by Ward, Susan
She rummaged through the mountain: a bizarre blend of hate mail from people who still thought her defiance of the law was intolerable; touching letters of support from women; outrageous fan letters; requests for appearances at women’s organizations; requests for donations; bills and correspondence between those who managed her business affairs.
She neatly sorted it into stacks, in hopes that she would find something from Devon. Three weeks. She’d been in Los Angeles three weeks without a word from him. There had been no phone messages from him. Nothing. And now, not even a letter.
She had been about to toss the business correspondence back into the box, when she decided to open it to find out what else there was to deal with. Nothing in her struggle for survival as Christine Dillon could have ever prepared her for this.
She heard Morgan’s throaty laughter, as she collapsed back against her pillow with an exaggerated sigh of feigned fainting.
“That bad, Kryssie?”
She pushed her blond hair from her face, laughing. Morgan was a master at the art of understatement. Rolling over onto her side, she made a comical face of pain.
“Bad would be an improvement over this. You should have warned me before I decided to come back. There’s too much here to digest it all fully in a single sitting. I think it requires no less than a week of prayer and fasting. They talk in legal code that I can only half break, but I think the point of it is, I’m bankrupt. I’ve been sued by the promoters for walking out on my tour, sued by the record company and distributors, my legal bills are over a half of million, and I’ve been sued by my own lawyers because there wasn’t enough left to divvy up for their bills. I think I’m somewhere near two million in debt and all my lawsuits aren’t settled.”
“Fuck the bills, Kryssie.”
She gave him an annoyed swat on his leather covered shin for the profanity. “Easy for you to say. You’re hotter than you were two years ago. People bend over backwards to let you make money. Money you couldn’t spend in your lifetime if you tried. Though at times you do try, love. I could work the rest of my life and never make a dent in this! The money I earned is gone. My trust fund is long gone. I’m broke.” She grimaced. “No, I would be lucky if I were only broke.”
“Jesus Christ, Kryssie, bundle the damn things up, give them to me to deal with, or send them to Jonathan to deal with. Solution. Love, it’s not worth a moment’s worry. It’s just fucking money. Why are you beating yourself up over this?”
The easy solution. Yes, she could make it all disappear that easily, by the simple act of turning it over to her father’s capable and heavily coffered hands. But she didn’t do things that way any longer. How different her life would be now if she had learned earlier to deal with her messes on her own.
She gave Morgan an exaggerated, speculative look. “How much do you think I could get for the house from insurance if I torched it?”
Morgan laughed. That sounded like Krystal; humor even in adversity. He edged close to her and pulled her into a friendly embrace. “About five to ten back behind bars. Listen, love, I don’t know why you fight that wealth of talent you come by so naturally to carry you through this. I wouldn’t want you on tour with me if there wasn’t something in it for me. Let’s go back to the studio, Kryssie, make a little music, and make a lot of cash. You’ve got to mend your fences.
“You wouldn’t even have the chance now if the press wasn’t force feeding you down the public’s throats in nauseating daily doses. You never objected to working with me in the past, even when you toured on your own, recorded on your own. We worked together when the right projects came our way. It’s something I want to do. I’m bored with it all, Kryssie. I always have fun when I work with you.”
That she knew Morgan was right didn’t make it any easier. Colin had shown her the cold, hard reality two weeks ago when he had stated flatly that not a single promoter would back her solo.
Even with all the hype she was getting from the press, even her old label wasn’t willing to bank the investment to relaunch her. They wanted assurance that a new investment in her wouldn’t prove to be another loss.
She had come back an “untrustworthy” commodity. She’d burned bridges in an industry that seldom gave second chances.
Morgan could see her waffling and pressed, “If you don’t go back into the studio with me and open the rest of my tour, you start at the bottom. Or do you think you’re going to run out and teach music in Los Angeles? It will take more than one lifetime to earn two million teaching. You need to work. You need the money. You can get both with me, and we’ll have a little fun like in the old days. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed the grind, Kryssie.”
It would be good to work. Good to do something other than sitting in this high-walled prison, wallowing in regret and sadness. Good to have something to concentrate on and perhaps free her thoughts of Devon a little.
It was time to move on with her life as it was, instead of praying that some miracle would turn it into what she wanted it to be. Her career had disintegrated in her two-year absence. She was broke. Alone. Her prospects were limited.
There was no point in waiting for Devon to rocket back into her world. She had told him it was over.
She tried to shake the memory of that last moment with him, the look on his face, the ugly words she had unleashed. It was foolish to hold onto the hope that Devon still loved her. Three weeks without a word from him. What could be clearer? She was sure wherever Devon was, he wanted nothing more to do with her.
It was time to start making plans, time to stop waiting for Devon to return to become a part of her life. Time to step into the future, her future without Devon. She was Krystal Stafford; what else was there to do but stop fighting the current and step into her life?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Krystal sat on her back patio, fighting a headache. She hadn’t made it back from the New York talk show taping until four a.m. She had been scheduled into the studio at eight a.m. to redub a vocal track, and after an exhausting seven hours of work, had to fight her way through the media at her gate to simply get home.
She found herself wishing again for the peace of her life in Coos Bay. Good friends, freedom...Devon.
A movement beside her pulled her from her thoughts. She smiled at Jason, whom she found had set himself down quietly beside her. He was studying her with alert and mature eyes that contrasted with the lingering youthfulness of what would someday be a strikingly handsome male face.
“You’re going to be an incredible success, you know,” Krystal said, thinking happily back on the day the boys had flown down from Coos Bay, after much discussion, to use some of her studio time to cut their first demo. “You’ll have to remember to drop in on me once you and the boys go out on tour.”
Uncomfortable with the praise, Jason managed to hold her gaze and say hesitantly, “I know I’m just a delinquent...” They both smiled; that’s what Colin called the boys. “ ...and I’m probably way out of line with this, but wouldn’t it be better to see if you and Devon can make it here rather than trash the whole thing?”
Moisture rimmed her eyes. It was then that she noticed he had brought from the house the phone and the telephone directory.
“A phone call, Krys. Isn’t it worth at least the effort of that? I know you want to see him. I’ve watched you rummage through your messages and mail, hoping there’d be something from Devon. I don’t know why he hasn’t tried to contact you. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe he’s tried and just can’t get through?”
“It’s not that simple, Jason,” she pointed out sadly.
“Why? Why isn’t it that simple? Are you afraid Devon won’t want to hear from you? That he’ll hang up the phone on you? Are you too afraid even to try? Isn’t it worth the chance to see if maybe he’s missing you as badly as you’re missing him and just doesn’t want to be the one to make the first move? Whatever argument there is between you isn’t going to be solved by you both being jerks. I don’
t know what’s going to happen. But maybe it’s time for you to find out instead of wondering.”
Jason started thumbing through the phone book. It was then that she saw he had already underlined Devon’s number in bold, red pen. He handed her the phone.
Nervously gnawing her lower lip, Krystal dialed the number and waited while it rang.
Disappointed, she held out the phone to him. “Disconnected.”
He took the phone, dialed directory assistance, and asked for new listings. “Unlisted,” he told her, thumbing through the directory again. “Call the paper. We know at least that number hasn’t been disconnected.”
“Jason, I tried. Isn’t that enough?” she whispered.
The boy shook his head, ignoring her. It was clear he wasn’t going to let this go. Reluctantly, she dialed the number he read off and waited on the phone until the receptionist answered.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Howard, please,” she mumbled nervously.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Howard isn’t available at this time. Could you please speak up? I can hardly hear you. Would you like to leave a message?”
“A message?” Krystal shook her head at Jason, covering the receiver with her hand.
He pushed the phone back up against her ear. Furiously she whispered at him, “You expect me to leave my private number with a newspaper?”
“Miss, do you want to leave a message or not?”
Thinking rapidly, she asked, “Would you happen to have his home number available?”
“I’m sorry, I really couldn’t give that to you. But if you leave a message, I assure you he’ll get it.”
Reluctant still, she asked, “An address?”
The receptionist laughed. “Would you like to leave a message or not? I have other lines ringing.”
Gulping indecisively, she looked at Jason, tried not to let all the ugly possibilities of giving out her phone number to a newspaper form in her mind, and said, “Yes, tell him Krystal Stafford called.”
“Krystal Stafford.” The woman voice changed in a flash to an unfriendly tone. “Uh huh, Krystal Stafford, would you like to leave a number?”
On a voice that was only a thread of a whisper, she rattled it off. The receptionist cut off without a goodbye. She held out the phone to Jason.
“There! Now what?”
Jason shrugged lazily. “You wait. You call again if he doesn’t call. I don’t know what. But it’s better than doing nothing.”
Devon spent four hours in court, listening to the grim details of a much publicized rape trial. He knew that Phil wouldn’t be pleased with the go-for-the-throat tone of the words coming together in his mind, but so long as his column remained his column, he would express himself any way he saw fit, regardless that some had started to considered him unduly biased because of his recent conflict with the court system.
“Hi, Rosa, any messages today?” Devon asked as he paused at the reception desk on his way into the office.
Messages? Why did he ask? There were enough kooks in LA to fill Dodger stadium. By Rosa’s expression, he could tell that today’s crop had its share of winners.
“The usual, Devon.” Rosa handed to Devon the neatly bound stack. “Two death threats. I forwarded them to the police. One request for your sheets, if you can believe it, and a woman who claims that she is a unicorn so you should bring a photographer, but only seven Krystal Staffords.” And then, laughing, hoping to brighten his mood (which seemed to be anything but bright these days), she added, “The one Krystal Stafford message with the bent corner is the one with the sexiest voice today. Very throaty. The best imitation yet so far. Very persistent, too. Wanted your home number and address. This one definitely has something in mind for you, Devon boy! If she looks half as good as she sounds, she might be worth a call. I have a feeling she’s a very beautiful kook!”
He looked at the message, hating that, for a moment after hearing Rosa’s description of the voice, he had hoped it would be Krys. But of course, it wouldn’t be. Just like the dozens of other women who called claiming they were Krystal Stafford were not. People had the oddest ways of getting their jollies.
The first message he had received from a Krystal Stafford he had actually called back, the memory of it making him wince. He had not realized yet that there were a dozen equally meaningless messages in that stack his first day back at the paper. His Krystal Staffords were a running joke in the building. He wondered how long it would be before everyone would leave him alone. The silent agony of losing Krys was difficult enough without having people strike at the wound in bizarre amusement.
“A kook with a sexy voice. Intriguing, but no thanks.” He gave Rosa a wink, crumbled the messages and tossed them into the can.
Devon didn’t know why, but he decided to drive home from downtown Los Angeles to Malibu by way of Laurel Canyon. Or, at least he tried to tell himself he didn’t know why.
It took him several miles out of his way. He turned off on the narrow, winding road that would take him even farther off course. The narrow road which would pass by Krys’s house. He was just in the mood to drive...Who was he trying to fool?
He parked across the street from the high-walled prison she called a home and cursed himself a fool. What was the point in coming here? They kept her isolated from the public, more protectively guarded than the president these days. He wondered if she were getting death threats like he was, and if that was why her people were so careful with the barrier around her. He’d read only yesterday that she never left the grounds without security and had taken to even schooling Katie at home by private tutor.
Was it death threats or was Nick Stafford still a threat to her? No one got through the walls unless they wanted them to. There was constant security at the gate. Every entry was prearranged, all contact with the world cut off from her. She was giving the tabloid press fits in their efforts to catch a simple shot of her. Who were they protecting her from?
No one ever got through without permission. Not ever. Not even Devon, though he continued to try with ridiculous frequency. Twenty letters, the phone messages he’d stopped counting, all without a response. She would have called if she wanted to see him. How many more would he send before he accepted it was pointless?
He climbed from the car and leaned back against the closed door. Her house was bright with lights lit in every window. It meant nothing. She might or might not be there. Probably, she was gone. The street was all but deserted. Had even the media given up trying? What would happen if he went to the gate?
“Don’t tell me that bulldog handling her has finally decided to let one of us in?”
Devon turned toward the unexpected voice to find Jenkins approaching, whom he knew as a photographer from a well-known tabloid.
Devon offered his hand. “No, I’m afraid not. Just you out here, Dell? Has the circus died down?”
“Just taking a breather, I think. Damn, so you’re not getting in? I would have sent you in with my camera. A picture from inside and my kid goes to college for another year.” Jenkins lit a cigarette and settled beside Devon’s car. “Got some good stuff of the little girl last week. She was out front for a whole ten seconds before they rushed out and dragged her back into the house. Dumb luck that I caught it. Just standing by the gate, and there she was, working a lunch bag full of cookies through the bars.”
Devon fought his protective instincts toward Katie and the instant desire to punch this man. Through a tightened jaw, he said, “Let off on the little girl, Jenkins. None of this can be easy for her. She spent two years in a quiet village of fifteen thousand where no one knew who her mother was.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I got for the pictures,” Jenkins laughed. “It was almost as much as I got for the picture of her kissing Morgan. Telephoto right through a four-inch rollup of the living room blinds. Fifty G’s for a twenty-cent frame of film. Hey, you got any shots of them during their days in the sticks you might be willing to sell? I could get you a fortune for
them.”
He thought of the pictures of Krys and Katie he kept carefully locked in his house, those pictures he pulled out to look at too often, those pictures he was ashamed for having taken at all, when he’d been little better than Jenkins spying in on their lives.
“Go to hell, Jenkins.” He stepped back and opened the car door.
“You think you’re better than the tabloids, Howard, because have a Pulitzer on your desk. You must have some contract, that they would put all that drivel in print about the unicorn and eat up all that advertising space. No one understood it. Too much illusion. You’ll probably get another Pulitzer out of it, however. They love what they can’t understand. It was fucking beautiful. Every word, Devon. I mean it. But it didn’t belong in a newspaper. Even my editor would have cut it and dumped it on the floor. You must have some contract, Devon boy. But we’re all after the same thing: the story. Don’t pretend your motives are any loftier than mine. Why else are you here?”
The creative combination of adjectives and expletives Devon let loose only made Jenkins laugh. He climbed back into his car. He couldn’t imagine what story Dell’s tabloid would run if Jenkins knew what had really brought him to Krystal Stafford’s gate.
Sad sack reporter found hovering at front gate, mooning over the unicorn.
The image made him wince. Perhaps it was time to let it go. It was clear that it was over. Why couldn’t he make his heart believe that?
Krystal sat in the middle of her bedroom floor staring at the phone.
She couldn’t count the number of messages she’d left Devon, or understand why her strongest impulse was to call him again when she knew very well what his silence meant.
She picked up the phone, dialing the number she now knew by heart.
The voice on the other end was familiar, she knew it by name. “Hi, Rosa.”
“Krystal Stafford, right? I’ve come to recognize your voice the best of all of them. It’s very distinctive, you know. So, what is it this time? I would think with a sold-out concert tonight you’d have other things to occupy your time besides our Mr. Howard!”
