by Ellen Mint
Age has a terrible way of wearing off the patina of manners.
Before Barry pitched another fit, or did something so foolish as to cancel all of it—tour included—Tristan gripped his arm. “The pictures are finished.” He glanced over at Angie Leon loading up the last of her padded boxes. “And while you inspect them, I will knock off the Q&A. Should be done in ten minutes.”
The manager snorted. “Or we skip the damn interview altogether and get out while we can. There’s talk of snow.”
“We’re in the mountains.”
But Barry fished out his phone to try and dig up the latest local weather scares. How has he become even more of a wet hen with technology’s assistance? There’d been weeks on tour when a seventeen-year-old boy had had to suffer a grown man pulling his hair out over the mention of drizzle on the road. “I’ll get it done before you’ve even finished signing off on the photos,” Tristan insisted.
The glare turned from the weather-report-of-doom to the bedroom the woman had slunk off to. “You sure about that? I know how you and reporters get on.”
Tristan’s patient smile cracked apart. “As if some cut-rate blogger for a gossip rag can rattle me. Ten minutes, that’s all I need.”
“A’right.” Barry shrugged, already looming over the photographer and throwing in useless suggestions about the hue and saturation. For her part, Ms. Leon nodded along while probably not listening to a damn word from the man who couldn’t work an instant camera.
Pausing before the bedroom door, Tristan pulled in a calming breath. He’d run the gauntlet of reporters before his first chin hair had sprouted, learning quickly to guard his words and freeze his emotions. But it had been years since anyone had wanted to know what passed between his ears. Any haphazard word from his lips could doom him to scandalous headlines and threats of losing sponsors and contracts.
A cough startled him and he turned to see Barry glaring at the top of his head. With a start, Tristan found his hand running roughshod over his scalp. The carefully styled locks crunched between his nervous fingers, dry gel raining down. Shake it off, Harty. It’s just another reporter.
Not even a reporter, he assured himself while opening the door. She’s…
A solitary chair sat in the middle of the room encircled by darkness. The blinds were drawn, letting only a hint of the snow-speckled haze puncture past. Light beamed onto the seat as if aliens were about to abduct it. Tristan’s mind instantly scrolled through the interrogation scenes in every spy movie.
Movement drew him away from the hot seat to the would-be reporter. Even in the muted light of the closed shades, her eyes sparked like flint. Nearly filling her face, their size gave her an innocent and pure look. He’d dismissed the snow-bedraggled woman out of hand as she stood shivering in her mid-calf coat. But when those obsidian eyes had caught his, he’d nearly stumbled backward into the fireplace.
“Mr. Harty,” she said, her hand extending from the darkness, “Beth Cho with Thorn.”
As he accepted her fingers in his, it surprised him how warm they were. He gave a quick shake. “Pleasure.”
That caused her lips to purse tight, her cheeks rising as if he’d insulted her with a single word. She reached over him to the dresser. Tristan froze, tearing his gaze from the soft pink blouse just translucent enough to reveal a hint of a freckle on her collarbone.
An unwanted flush tried to climb up his cheeks, but he tamped it down—along with the question of how many more freckles hid under her shirt. Ms. Cho’s focus broke from whatever she reached for on the dresser and her gaze burned into him. “I assume you are fine with my recording this?”
She was kind enough to phrase it as a question, but Tristan knew better than to argue. In truth, he preferred being recorded. It made it harder for reporters to invent their own stories later if both parties knew there was a live record. “Please,” he said, racing to find his steps in this old dance. “I presume I belong in this chair.”
Perhaps it was his catching on to her plan, or his pointing directly at the interrogation seat, but Ms. Cho’s deep-brown eyes darkened. Nodding, she tried to force a smile onto her tight lips. With no recourse, Tristan sat.
It surprised him to find that the light off the table lamp did not pierce into his sight. Instead, it backlit him. He stared down at his shadow leeching across the hardwood floor and she positioned herself on the bed.
With the box spring propped up on high risers, Ms. Cho’s five-foot-nothing height had to jump to elegantly slide her backside onto it. And when she did, she sank into no doubt the best feather down that vacationing packages could buy. He knew better, but a snort broke from Tristan at the reporter flapping her arms to keep from tumbling back onto the bed.
She arranged herself fast though, that smoky glare narrowing upon his exposed throat. A knot plunging deep into his neck, Tristan raised his hand to tug off the kitschy bowtie. One more look from the reporter with her legs locked together in a death-cross and he froze. Digging his fingers digging into his knees, he tried to turn to face her, but the awkward arms on the chair prevented him.
“Mr. Harty,” she began. “You’ve been removed from the music scene for a long time.”
“I suppose.” Tristan tipped his head, shaking more of the crunched-up gel onto his suit coat’s black shoulder.
The woman spoke as if she was reading, but her gaze burned through the side of his cheek. “Once declared the next Bob Dylan when only sixteen…”
Tristan flinched at the memory and the flurry of magazine covers bearing his face. “It’d have been less damaging if they’d called me bigger than Jesus,” he admitted.
She didn’t even pause. “Yet, you wasted that promise with a string of weak albums in your twenties before vanishing completely.”
“A promise I do not remember declaring,” he insisted.
“So, when you reappear, with the world questioning why it should give you a second glance, you choose a Christmas album of all things. Why?”
A flush beat through Tristan’s veins, his sight narrowing at the edges as he tried to track the woman. Despite the phone recording his every breath, she kept scribbling away at a notepad in her hands. The cheap pen swerved like a vengeful bee, making it impossible to follow. What is she writing?
“What’s wrong with Christmas?” He struggled to keep his voice light and airy. Every other stop on his ‘redemption tour’ the people would smile, ask him about his songs and request a happiest Christmas memory to pad out their article or runtime. Tristan had a store of invented ones to dole out.
She flickered her hard-as-diamond gaze up from her scratch pad. “You cannot get triter than a Christmas album. Add a few helium-pitched rodents and you’re on your way to starring in a rotoscoped cartoon.”
He flexed his fingers deep into his knees, wrinkling the silk-lined pants in an instant. A warning bell clanged in the back of his head, telling Tristan to keep his tone light. There was an app recording his every word. Through gritted teeth, he said, “If you think so little of my latest work, why are you here?”
The question seemed to surprise her, that cursed pen pausing. To hell with the damn chair. Tristan stretched out a leg and leaned to his right side to stare directly at her. She flicked a glance at her phone, or perhaps her purse to aid in her escape, before shooting him a marrow-boiling glare.
“I’d ask the same of you,” she volleyed back.
“Excuse me?”
“Why now? Why return to the spotlight after you so thoroughly shunned it eight years ago?”
Do not say the name. He glared the order at her but banged it around his heart as well. Do not let the name grace my lips, or I will never recover.
“One of my songs recently returned to the charts. Perhaps you hadn’t heard…”
“Yes, your magnum opus, My Half.”
Tristan scoffed. “I’d hardly call it my magnum opus.”
That struck a nerve, her eyes opening wide, and he’d swear he caught a spark rising upon the fli
nt. “It was the song of the summer for two years in a row. Damn near every high school had it playing on repeat during homecoming and prom.”
He perked up at her knowing that. It seemed hyperbole, Tristan remembering well the other teenage musical savants he’d toured with. All of them had been sold as the Next Big Thing. Some had made it, most faded.
“Well, that’s interesting,” he mused, his fingers finally leaving the safety of his lap to push together. Tapping the false prayer against his lips, he dissected the woman. She looked young, her skin flawless save for a tiny mole on the top of her cheek. But the right makeup and genetics could hide her age, turning a thirty-something into a lovely twenty-five or so.
A smile cracked his lips and Tristan snickered. “You’re a Harty-throb, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Card-carrying member of the club? Attended all the concerts with your babysitting money? Had a poster of me on your bedroom wall?”
Fire crackled in her eyes, Ms. Cho raising her shoulders to strangle her head. “You know nothing of who I am,” she snarled, leaping to her feet.
Tristan remained seated. Despite her towering above him, he had the upper hand. Gripping the chair’s arms, he leaned nearer, turning his smile devious. “Was it the one with the blue guitar and the open shirt?”
For a brief second, he feared she might slap him. One hand remained locked to her notebook and the other, clutching the pen, raised back. She had enough presence to rein herself in, and snapped her calculating gaze to the phone. Shit. He’d forgotten about that and now she had proof of how vain the ex-child prodigy was.
Barry was right. Reporters were his Achilles’ heel.
“Your song is only back in the public consciousness due to its inclusion in a movie.” Ms. Cho spoke coldly, her false disinterest cranked to eleven.
Tristan returned it, focusing on the fireplace ash under his fingernails to distract himself. “That treacly cancer story. I know, though I haven’t bothered to see it.”
“What?” His indifference to the movie seemed to be an even greater shock than the way he didn’t carry much love for his old song. “How can you not? It’s broken box office records. There’s talk of it snagging a Golden Globe nom for best picture.”
“Because I already know how the tale goes. Boy meets quirky girl. Girl is dying of cancer. Girl teaches boy the true meaning of life. Girl dies in a pretty fashion with aphorisms for last words. Boy gets to move on with his hard-won lesson of being occasionally quirky to honor her memory,” Tristan snapped back, his legs shifting in the chair. “It’s opiate for the masses.”
To his shock, she began to laugh at that. Not a polite chuckle either. Snorts broke from her lips, Ms. Cho trying to cover them using her notebook. With a deliberate toss of her hand, she closed the front cover and placed it to her hip.
“Here I thought you were inscrutable. This stone figure no one could pierce. But I get it now. You’re nothing more than some snotty brat who lucked out and believes the world owes him everything for existing. You use thesaurus-derived words to demean your perceived lessers and inflate your ego. It must be the size of a Thanksgiving parade balloon.”
A cold laugh rumbled in Tristan’s chest. He cracked his neck to give himself a moment to cool. For the most part, Ms. Cho didn’t even flinch at the sound, but her lush eyelashes fluttered in surprise. “You know so little of me, it’d almost be embarrassing. But I wouldn’t expect much from someone who only got her job by posting a torrent of bikini pictures to social media.”
It was a cruel cut, but she’d thrown the first blow. Tristan considered it his job to end the confrontation as quickly as possible. For a beat, she did stumble back on her power heels. It surprised him that a blogger would come to one of these in a suit. He’d grown used to seeing so many sheath dresses. But she was just like all the rest, hungry for nothing more than a scandal, never bothering to scratch below the real surface because it might chip a nail.
Ms. Cho glared at her phone as if it might come to her rescue. God, he was never going to hear the end of it from his manager for this hatchet job. Maybe they could email Thorn a quick 50 Things You Didn’t Know About Tristan Harty list to dodge this misstep.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” her voice rumbled while she sized him up. “Why return with a Christmas album?”
Tristan was so taken aback he leaned away from her. There were no tears, not even a hint of her struggling to hide them. No quavering. No stomping away and declaring this interview over. No, she wasn’t backing down, and she was glaring as if she could ignite him with her mind.
“In fact, I did. I said people like—”
“No,” she interrupted. “You phrased it as a question. You did not declare why you chose a Christmas album.”
Damn. Tristan’s breath caught in his throat, his lips parting. For the first time in decades, the naked truth clung to his tongue. He realized she wasn’t going to give in or give up without it, without taking something from him. Something he had no intention of ever giving.
“It’s—”
A knock from the angels broke upon the door. “Tris? Finish up already. We gotta split.”
Tristan shrugged, staring up at the towering woman. “Managers,” he said with his caustic wit in place, and moved to rise. Her hand slammed on top of his. It didn’t hurt, but it pinned him to the chair as her face loomed closer.
“You promised us an interview.”
“Which I sat for.”
“You didn’t answer a single damn question,” she thundered with her face so near to him he could feel the heat of her lips glancing off his cheek. “If you blow this off, and with no other exclusive to add, then I suspect Thorn will find some other artist’s album to fill its pages.”
“Pages? Do you think yourself a real magazine now?” Tristan tried to buy himself time to think. It was already shaky ground to form this alliance, both the label and Barry constantly pointing out how many bridges he’d burned prior.
“Come on, Harty. The photog’s off in her van. We gotta hit the road.” Barry’s fear of the weather was growing, his voice striking higher as he banged upon the door once more.
Ms. Cho raised her eyebrow into a near-perfect peak as she stretched just enough rope for Tristan to hang himself. “You heard him,” she said, “shame you wasted all this time.” She seemed to want him to break the contract.
“Go on without me,” Tristan called. He heard Barry’s cry of confusion, but saw a cloud drift over the reporter’s brow. She really did want him gone. As if he’d give in to her wants.
“What are you on about?”
“We’re not finished. Head on to the hotel and deal with all the check-in procedures. I’ll call you for a pickup when we’re done.”
“Look, kid,” Barry said to the grown man with a mortgage, “there’s a storm brewing and if we don’t get ahead—”
“I said to leave without me!” Tristan shouted at the door, no doubt startling the already spooked manager. It was surprising Barry didn’t break it down in a huff. He’d done more than that when he was younger, often yanking Tristan out of chairs by the back of his collar when things got too dicey.
A flush rose up Tristan’s chest as he turned to the female reporter who’d trapped them in the bedroom. He couldn’t possibly think they were…
“So help me God,” Barry grumbled, “if you get us killed in some avalanche, grizzly-bear situation just to get your rocks off…”
“I’ll be finished before the storm even arrives.” Tristan tried to drown out his manager’s salacious assumptions.
“That ain’t something worth bragging over, kid. Fine, fine!”
He knew Barry’s hatred of snow and inclement weather would win out over managerial stubbornness.
“Call me the second you’re done so I can send a helicopter to pluck you off this mountain.”
“The SUV will be fine.” Tristan sighed, not needing to fuel the ‘spoiled rich kid’ angle the reporter
was chasing.
“Whatever.” Barry rolled his parting words as if they were in the ’90s again. The sound of the front door being booted open and slammed shut followed, Barry quick to abandon his post once given leave.
Ms. Cho remained stationary, glaring over at her phone. “Well…” She seemed resigned to her fate, her brow heavy. It’d almost make Tristan feel bad if she wasn’t trying to upend his life for her own bottom line. Snapping open the notebook, she plummeted back to the bed and began to write. “Answer the question, Mr. Harty…”
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter Three
Arrogant prick.
Beth shifted her leg, trying to uncross the double knot she’d put in her thigh while waiting an eternity for him to speak. At first, he’d tossed out noncommittal grunting or one-word responses, but as the minutes ticked by, he became so quiet she thought he’d fallen asleep. Glancing down at her notes, she flinched at the nothing in her lap.
There was a who.
Presumptuous Teenage Washout who assumed he was God’s gift to women.
A when and where.
Early December at some frozen peak of Vermont, the trees creaking outside the curtained window as if a giant stormed through them.
The rest was a vast blank, leaving her with nothing to her article but ‘well, here’s what we knew previously about Tristan Harty before he tucked tail and ran.’ Aren’t musicians supposed to be humbled by having the Billboard charts kicked out from under them? Clearly, he’d never got that message.
In the harsh light of the positioned lamps, she could finally spot the signs of age no makeup would hide. Wrinkles not only at his eyes but circling his cheeks. The lips were flat and looked hard as iron from his unending purse. No doubt the tufts of hair he’d find in the drain each morning were wearing on him, judging by the pseudo-bangs his stylist had given him to hide the waning hairline.
