleased Kenny that Tess was one of those who found horse scent friendly. Rowdy let her scratch his nose.

"How long has Casey had him?"

"Since she was thirteen. But she talked about having him since she was about five."

Rowdy's nose was velvet beneath her hand. She thought he'd probably fallen asleep again, for he stood

motionless, breathing evenly in heavy warm gusts against her palm.

Tess asked, "Are you trying to make me feel bad for taking her away?"

"Maybe."

"Are you always this honest?"

"I try to be."

There was enough celestial light for each to see the other's eyes. On the fence rail their elbows nearly

touched. Inside the pole barn another horse whickered. Behind them the engine ticked as it cooled.

Above them the half-moon kept him from biting her neck. Out of the blue she said something he never expected, said it sincerely, so that one more barrier crumbled. "I can see, Kenny, that you're a very good dad."

He'd been right earlier; the moon made people do crazy things, be it full or half. But much as he wanted to kiss her, it wouldn't be wise. There was his relationship with Faith to consider, and the temporary nature of Tess's stay here, and her fame and its demands, maybe even the risk that she might think her celebrity and wealth were the reasons he was coming on to her. Hell, who knew? Maybe they were. On second thought he didn't think so. This attraction went a long way back, clear back to the stinging memories of groping for Tess McPhail on a school bus on a choir trip, all those years ago, and being laughed at for it. Kissing her would be the height of folly, but he kept standing there thinking about it.

The moon might have had its way if Rowdy hadn't whickered then and shaken his big head, startling them.

They drew back from the fence, and Tess said, "Do I have your permission to ask Casey, then?"

He expelled an uncertain breath before answering, "Yes."

And they returned to the car like two sensible people.

CHAPTER TEN.

They drove home through the piquant spring night realizing it would be most prudent if for the remainder of her time here they'd limit their encounters to waving hello across the alley. She considered saying so, then switched on the radio so they need not speak at all.

Halfway back to town one of her own songs came on. It was "Cattin'."

He reached over and turned the volume up.

She reached over and turned it down.

"What did you do that for?" he said.

"You don't have to turn it up just because it's me."

"I turned it up because I like it." He cranked the volume again and one of his knees started wobbling in

time to the music.

She gave him an arch glance. "It's immoral, you know."

"What is?"

"That song."

He burst out laughing-a long, loud, lusty laugh with nothing held back. After he got done she ended up

telling him all about the letter she'd gotten from the irate listener who called the words "filthy," about the preposterous demands her fans sometimes made on her, and the frustration of becoming so famous that people think they own a piece of you and can tell you how to conduct your business. She also confessed her guilt for having these feelings because her fans were her lifeblood, and without them she'd be nowhere.

"I suspect what you're feeling is probably universal among the very famous,"' he said. "Don't worry about it so much. Fans are like any other people, some are nice and some aren't. Some are reasonable and some aren't. It's the same in any business."

They reached town so fast she couldn't believe it, talking all the way. When they pulled up in the alley she shut off the engine but neither of them moved. It was suddenly very quiet without the radio. "The trouble is, Kenny, you're too easy to talk to." "That's trouble?" "You know what I mean. I don't remember you being this easy to talk to when we were in high school." "Same here. I remember you being a stuck-up snob."

She considered awhile. "Maybe we're both getting over some misconceptions." They could look at each other now for great lengths of time while silence fell between them and underscored their changing altitudes toward each other and their marked reluctance to part. But both of their houses had lights on, and this lingering was getting them nowhere. He glanced at her house. She glanced at his. She was supposed to give Tricia a ride home, and he ought to go in and give Faith a goodnight call, which he usually did on the evenings he didn't see her.