by Susan Ward
My iPhone voice mail is filled to the point where it can take no more messages, even though I deleted all my messages yesterday without listening to them.
But it’s full again with the standard array of crud: assorted news outlets—probably wanting to interview me about Shyla—Len, Linda, Brian again, attorneys, friends, and the casual female friends I sleep with. I delete them all and toss the phone on the table.
I stand up. “I’m going out for a while.”
“I’ll be gone by the time you return.”
“Listen, it’s not you.”
“You already said that.”
I look at her mountain of junk in the hallway. Seeing her stuff stacked by the front door makes me feel like an asshole. Worse, it reminds me of the day Chrissie moved out, that I watched her leave and did nothing to try to stop her. It makes staring at the girl’s boxes an unpleasant thing.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” she says. “I thought I could get it into the car before you came back from your run.”
I shift my gaze from Aarsi’s things. “You don’t need to move out. But you need to stay out of my way, keep the house running and be otherwise invisible.”
Aarsi’s smile this time is beaming. “I can do that.”
“I may not be back until tomorrow.”
She nods.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“And you’ve been working for me for what, about five years?”
Dimples in her cheeks this time with her smile. “You pay very well.”
“Well, Aarsi, it’s good to know I’ve done someone some good.”
“You’ve done lots of people lots of good. I don’t just mean your music. All the charity. You are a very generous man.”
“Charity is tax deductible. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”
“I don’t believe that at all.”
“Well, you should. We are all creatures of self-interest. Some of us just hide it better. What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I’m into world music. But I like your music. My boyfriend is deployed in Afghanistan. He plays you in the Humvee when he’s on patrol. Your early stuff. All the stuff from the eighties.”
“Ah, the music from when I was young and angry.”
“You’re still young.”
She flashes me a smile that is flirty and pert.
Damn her.
“We’ll get along fine if you stay out of my way. There are only two reasons I ever fire a housekeeper: climbing into my bed or talking to the press. I don’t fuck young women who work for me.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “I’ll remember that.”
“See that you do.”
Her entire face is now deep crimson. I wasn’t positive before the blush that her flirty tone had been an invitation to fuck her. It’s good that I dealt with that upfront.
I take from the collection of cars in my garage the Mercedes with its darkly tinted windows. I notice the UCLA parking decal hanging from the rearview and I realize that this is the car Aarsi has been using for her private use.
I almost climb out, but instead decide to toss the decal on the windshield of the Porsche parked beside it. I just want to get past the fucking tabloids at the end of the drive without incident. That the girl has been using this car and the windows are too dark to see in will hopefully help facilitate a quiet escape. If I’m lucky the press won’t follow me.
Damn Shyla and her drama.
Chapter 7
I’m trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Highway 1 for an hour. It’s after 4 p.m., even though I’ve only gone twenty miles, before I catch my first glimpse of Pacific Palisades, Chrissie’s new home since Jesse’s death. She sold the Santa Barbara house four months ago. Linda Rowan gave me that news and elaborated on it no further.
I wonder why Chrissie moved. I never thought she’d leave Santa Barbara again. Perhaps the memories are too painful to live in the house she shared with Jesse. Perhaps she just wants to be closer to Jesse’s family because of their kids.
I turn up the narrow tree-lined road to her house and pull into Chrissie’s long, circular driveway. Her modest Pacific Palisades estate is surrounded by only a four-foot-high, two-bar white fence. There are no high stucco walls with a gate for privacy or security.
I park the car and sit for a moment, staring at the house. This is not wise, Chrissie. This house may have the look of your house in Santa Barbara, the feel of continuity might be a good thing for the kids, but it is not wise and certainly not safe.
This is fucking LA. Don’t you ever think, Chrissie? It’s charming. But it’s charmingly stupid.
I climb from the driver’s seat and go to the door. I ring the bell. I wait. Why does it always take forever for someone to answer the front door?
I’m about to head back to my car for my phone to call her when the front door is opened wide. Oh fuck. I stiffen. It is Grace Harris, Jesse’s mother.
“Oh my God,” she exclaims in disbelief.
“Close. Lucifer,” I tease and force a laugh.
Grace smiles. “I’m sorry. You surprised me. I was expecting the pizza delivery boy.”
“A welcome surprise, I hope?” Tentative. Careful. Cool. We used to be on friendly terms, but I’m feeling grossly uncomfortable with her today.
“You are always welcome, Alan.” She struggles to adjust the infant in her arms. “Why would you even ask such a thing?”
“I wasn’t certain I would be after a year. I’m terrible at keeping in touch.”
Grace gives me an exuberant hug, which she manages with the baby in her arms. “Year or not, you are always welcome.”
The pizza delivery boy has the unforgivable timing of arriving while we are still passing pleasantries at the door.
“Jesus Christ!” He shouts too loudly from behind me. “Aren’t you—?”
“No, Dave Grohl is touring and American.”
The boy stares at me. I feel my head start to throb again. I just want fucking inside the house so I can see Chrissie.
“Would you mind signing my hat?”
Crap. I stare at the boy. He looks like a nice kid, fresh-faced Boy Scout type, and deserves to be treated politely. It will give him something to amuse himself with while delivering pizza.
How amusing can that be?
“Sure. No problem,” I tell him.
The pizza is dumped on the porch. His hat and a pen are shoved at me. Grace goes into the house, fishes through her purse in the entry hall for money, and pays him.
“Grab the pizza when you’re done, Alan.”
I give the cap back to the kid. He won’t stop talking. It doesn’t feel like he’s leaving here anytime soon without rudeness. I don’t want to be rude to the kid. Fuck, I’ll outflank him.
“I don’t play in the LA area for another eight months. Scribble out your name and address and I’ll send you two backstage passes. Would you like that?”
The boy’s jaw drops. I take his information, shove it into my pocket and watch him leave.
“You better not disappoint that boy, Alan,” Grace chides as I follow her into the kitchen. “He’s a nice boy. Lives up the road. Plays with Ethan and Eric in the front yard when he has the time without being asked to.”
Ethan and Eric. Chrissie’s six-year-old sons reduced to playing ball with the neighborhood scout/pizza delivery boy. Jesse had been a devoted father. It’s impossible to comprehend the size of the void in their lives without him.
I settle on a stool at the island counter in the center of Chrissie’s gourmet kitchen. “How are the kids doing?”
“The kids are doing well. We’re a strong family.”
I nod. I don’t know what to say.
There is silence between us as she settles the baby in the bouncer on the counter. She puts a plate of pizza and a beer in front of me. I’m not hungry but I start eating anyway to be polite.
She sits on a stool across from me and gives me a thorough study. Sh
e starts fiddling with her elegant, silvery chin-length hair, a nervous gesture, then the smooth skin of her face tightens inch by inch.
She frowns. “What’s wrong, Alan? What is going on in your life to make you so unhappy?”
Sincere concern. God, I love this woman. Would I be the man Jesse had been if I’d been raised by this tender woman?
I shrug. “There’s nothing wrong. I’m tired, stressed, working and drinking too much, I’m sure you’d think. But I’m good.”
She shakes her head. “Call me. I mean it, Alan. Call me. Even if it’s only to tell me goodbye and that you’re leaving LA.”
I stare. Both that speech and her tone were odd. “I’ll call. I’ll be in LA for the next three months. I’m not on the road again until April. We can do lunch. Dinner. Think about it so it’s decided before I call.”
“A gauche, trendy restaurant in the Hollywood area would be so amusing. There are times your life is a circus, Alan. I don’t know how you live in it.”
I laugh. Somehow I just got chided for my lifestyle without her saying a single direct word. Damn, she must reading the tabloids. Absurd and sweet.
“With twenty-two grandchildren, Grace, your life is a circus, too.”
“Twenty-three.” She picks up the baby and turns her so she faces toward me. “Meet Khloe. She joined us in August. Isn’t she beautiful?”
The baby is beautiful. Dark hair, flawless olive-toned skin and what would surely be enormous blue eyes.
“All the Harris grandchildren are beautiful. It’s good that they are since your family procreates in excess.”
She gives me a sharp rebuke with her eyes. I tense. Shit, maybe I offended her.
“There is not a time a baby is born that it is in excess.”
She abruptly leaves the room.
I shake my head. Fuck. Good one, Alan. Marvelous way to start this visit. Piss off Jesse’s mother. That’ll go over great with Chrissie.
I go into the family room with its wall of glass overlooking the back lawn. The room has a cluttered and whimsical charm. Oversized cream couches. A large-screen TV. A table scattered with the half-joined pieces of a puzzle. The two Pulitzers that are Jesse’s hanging on the wall with Chrissie’s gold and platinum records. The mess of the kids is everywhere. I navigate through toys, books, and an odd assortment of shoes in varying sizes.
I stare out through the French doors at the shadowy, covered back patio and across the yard. My gaze locks on my target.
Chrissie is sitting near the patio on the grass beneath a tree with the twins flanking her sides. She is reading to the boys. She looks more beautiful than any woman has a right to look in faded jeans, a black cotton tank top, blond hair in a ponytail, no jewelry except her wedding band, and her delicately featured tanned face without makeup. She looks stunning.
I take a moment to enjoy the sight of her and struggle to put back into order my internal arrangement. Now that I’m here, I realize I should have called her first, but I always used to drop in on the fly during her marriage to Jesse.
But this is different, I remind myself. The last time I saw her we were in bed together. And I can feel there is a lot going on inside this house that isn’t good. Nothing has felt normal, the way it used to, since I arrived here.
I hear a loud bang, and turn to find a tote bag lying on the tile entry floor. Kaley is standing across the room, staring at me. She’s changed a lot in a year. She’s taller. Must be nearly five feet eleven. Her hair has grown. Her dark curls are halfway down her back. She looks more mature, less like a teenager. She is strikingly beautiful.
She pulls her earbuds out. “How long have you been here?”
My eyes widen. The combination of the unexpectedly hostile stare and the tone of her voice makes me tense.
“Well, hello to you, too, Kaley.” She rolls her eyes and doesn’t return the greeting. “I just got in to LA a few hours ago.”
“Does Mom know you’re here?”
“No. I wanted to surprise her.”
Her eyes flash. “Oh, there is definitely going to be a surprise here today.” Hostile and cryptic this time.
She marches across the room toward the kitchen. What is up with that? Kaley and I have always been tight. She looked at me like she hates me.
I debate whether to follow her. After a few minutes, I go into the kitchen. She’s rummaging through the fridge.
I lean against the counter and wait for her to turn toward me. She opens some sort of ready-made container and starts picking at it with a fork.
Is she ignoring me?
It’s an overplayed joke. I’ll try it anyway. “You used to like me a little, love.”
She doesn’t look up. “Very little.” She said her line. Improvement.
“You look good. How do you like living in Pacific Palisades?”
“I fucking hate it here.”
My eyes widen. Kaley didn’t used to swear. But she’s nearly eighteen.
“How’s your mother been?”
She pins me in a look that is withering.
“I’m out of here.”
In a flash I’m alone. What the fuck just happened?
I rake a hand through my hair and stay against the counter, trying to acclimate to the vibe here.
“Alan.”
I look into the family room. Krystal Harris is racing toward me, an enormous smile on her face. That’s more like it. More the welcome I’m used to here.
She’s changed a lot in a year, too. At nine, with her black hair and blue eyes, the term enchanting pixie always come to mind when I see her. She is confident like Jesse had been. Beautifully fragile like Chrissie. Absolutely lovely like you’d expect a daughter of theirs to be.
I swoop her up into my arms and give her a playfully loud kiss on her cheek. “Hey, sunshine, how are you doing? It looks like you’ve grown a foot since I’ve last seen you!”
She nods. “Three inches. Mommy says I’m going to be tall like Kaley. I’ve missed you. It’s been a year. You’ve never gone a whole year without visiting. Why don’t you come to see us anymore?”
I fight to keep reaction from my face. Krystal has an IQ that exceeds that of an MIT professor. It doesn’t surprise me she dropped in bullet-point style and laser accuracy each thing troubling and different about this past year.
What surprises me is it’s troubling to her.
I set her on her feet. “I’ve been working, love. I’ve been out of the States on tour.”
She frowns. “You were in LA in September. I saw it online. You didn’t visit us. Mommy was upset. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to.”
There are any number of ways I can interpret that one; none I want to deal with today.
I touch Krystal’s cheek. “It wouldn’t have done your mother any good for me to visit in September. How has she been doing, kiddo?”
Krystal giggles. “It sounds so funny when you say ‘kiddo.’ It doesn’t sound at all like Daddy with a British accent.”
Oh fuck. What the hell had made me call her kiddo? I never do that. That was Jesse’s pet term for the people he loved. I’m relieved to see that it didn’t upset Krystal. It makes her grin larger.
“Mommy is good.” Her eyes sharpen on me. Her brow crinkles. Worried. “You look terrible.”
“I’m getting old, sunshine. It happens to the best of us.”
Krystal pulls herself up to sit down on the counter close beside me. “I downloaded your new release from a bootleg site. Mommy doesn’t like me to do that since it cuts you from the royalties, but she doesn’t let me listen to your music so I can’t buy it. Too many bad words in some of the tracks. I did a remix. Do you want to hear? I turned it into hip-hop.”
I laugh. I have missed this little girl. I didn’t comprehend how much until now.
“Did you really remix me into hip-hop? Is the hip-hop an improvement? You’ve got your grandfather Jack’s talent and his wicked sense of humor. What did your mother think? Did you show her what you did?”
Krystal shrugs. “No. I’d have gotten into trouble and Mommy doesn’t talk about you anymore.”
She stares at her fingers. That bombshell makes my insides sharply adjust. Chrissie doesn’t talk about me anymore and Krystal is wondering why. Krystal has a dangerous sensitivity for a child. She picks up on things in the adult world that no child should be capable of for its own wellbeing. I can tell by her expression that she knows something is wrong between her mother and me, and she is troubled by it.
“Don’t worry, Krystal. Everything is going to be fine. It’s all different for us and it will take time until everything feels normal again. I loved your dad, too. He was a good man, and a good friend. I miss him every day. Are you all right, love?”
She stares at me perplexed “I will always be all right. Daddy loves me. You don’t lose love just because somebody goes away.”
Poignant words from a nine-year-old. It sounds like something Chrissie would say. I can tell that they are heartfelt and I am appalled with myself for being slightly jealous that it is this easy for her.
“Mommy is going to read for another half hour. Would you like to see the rabbits Uncle Sandy gave me for my birthday?”
Uncle Sandy, Jesse’s brother, a music promoter. “I saw your Uncle Sandy in Tokyo a week ago.”
“I know. I heard him tell Mommy. He was backstage at your concert and you had dinner together after the show. He said that being forced to eat in his socks gave him the flu. That you didn’t talk about anything and that you looked like hell. He thought Mommy should call you. She told him to butt out. She snapped at Uncle Sandy. He was surprised by that. Mommy never snaps.”
She slips down from the counter, grabs my hand and tugs me through the house to the side patio door.
There are two elegant structures on the lawn which one has to assume are Chrissie’s idea of hutches.
“Dang it,” she exclaims in irritation.
“What?”
Krystal drops to the grass before a hutch, opens the cage and lifts out a ball of gray fur.
“This is the male. One of the twins put them together. I promised Mommy I wouldn’t let that happen again. Why are boys such idiots? Why do they miss the obvious? Put them together in the cage and we’ve got more rabbits. We almost couldn’t find homes for them all last time. Mom’s going to be pissed.”
