When morning rolled around, it found Davy sitting watch. He went and woke Mike. “It’s time—if we want to work out, we need to do it before she wakes up.”
Mike dragged Micky from his cocoon—Peter needed no rousing—and the three followed Davy down to the beach, shedding their shirts and shoes and allowing the early morning sun to warm their bare shoulders.
They moved in unison for a few moments, then the sparring began.
Mike was always amazed anew at how quickly they’d mastered and honed their abilities, and how much they complimented and strengthened each other. It was the same sort of joining he’d noticed when they played music—Peter’s bass and his guitar would merge, with Micky’s and Davy’s percussion filling and rounding the sound into a unified creation. In fighting they were no different.
The sparring came to a jarring halt at the sound of a woman’s gasp.
Mike turned, his attention distracted from the kick Micky had thrown—and was subsequently unable to pull up. It hit Mike across the lower back, driving him into the sand.
Millie was standing on the balcony, her eyes huge.
“Mike?” Peter said, helping him to his feet, “I think we’ve been found out.”
“What was your first clue?” Davy sighed.
“Well, the gaping older woman on the balcony was my first clue,” Micky said. “Sorry for hitting you, Mike. I couldn’t stop.”
Mike waved him away. “It’s okay. I got distracted.” He turned to where Millie was standing. “Guess I have an explanation to give.”
“It . . . it would be nice . . . yes . . . ” she stuttered.
Mike picked up his shirt from the sand, shaking it out before slipping it over his slightly damp shoulders. “You guys stay here. I’ll be right back.” He climbed the stairs, trying not to look at Millie. Millie stared at him unashamedly. Mike reached the veranda and took a breath, looking her in the eye. “Millie, we’re not your average young people.”
“I can see that,” she whispered.
“What . . . are you?”
Mike talked slowly, explaining about the tattoos, the tea, and the fact that she had as ‘tenants’ four very able—and still somewhat unwilling—fighters under her roof.
“So last night . . . this is what kept you awake?”
“Maybe, a little.”
She was trembling slightly.
“It’s okay,” Mike said. “We only use our powers for good.”
Slowly, she nodded. “Something even cheesecake can’t soothe?” she whispered.
“Cheesecake can’t erase instincts, Millie.”
She nodded thoughtfully and walked inside. Mike followed, staying by the door.
Nothing more was said about it. Later that day, Millie walked out to the garage and tapped on the red car, seeing two legs sticking out from under it. “Hey, Micky?”
Micky pulled himself out from under the car. “Yeah, Millie? Have a heart, I’m workin’ on a car here!”
“And you can’t spare a few moments to fix the kitchen faucet?”
“We have a kitchen faucet?” Micky replied.
She gave a fondly exasperated smile. “It’s okay, Micky. We’ll drink salt water until you get around to it.”
Micky bristled a little at the sarcasm. Relax, Dolenz . . . “No, it’s okay. I’ll do it now.”
She smiled and took out her rag, cleaning the smudge of grease on his cheek. “You’re a good boy, Micky. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Micky smiled. “Thanks, Millie.”
An hour later, she walked up on Mike cleaning in the living room. “Oooh, Mister Mouth does a good job with a dustrag!”
Mike gave her a half-annoyed look.
“And so conscientious. This isn’t the first time you’ve helped out.”
“No, it isn’t. We had . . . sorta a large family.”
Her voice softened. “And not much money. That’s not a happy combination.”
“No, it isn’t,” Mike said, growing quiet.
She touched his cheek. “So responsible. Even now, you’re the responsible big brother.”
Mike leaned a little into the touch. “Yeah, well, Horses generally are.”
She laughed a little. “Horses? You’re a man, Mickey.”
Mike smiled, turning and showing Millie the tattoo on the back of his neck. “Ngo. The Horse.”
“May I touch it?” she asked.
“Sure, go ahead,” Mike said.
Her fingers smoothed around it, tracing the outline on his skin. “Ngo,” she whispered, the unfamiliar word stumbling off her tongue, but coming out in recognizable form.
“Yeah,” Mike murmured. “We each have one. I’m the Horse, Micky’s the Dragon, Davy’s the Tiger, and Peter’s the Monkey.” He smiled a little at that. “We’re the Four Winds.”
“Should have called yourselves that,” she smiled. “Sounds more commercial than Monkees.”
Mike chuckled. “Yeah, well . . . the Four Winds part was definitely not our choice.”
“That’s what you told me. I wish I could do something to help you.”
“I wish you could, too.” He looked her in the eye, trying to keep the pain from his eyes. “But no one can change the past.”
“But maybe I can make your present better,” she said, her face lighting up.
Mike smiled a little. “You already have, Millie.”
She blushed slightly. “I’m serious. Let me make you a sweater!”
“A sw—” Mike stammered. He just stood quietly as Millie bustled around, taking his measurements. When she was finished, she petted his cheek and moved to start supper.
After they’d all eaten and three had moved to finish their respective jobs, Millie smiled at the table’s one remaining occupant. “Davy, you’re an English boy, right?”
“That’s right,” Davy replied, taking a leisurely sip of his tea.
“Do you know Rex Harrison? He’s an English boy, too.”
Davy smiled, suppressing a chuckle. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Too bad.” She sighed. “My Herman, he liked England. Wanted to move there someday.”
“There’s still time,” Davy said. “It’s a lovely country, you know.”
“No,” she smiled. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Where we lived—it was the type of neighborhood where you could sit out on your porch and wave to the neighbors. ‘Hi, Linda! How are you, Lou!” She pantomimed every wave and sighed as she lowered her hand.
Davy nodded. “And not any more?”
There was a pain in her eyes. “Well . . . no.”
“Well, I’ll talk to you, Millie.”
Her eyes widened with surprise and she began to smile. She put her hand over his. “Thank you, Davy.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Or should I call you Tiger?”
Davy released a good-natured snort. “No. Davy is fine. Mike doesn’t like us to . . . flaunt that.” There was no need to clarify what “that” meant.
Her nod was understanding enough and she picked up her mending.
“Davy, c’mere!” Mike said. Davy turned, getting up from his chair and joining his friends on the bandstand. “What is it, Mike?”
Mike nodded to Davy’s maracas. “We’re gonna play for her.”
Micky smiled at that. “Sounds good to me.”
“What should we play?” Peter asked.
“Sometime in the Morning,” Micky said. “It’s a nice song for a nice lady.”
Peter grinned, reaching out to tune his bass. Millie, not hearing the exchange, kept on sewing.
“Millie?” Mike said softly. She looked up. “We’d like to . . . play something for you, if that’s okay with you.”
She smiled fondly and shook her head slightly. “That stuff you kids play nowadays—that’s not music. The Anniversary Waltz—now that’s music!”
Peter made a soft sound of amusement. “Well, I’m afraid we don’t know that one, but . . . we think you’re gonna like this.”
She folded her hands over her sewing and tilted her head slightly, listening. Micky’s voice was soft and whispery, and Mike’s guitar playing was unusually subdued. Peter’s bass sent low notes gently vibrating through the warm evening air, and Davy’s maracas provided a soft backdrop as they played, gently, easily.
Millie’s eyes closed and her head began to move with the easy, languid beat. The song spoke of love being revealed in the tender light of dawn. Memories flooded her mind—memories of the party where she had met her husband. Of dancing with several suitors until his easy, shy smile and single slow turn of her had stolen her heart.
When it was over, she opened her eyes, surprised to find tender wetness coursing down her cheeks. “Thank you, boys,” she whispered.
Mike bowed deeply. “Our pleasure,” he said, and really meant it.
Millie put her sewing aside and walked onto the bandstand. She hugged every one of them and walked upstairs, wiping her eyes.
“I hope we didn’t upset her,” Peter said, unconsciously wringing his hands.
“Don’t worry, Peter,” Mike said. “I think those were tears of joy.”
Davy smiled. “She seems content. Like we brought back happy memories for her.”
Micky nodded. “Agreed. she didn’t even talk to that stupid bird.”
Mike tried to hold back a laugh. “Or that d-dog . . . ” The giggles slipped past his normally calm facade and he sniggered all the way to bed.
On to Five
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