by Lisa Wingate
Somewhere near the gate, a siren wailed and I envisioned hordes of reporters beating down the arena gate.
On stage, Amber made a joke about the noise, then the band cued up and she started her last song.
My cell phone vibrated with a message. Taking it off the clip, I glanced at the text. It was Rodney, telling everyone there was a crush at the gate and the sheriff was trying to keep the intruders out.
We’re rolling as soon as the number’s over, I keyed in, sending the reply to the entire crew.
Carter started down the ramp. “I’ll go turn the trailer around.”
“Thanks.” I paced back and forth until the number was over and the rodeo crew hustled Amber off stage. Waving to the fans hanging over the railings, Amber made her way to the ramp entrance, where two burly cowboys blocked pursuers. After signing a few autographs for fans, Amber turned our way, squealed, and broke into a run with her arms open. I prepared myself for an exuberant hug, but before I knew what was happening, Amber had wrapped herself around Butch, and I was standing there with my arms in the air and my bottom lip down around my knees.
“I did it! I did it! I did it!” she cheered, her face buried against his neck. “That felt so great. Oh, that was just the most awesome thing.”
“You knocked ’em dead,” Butch cheered, then swept her off her feet before setting her down again. He wrapped her in his arms a moment longer, then backed away and glanced guiltily at me. “I’ll go see if the trailer’s ready.” Leaning over, he kissed Amber on the cheek, whispered something in her ear, then jogged down the ramp, leaving Amber and me standing against the girders, out of range of the zoom lenses and the flash bulbs exploding like fireworks outside the fence.
Amber peered toward the trailer, then let her head fall back against the cool metal. “You were right, Ms. Florentino. That felt so good.”
“It looked like it.” I nodded toward the ramp, where Butch had disappeared. “What’s going on with you and Butch?”
Eyes falling closed, Amber smiled slightly. “Butch is awesome. He’s so smart and so … strong, and he knows so much more than anybody gives him credit for. It’s like I told Mrs. Doll—he’s not like people think he is.”
I stared at Amber, trying to make sense of what she’d said. “Amber, I thought you and Justin Shay were—” a couple, a duo, a romantic pair—“together.”
A puff of laughter burst past Amber’s lips. “Ms. Florentino, you’ve been reading too many newspapers. You know all that stuff they say isn’t true. Justin’s a nice guy, and he’s my friend, but that’s it. For one thing, he’s way too old for me.”
I felt like I’d suddenly been dropped into an alternate universe—a place in which Amber made sense and I was the one who was nuts. “Then what’s he doing here?”
Opening her eyes, Amber held her hands palm-up. “He’s here because he flew me out on his plane, remember?”
“But why, Amber? Why would he do that if you two aren’t … together?” Justin Shay was known for a lot of things, but a charitable nature wasn’t one of them. If he was spending time with Amber, there was a reason.
Crossing her arms behind her back, Amber rested against the girder again, staring into the darkness beneath the bleachers. “Did you ever meet somebody, and right from the first, you knew there was a reason that person was in your life, but you didn’t know why?”
I pretended to consider the question, but in truth, I was thinking about the night I met Carter—how comfortable, how natural it seemed when we were together. I was thinking about Imagene and the day we stood in the rain, talking about the fear of drifting far out to sea. “Everyone has that feeling sometimes.”
Amber’s lips twisted to one side. “You remember that night I went with the people from Studio 10? Remember Butch had to come get me when everybody got drunk, and then I ended up in the newspaper and they said I was partying all night?”
“Yes, Amber, I remember.” How could I forget? The Studio 10 incident was one of Amber’s more notorious Hollywood fiascos.
“I wasn’t partying, Ms. Florentino. I was talking to Justin. At first, we were just talking about Hollywood and the show and stuff. He wanted me to go see his beach house in Malibu, but I said I’d better not.”
She finished the words with an acuteness that told me she was more savvy than anyone gave her credit for. “I told him he didn’t have to stay there just to keep me company, and he said he didn’t feel like partying, because it was his birthday. So I asked him why didn’t he want to celebrate, and he said he never liked birthdays, because it was his birthday when his mom took off with his little sister, and he never saw them again. She just dropped him at the video arcade and never came back. Can you imagine that—leaving a boy Avery’s age alone in a strange place?”
Moisture rimmed the corners of Amber’s eyes, and I felt myself getting choked up over the life of Justin Shay. I’d never heard that story about his mother.
Amber continued talking. “So I got to telling him about my brothers and the day my mama and daddy died, and the county split us up and sent us to different foster homes down around Austin while Peepaw was trying to get custody of us. And the thing was, Justin knew exactly how it felt, going into a place where you don’t know the people, and sometimes they’re mean, and sometimes they’re all right, and sometimes the other kids beat you up and take your stuff, and nobody even notices it.” Even now, I could see the sadness of those realities in Amber’s face. I suddenly understood why, in spite of her grandfather’s failures, Amber and her brothers were so determined to maintain a life together.
“I told Justin about how I used to sit out at the old Barlinger house and dream that someday I’d make lots of money, and I’d buy the whole ranch and make a place where kids can go with their brothers and sisters while the courts decide things. There’d be computers to help search for family members they might’ve lost touch with, and horses, and fishing poles, and a swimming hole at the creek so they could just go outside and be kids and not have to think about the pain in their lives.
“In the summer, the place would be like a camp, and kids who’ve been separated in foster homes could come and spend a couple weeks with their brothers and sisters. There’d be a chapel where the kids could learn that God loves you no matter what your parents did or what foster home you’re in. We could show them how to write notes and draw pictures back and forth to their brothers and sisters, like I did with my brothers when we were separated.” Exhaling a quick sigh, she turned to me, her eyes filled with a greater vision. “Don’t you think that would be an awesome kind of place?”
“I do think it would be.” More than ever before, I understood the magic of Amber Anderson. It was so much larger than one nineteen-year-old girl from a seedy trailer on a bare-dirt farm. She had the glow of a true believer. “You know, Amber, if you make it to the top two, you’ll have the power to do things like that. You’ll be in a position to make a difference.” Even though the winner got the million-dollar recording contract and the major publicity, the runner-up always received offers and enough notoriety to begin a recording career.
Amber shrugged, uncrossing her arms and picking at a fingernail. “I figure Justin Shay’s already got what it would take to do it. He’s got so much money, he just spends it everywhere, and he’s got friends with money, and he’s in the newspapers all the time. I think it might be nice for him to be in the paper for something good for a change. Maybe he won’t be so empty inside. Maybe he’ll see that we’re given stuff so we can do something that matters. That Shokhana place he gives his money to isn’t a church—it’s a big glass temple where you have to have a lot of money to even get in.”
She flicked a glance my way, perhaps to see what I was thinking. “I’m sorry, Ms. Florentino. I knew when I invited Justin that having him come here would probably mess up my hometown show, but I figured there’s a pretty good possibility I won’t make it very far in the Final Five and then my chance to talk to somebody like Justin Shay would b
e gone. Nobody’ll care what I’ve got to say anymore, so I brought him here to see the Barlinger place.”
My throat prickled with emotion. “Amber, you have every chance to make it to the top of the Final Five.”
She looked at her hands again. Long ringlets of hair fell across her cheek, catching a stray beam of sunlight and turning golden. “Ms. Uberstach doesn’t like me.”
Denying that would have been a paper-thin lie, so I didn’t bother. Ursula didn’t like Amber. Even Amber knew it. “It’s not up to her, Amber. Ultimately the decision comes down to viewer votes. You can get the viewer votes—if we can finish up this segment. We need the concert at the community building tonight and a few more interviews, then we’ll have what it takes.”
Leaning away from the rail, Amber peered toward the growing commotion at the bottom of the ramp. Flashbulbs went wild. “We’ll never get out of here. You wouldn’t believe what those people will do to get a picture. They bury themselves in the sand by Justin’s beach house at night and stay there all day, waiting for him to come out so they can jump up and take pictures. It’s crazy and they won’t stop, no matter what you say to them. They’ll ruin the concert tonight.”
“You let us worry about that. You just get ready to sing.” I said it as if I had a plan, which I didn’t. The cacophony below was getting louder—voices yelling, horns honking, chain link clanking against the poles, the blast of a police siren. On the ramp above, the two cowboys were having trouble holding back the crowd. If we didn’t get out of here soon, we’d be mobbed.
A moment later, Butch was running up the ramp. He didn’t stop as he reached us, just hollered, “Holy mackerel, he’s actually doing it!” His voice cracked on the high note as he skidded to a stop at the entrance to the bleachers. For some reason, the crowd there had cleared and the two burly cowboy bodyguards were gone.
“What in the world …” I muttered.
Butch motioned for us to follow. “Come look at this!”
Amber started up the ramp at a trot, then broke into a run with me a few steps behind her. By the time I reached the top, she and Butch were engrossed in watching something below in the arena. They seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the bouncers had disappeared and we could be swamped by the crowd at any moment.
“Amber, wait!” I called. Knocking Butch sideways as I passed, I reached for Amber and grabbed the back of her rhinestone-studded jacket the way a parent might snag a toddler about to disappear into a crowd.
“Amber, what are you doing?” I screamed, pulling her back. Overhead, the crowd had grown deafening. “You can’t go that way, Amber!”
She whirled toward me in a flash of blond hair and sunlit rhinestones. “Justin’s down there! Look!”
Still clutching her jacket, I inched forward so that I could see the arena floor. The chaos in the stadium took a moment to register. Around me, spectators streamed toward the railings. Paparazzi and news crews were rushing to push through the onlookers, moving cameras and equipment over barricades to reach the front of the crowd.
On the arena floor, the sheriff’s young deputy, Buddy Ray, was chasing a suspect, screaming, “Halt, police! Halt, police!” His quarry, a man wearing nothing but a nice suntan and red satin boxer briefs, dashed though the deep sand, evading Buddy Ray with the speed and skill of an action hero. As he ran, he flipped gate latches, allowing calves, horses, and a herd of sheep into the arena. Slinging his shirt over his head, he hollered, “I’m running with the bulls! I’m running with the bulls!”
I suddenly realized the man wearing nothing but his boxers and a smile was Justin Shay.
“Justin!” Amber screamed, but her voice was lost in the chaos. “Justin!” Whirling toward Butch, she pushed her hair from her face. “What’s wrong with him? What is he doing?”
Butch reeled up his bottom lip and came to his senses. “It’s all right. He did it on purpose. He’s distracting them so we can go.” Amber blinked at him doubtfully as Butch took her hand and pulled her toward the vehicle. I looped my arm around her from behind, and we hurried away.
Rodney met us halfway up the ramp. “Let’s go! The crowd’s cleared for some reason.”
A belly laugh caused Butch to stumble sideways. “You won’t believe why …” The words ended in a wheeze, and Butch reached into his jeans pocket, searching for his asthma inhaler.
“Tell me later,” Rodney barked, then took control of Amber and hustled her away.
“Go on. I’ll ride with Butch,” I called as Butch wheezed harder, searching his pockets.
“I’ve got the crew,” Rodney yelled. “See you back at the house.” As they rounded the corner, Amber glanced back at Butch with concern. He waved good-bye, still wheezing, then finally fished his inhaler from his shirt pocket and took a puff. He was trying to say something, but between laughing and wheezing couldn’t catch his breath. Finally, he started down the ramp, motioning for me to follow.
We’d found our way to the back gate and reached his car before he’d managed to compose himself. He was laughing so hard he had tears streaming down his cheeks. Taking the keys, I told him to get in the passenger seat, and we left the chaos of the fairgrounds behind.
Butch wiped his eyes as we turned onto the rural road and the sirens faded into the distance. “That was priceless.” His voice squeaked like an adolescent’s. “I can’t believe he actually did it.”
“Butch, what are you talking about? What happened back there?”
Turning to look over his shoulder, Butch started laughing uncontrollably again. I resisted the urge to slap him back to his senses. “Butch, I said, what happened?”
“I … I told him …” Butch chugged between puffs of laughter. His face was splotchy red and gray, still wet with tears. “I told him to …”
“Butch!” The car teetered off the pavement and strafed a patch of sunflowers along the side of the road. “Get it together already.”
“All right, all right.” He sniffed again and swallowed hard, then shook his head, bending down to look in the side mirror. “You have to sort of picture it.” He raised his hands, like a director sketching out a scene. “We’re throwing stuff in the trailer and trying to figure out how to get Amber out of there. There’s press and paparazzi everywhere—they’re, like, beating down the fence, shinnying down the bleachers, and there’s Justin, getting in the way, and they’re all screaming questions and going crazy to get to him. He’s so busy posing for the cameras, he knocks one of our units off the trailer fender, and Rodney about hits the roof and hollers, ‘You’re out of here now, you bleep-bleep-bleepin’ bleep!’ Then, it’s like they’re going to get in a fight, and I can just picture that in the papers tomorrow, so I tell Justin if he really wants to fight, why doesn’t he go slug the deputy down by the gate, get himself arrested, and take the heat off of us so we can get Amber out of there. I didn’t think he’d really do it.”
My mouth fell open and I turned to Butch. “He punched the deputy?” The car veered off the road again.
Butch’s hand jerked toward the steering wheel. “Do you want me to drive, Ms. Florentino?”
“No, I don’t want you to drive.” I slapped his hand away. “Justin punched the deputy?”
Butch shrugged, like he didn’t care either way. “Who knows, but he’s sure about to get arrested. No big deal for him. He gets arrested all the time. That was pretty cool, though—the running with the bulls thing. That ought to make the papers.” Butch started laughing again, a chuckle first and then a full-blown guffaw. “Man, that was funny. Did you see …” He went on recapping the scene, but I tuned out. A new complication had begun working its way into my mind. For the moment, we were free and clear of paparazzi, but the jail, where Justin Shay was undoubtedly headed, was adjacent to the community building. We couldn’t possibly have Amber’s welcome home concert there tonight. With Justin Shay’s arrest, the paparazzi would multiply like cockroaches.
“We have to find somewhere else for Amber’s welcome home concert
.” I was talking as much to myself as to Butch. “We can’t possibly have it in town tonight.” Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I tried to think. The fairgrounds were taken up with the fair … Imagene’s house was too small … the barn, maybe … a barn … concert … not very practical. The place was full of old tools and tractor implements. Even with help, we couldn’t clean it out in time … “Harve’s Chapel!” The idea dawned in my mind like a sunburst in the darkness, and the producer in me started turning the wheels in overdrive. “It’s ideal—out of the way, intimate, a place where Amber has history. Imagene mentioned a choir practice there tonight… .” I smiled to myself, struck with a mental Wow! “We can get Amber singing with the choir behind her. In the place where she learned to love gospel music. It’s perfect.” I fished for my purse and cell phone on the floorboard, then remembered it was in the truck with the crew. “Butch, can I borrow your cell? I have to make some phone calls and set this thing up.”
“Mine’s dead,” Butch said with a distinct lack of concern. “I might have my car charger back there in my duffle bag. Do you want me to get it?”
“Of course I want you to get …” I glanced sideways, and he was eyeing me with the strangest look—not the naïve, gullible, college-kid Butch expression, but one that implied critical thinking and a high degree of skepticism. “Butch, why are you looking at me like that?”
He considered me for a moment before answering, then looked down at his hands and chewed his bottom lip. “To be honest, Ms. Florentino, I’m wondering why you’re working so hard on this. I mean, I know why I’m working so hard on it—I want Amber to go out in style, but why are you working so hard on it?”
