No One to Hold

by Arell Rivers

  “I’m so glad you’re here, buddy,” Dan says, ushering me into the family room. “Emma’s been crying all morning. We’ve tried everything, but can’t get her to stop.”

  Though I’m not accustomed to being around babies, I try to commiserate. “Have you tried singing to her?” My best friend apparently takes that as an offer on my part. The next thing I know, Dan’s wife thrusts my four-month-old goddaughter into my arms. Thoughtfully, she puts what looks like a diaper on my shoulder.

  “It’s called a burp cloth,” Suzanne declares with a smile in her brown eyes.

  Well, hell. I look down into the baby’s little face, all scrunched up with red blotches from her crying. “Emma, sweetie, what’s the matter?” I ask in a low-pitched, hopefully soothing voice. She continues to wail.

  I look up for help from Dan or Suzanne, but both have disappeared, presumably to change for the christening. “I guess it’s just you and me, Emma.” This is not good. Emma emits a particularly loud note. Not good at all.

  “C’mon, sweetie. Stop crying for your Uncle Cole.” Yeah, like that’ll help. I might as well take my own advice and try singing. At the very least, my voice should drown out some of her screams.

  I can’t think of any kids’ songs except for the one about a spider. Then my eyes land on a framed picture of Dan and Suzanne’s wedding, and I decide on the song I wrote for them, “She’s Your Happy.” I prepared it as a surprise for their wedding, and sang it after my best man toast.

  Emma miraculously stops crying after I sing the first verse. By the end of the song, she’s staring at me with this adorable look on her face. It’s almost as if I wrote the song with Emma in mind even though she came along years later.

  “I can’t believe it. You wrap females of all ages around your finger with that tenor voice of yours,” Suzanne says from the threshold.

  I look up, smiling. “She likes your song.” Gratefully, I hand Emma back to her mother and return the diaper burp thingy to her as well. Straightening my tie, I wink at her and say, “Play one of my albums for her the next time she starts crying like that again.”

  “No daughter of mine is going to be a Cole groupie,” Dan states flatly. “She’s way too smart for that, even at four months.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Danny-boy. She looks pretty enthralled to me,” I say. It feels good to tease him.

  Making a fist, he says, “You’d better keep that dimple away from her, if you know what’s good for you.” Laughing, we head out to the church.

  Following the christening, we go to a restaurant on Mulholland Drive for a small celebration. I carry Emma into the private dining room, and give her to Suzanne to be fed. Thankfully, she hasn’t cried since I sang to her. My goddaughter sure knows how to turn on the charm when it comes time to perform.

  “You look good with a baby in your arms,” Dan whispers loudly. He lowers his voice. “Maybe one of the tabloids will run a photo of you with Emma, saying she’s your love child. Imagine the frenzy.”

  “Screw you.” I give Dan a punch. “I don’t think Rose needs another mess to mop up. Besides, you and Suzanne would have to come down from your television ivory tower to set the record straight. And I know how much you executive types hate to leave the safety of that tower.”

  “Simply because we don’t crave the spotlight like some other people I won’t name, does not mean that we live in an ivory tower.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” The waitress comes over to take our order, effectively ending our friendly banter.

  Back at their house, Dan and I relax with a couple of beers while a baseball game plays on the television. Suzanne is in the other room with Emma. It’s nice to hang out with my former roommate, even if it’s only a few hours.

  “So, how are you doing, Cole? I’m still so sorry that we couldn’t be there for your mom’s funeral.”

  “You didn’t have much of a choice. Emma was ready to make her appearance. If I never mentioned it before, it means a lot to me that her middle name is Julie.” Emma was born the day after Mom’s funeral.

  “Your mom was very special to me. I wanted to honor her.”

  We both take long pulls of our beers. Mom took an immediate shine to Dan when we roomed together at New York University, and the fact that he’d already moved to LA made her feel better about me doing the same when I signed with my label.

  I clear my throat, causing Dan to look at me. He knows I do that when I’m about to bring up a particularly difficult subject, but I doubt he’s prepared for what’s going to come out of my mouth. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately, as you can imagine. It’s been rough. One thing that Mom made me promise is that I’m going to settle down.”

  Dan snorts.

  Ignoring him, I continue. “Yeah, yeah. I know I’ve had more than my share of women, but sleeping around feels hollow now. When Mom called to tell me about her diagnosis, I was in bed with a model. I was barely holding it together when I shared the news with her. You know what her response was?”

  He shakes his head, and I continue, “She said, ‘Oh, that’s too bad. Want a blow job?’”

  Dan’s eyebrows meet his thinning hairline. “That’s messed up.”

  “I know, right? I told her to leave.” I sigh and run my hand through my hair. “Jessie and I are real friends, you know? I think she’s my first female friend. Of course, there’s no romantic interest considering she’s with Amanda, but I do enjoy hearing her take on things, even if I’m mystified by some of her logic.”

  “Oh boy, do I get that. But don’t let Suzanne hear you say that.”

  “Hear you say what?” Suzanne comes into the living room holding Emma, dressed in her footie pajamas.

  “Nothing,” Dan and I both say in unison, trying to look innocent. Suzanne taps her foot.

  “I’m putting Emma down for the night. Daddy, kiss your baby girl good night.” Dan gives his daughter a kiss, and Suzanne brings her over to me. “Kiss your goddaughter, Uncle Cole.” I dutifully give her a kiss too, and they leave the room.

  I figure now is as good a time as any to make my request. Sucking in my breath, I blurt out, “Dan, do you know any women who might be good for me. You know, long term?”

  Dan’s eyes get wide. “Are you seriously asking me to fix you up on a date?”

  “Don’t let this go to your head, asshole. It’s just, you know, I don’t meet a lot of down-to-earth women. Most of the ones I go out with are for show, set up by Rose. Or groupies. I have yet to meet anyone who holds my interest beyond the bedroom. Or back room.” I snicker to relieve some of my tension. But then I picture Rose sprawled across a bed, and my smile fades. These thoughts have to stop. It’s bad enough she’s been popping up in my dreams. She’s my employee, for fuck’s sake.

  Dan says, “I get it. Congratulations, man, you’re finally growing up.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, buddy. I’m not ready for the white picket fence and 2.5 kids. But I would like to have someone to share my life with.”

  “Any particular requests? Blonde, brunette, tall, short?”

  “You know me. She doesn’t have to be a model or anything. I’ve been with enough models and starlets to know that beauty can only take a person so far. Usually, they’re most interesting when they’re on their backs or their knees.”

  Dan snorts. “You’re right, you’re not growing up.”

  “Cole, growing up? Ha!” Suzanne comes back into the room carrying a tray holding the baby monitor and another round of beers. She joins us on the couch with her iced tea.

  “Our boy here wants us to fix him up.”

  “On a date?” Suzanne asks excitedly. Dan nods while I slump back into the sofa with my new bottle. “That’s great, Cole. I have a few women already in mind for you. Let’s see, you’ll need a career woman because you’re always on the road. Someone who can keep you on your toes, yet give you the pampering you need. Smart and funny, ‘cause you like to laugh a lot.”

  She continues for a solid fifteen minutes, b
ut I’ve totally tuned her out. I glance over at Dan, whose eyes are equally glazed over. I’m brought back into the conversation when Suzanne says, “Do you want kids?”

  Thankfully, Dan fields this one. “Not right away, honey. I think we know Cole well enough that we can come up with a few good candidates without badgering him.”

  Oops, judging by the way Suzanne’s eyes turn into slits, Dan’s choice of the word “badgering” is going to get him into some hot water. Seeing how I might have inadvertently caused this little tiff, I try for some humor. “What a great song title. I can name my next song ‘Badgering.’” Lame, but we all laugh anyway, and it breaks the tension.

  I stay for a few more hours, watching my NY Mets lose, again, and catching up. It’s nice to have a quiet evening in with friends, away from spotlights, cameras and eager fans. I know how important my fans are to my career, but it’s difficult to be “on” all of the time. Especially lately, when they step all over themselves trying to “comfort” me.

  Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I give Suzanne a hug. “I had a great time seeing you and Emma. I’ll take my godfather duties very seriously, I promise.”

  “I know you will. Emma’s a lucky girl. She’ll be the envy of all the other girls in her day care.” Suzanne says, smiling.

  “Not to mention the moms,” Dan chimes in.

  “Asshole.”

  “Better watch it. This asshole is going to be setting you up on a date in the very near future.”

  Well, shit. What did I get myself into?

  I PUT THE FINISHING touches on the music for “No One to Hold.” Mom’s warm presence surrounds me, as if she’s wrapping me in a thank you hug for the song. It’s taken months to get it right, but it may be the best one I’ve ever written. Not sure how I’m going to be able to perform it live, though, because so many of my emotions are packed into it. I’ll play it for Russell to get his take. As I pull out my cell phone to call him, it beeps with a text from Dan:

  Don’t forget you’re meeting Alicia tonight.

  As if I could. My nerves are tingling like they do right before I hit the stage. I shake my head at the absurdity. I’m simply meeting this woman for dinner. Who knows if we’ll even have chemistry?

  All set. Will let you know how it goes. I hit send.

  According to Dan, first dates are usually at a coffee shop or a bar—low pressure and easy to escape. However, those options simply are not available to me. So, Dan thought a nice dinner in a quiet restaurant would be a good idea. The reservation’s under his name, and we’re arriving separately.

  Don’t let the paparazzi catch wind of this covert operation, I whisper to myself. If they do, Rose will have to do clean-up. For some reason, the thought of Rose finding out about it makes me queasy. I tamp down the heat coursing through my veins at the mere thought of Rose. Focus, Cole.

  My date is Suzanne’s colleague. Alicia is a news reporter with Suzanne’s station, which means she’s had her own issues with celebrity. At least she can sort of understand what I deal with daily.

  I’ve caught a couple of Alicia’s news segments. She’s pretty, smart and does her job really well. Dan has warned me that she’s a vegetarian. Armed with this information, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for my first blind date.

  Coming to a stop in front of the restaurant, I toss my keys to the valet and walk inside, keeping my head down and cap on. No flashing lights, and no one’s calling my name. So far, so good. The perky, red-headed hostess shows me to a table in a dark corner. Though she doesn’t make any inappropriate comments, I recognize the look in her eyes. If she sensed any willingness from me, she’d offer up anything I might like for an appetizer. Or dessert.

  “When Miss Jones arrives, please escort her to my table. Your discretion is much appreciated.” I slip her a hundred-dollar bill, which she takes but looks disappointed I didn’t slip her something else.

  Sitting down, I remove my cap off and order a bottle of champagne. I’m about to take my first sip when Miss Perky Hostess returns with Alicia. I stand to greet her.

  “So nice to meet you in person,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than on TV.”

  “Thanks, Cole. I’m so happy that Suzanne set us up.”

  “Please, sit. Would you like some champagne?” She nods her assent, so I pour her a glass.

  “A toast. To a wonderful evening.” We clink glasses. “I enjoyed watching your reports last week about that rash of burglaries.”

  “Thank you. The ring is nasty and the police have few leads. Hopefully the reports will lead to some useful tips.”

  I nod. The waiter comes with the menus, and runs through the specials. “So, have you been here before? Dan recommended this restaurant to me. He says the fish is to die for.”

  “I bet. Those poor fish had to die a terrible death just to end up on a plate served with lemon.”

  Well, crap. “I thought vegetarians eat fish, but not meat.”

  “Pescatarians do, but I’m a vegan,” she announces.

  Damn. This is already going south. “Well, I hope you find something on the menu that suits your diet.”

  “When I go out, I usually tell them what to make for me. It’s rare that there’s anything appropriate on a menu.”

  Rare. She said that word, and now all I can think about is ordering a steak: Rare. Shit, if I do that, will she be offended? Even more offended than she already is? Might as well ask. “Oh. Well, um, do you mind if I order a steak?”

  Her look of revulsion is answer enough, so I quickly add, “Or fish?” No way in hell am I eating tofu or dandelions or whatever the hell she considers “appropriate” food.

  Alicia sighs. “I can deal.”

  I decide to go with the potato-crusted mahi-mahi. At least that’s half vegan. I hope.

  Desperately trying to change the subject, I ask, “How long have you known Suzanne?”

  “She’s the producer for my news program. I met her when I got this job in LA, about six months ago.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “I was in Philadelphia. This is a stepping stone for me; I really want to get to the NY market. That’s where the real action is.”

  “Oh.” I wonder if Suzanne knows this. I guess ambition is pretty common in their cutthroat business. We go on to discuss her career, in depth. She’s very into it. I’m getting pretty bored hearing about ratings, asshole reporters, camera men with wandering hands and story pitches, but every time I try to change the subject, she veers it back. It’s like playing the guitar with a broken string.

  She picks up her water and starts to chew on the ice. This is my ultimate pet peeve—like nails on a chalkboard. My hands ball into fists under the table. If I could yell out for the check, I would. I silently cast my eyes about, actually hoping to lock eyes with a fan who’ll disrupt our dinner. Where are the fangirls when you need them?

  Somehow, I get through the rest of the entree and profess to be too stuffed for dessert. The women in LA rarely eat dessert anyway. “Alicia, I had a nice time.”

  “Thank you, Cole. So did I. It’s too bad you’re such an avid fisherman. I had no idea.” We both smile. I figured it would be better to feed her a white lie than to tell her there’s no way I’m interested in dating a militant vegan, career-obsessed ice chewer. I’ll be a little blunter with Dan and Suzanne.

  “I would walk you out, but I don’t want to cause a commotion. If there are any paparazzi out there . . .” Letting the sentence hang, I take her hand and kiss it. The last thing I want to do is piss off a reporter of her caliber. “Get home safe.” I watch her navigate through the tables and leave the restaurant.

  I sit down, loudly exhaling, then I motion for the waiter. “I’d like a ribeye, rare.”

  TWO WEEKS AND a few more disastrous dates later, I’m sitting in a meeting about my upcoming album with my manager Russell and Jon Merkin, my A&R rep from Platinum Records. One bright spot is that Greta the Gruesome is sick and could
n’t make this meeting, so at least I don’t have to put up with her passive-aggressive shit today. Rose is here in her place, dressed in her usual skirt and blazer combination—navy blue this time.

  I repress a shudder as memories of my first meeting with Gruesome come unbidden to the forefront of my mind. Within minutes of arriving, I was ordered to stand up and take off my shirt. She proceeded to circle around me, commenting on my physique like I was a contestant in a gigolo contest. Then she ordered Rose to make me appointments to highlight my hair, whiten my teeth and get a style makeover. Ugh. The worst was when she pulled me aside to tell me that she’d be willing to bend the agency’s strict non-fraternization policy for me. Thank God I averted that disaster, since she is the best in the business.

  Planting that meeting with Gruesome firmly in the past, I tune back into the present as Jon says, “I agree with Russell. It’s time to go on a world tour. Your fans in Europe and Australia have been sending in way too many requests. We can’t keep ignoring them.”

  Yes. Now I’ll get to see the world while doing what I love. My life rocks. “I’ve never been to Europe. I’m so down with that. I only have to tweak a couple of songs before I’m ready to record.”

  “You’re scheduled for studio time in a couple of weeks.” Jon says.

  I nod. “I have enough material now. I recently finished a song that I wrote for my Mom. Russell’s heard it.”

  “The song’s great,” Russell says, nodding. “I think it should be the first single.”

  “Care to give us a preview?” Although Jon phrased it as a question, I know better. The label has been generous with my deadlines since Mom died, but they’re starting to get itchy.

  “Sure. Can you get me a guitar?” One good thing about meeting at Platinum Records’ office is that there’s always an instrument around. Pretty soon, one is handed to me.

  I take a deep breath, and slowly exhale. Looking up to the ceiling, I whisper, “Here you go, Mom.” I start “No One to Hold.” When the song ends, both Russell and Jon are smiling. They’re seeing dollar signs—it’s their job—but Rose’s eyes look watery behind her glasses, and the tenderness in them causes my breath to catch.