Deeper Than Dreams

by Jessica Topper

  “Adrian’s been clean for over ten years.”

  “Damn,” she pouted. “I liked him dirty. Did you know shooting heroin gives a guy a boner as stiff as a fucking lead pipe? I hope for your sake he’s at least using Viagra.”

  “Isabelle. Enough.” Rick grunted.

  “Ah, look. It’s Damien from The Examiner. Kisses, Damien darling!”

  “She’s the monster. Not Adrian,” I choked from under my rage and tears, as she strutted off to air-kiss.

  “You think that’s bad? Wait until you hear what she’ll say behind your back. You’re going to have to grow a thicker skin in this business, you know. If you want to be with him.”

  “Oh?” I reeled to face him. “Is there a playbook for us gals that I should be following? Did Simone have one?”

  A muscle in Rick’s cheek twitched. “You know what they call gals like you, right? The ones we musicians love but leave behind, time after time? Road widows. Are you ready for that, Kat? All over again?”

  “How dare you.” My words were barely above a whisper.

  “I’m saying that out of the utmost respect, sweetheart. Playtime is over. You’ve got to be the strong one. You can’t be a bottomless pit of need. Or you will lose him.”

  “Oh, and then you’ll win, right? Because misery loves company, and you will have him right back where you want him.” I thought back to all the photos, all the stories. The empty stardom that had shot a crater of unhappiness through the man I loved. It wasn’t going to happen again, not if I could help it. “You can’t stand the thought of being the Have Not in this round, can you?”

  He needed to back the fuck down, because I wasn’t.

  “Touché, darling. That’s a start.” The arch of his smile was devilishly handsome. “It’s about time someone stuck up for him.”

  “You’re amused?”

  “No, just halfway to drunk.” He flashed open his fancy tux jacket, and strapped against its smart vest was a lethal-looking flask. “I hate these bloody social events.”

  I couldn’t help myself. The sob that had been threatening to break free all evening came out as a laugh. I couldn’t help myself—I liked Riff Rotten.

  ***

  “Shall we?” Rick offered up his arm. “I can’t just leave you here, like a damsel in distress.” I hesitated, glancing down the empty hallway behind us. “Or I guess you’d rather wait for your white knight?”

  I gave him a smile and shook my head. I was done waiting, and I didn’t need to be rescued. Gathering the bottom of my dress in my hands, I began to hurry down the long gallery, my heels like firecrackers on the marble.

  “Hey, where’s the fire?” Adrian caught me as I skittered around the polished corner and almost crashed smack into him.

  “Should we just forget this? Get out of here and go on home?”

  Adrian looked a bit defeated. “I’m afraid I don’t have any more surprises waiting for you back home, Kat. Just me.”

  “That’s all I need,” I insisted. “All I’ve ever needed.”

  I kissed him as if I could take away every unpleasant memory, and he responded as if I was all the happiness he knew.

  “Remember what you said to me in the limo? About conquering the world with me on your arm, and by your side?” I searched his eyes until I saw something familiar in them. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” I said quietly.

  Adrian’s handsome features softened, and the brittle edge of his voice was soft and supple once more. “I love you. For always, Kat. And I want to stay.”

  “So let’s finish this busman’s holiday.”

  Together, we entered the vast space that had been transformed into a lush winter setting for the heady and elegant evening. A rustic, winter forest of bare, white birch trees delicately lined the perimeter of the room, appearing to fade off into the distance. Under the grand iron skylight, chandeliers adorned with bark and branches shimmered, paired with crystals and disco balls for a wintery glimmer. Each table was set softly aglow with candles in birch log holders, tucked around centerpieces of moss and nests, pears and white roses. To my delight, programs made to look like old leather-bound books topped each place setting.

  Silent waiters made their rounds with sumptuous courses: smoked salmon Napoleon, chicken scaloppine with braised fennel and fava beans, morels and asparagus. Coffee followed, as did warm brownie pudding paired with vanilla bean ice cream. Thankfully, Isabelle didn’t sit still for more than a bite of each; she was up and schmoozing, making the rounds. But every so often, I’d catch her eyeing our trio. Making it known she was the type of woman who got what she wanted, and it was clear she wanted back into the inner sanctum. Only time would tell, I supposed. That was up to the real gatekeepers, who sat on either side of me.

  Tributes were made at the microphone, and the library’s president thanked the four hundred attendees, as over one and a half million dollars had been raised for the library’s book fund by the event. Then, as each Library Lions medal was presented, the honorees held court, each reflecting on how they’d used the resources at the library during the course of their achievements.

  It was amusing to watch the two rockers, reclining easily in their Chiavari chairs. They looked dashing and a little dangerous, clapping politely and conferring every now and again behind me, with a tilt of Adrian’s shaggy head toward Rick’s neatly shaven one.

  But neither of them were as stunned as I was when they were called up to present a medal of achievement to one Mister Alexander Floyd.

  ***

  “Two questions for you lads.” Alexander stood at my chair, his new medal gleaming from the bottom of its wide, red ribbon.

  “Where were you during our press conference before the Garden gig, yeah?” Rick wanted to know. “You snooze, you lose, Alex, dear boy.”

  A round of laughter and groans of “oh, come on” from the award-winning journalist commenced.

  “Two. Two and only two.” Rick slung an arm across Adrian’s shoulders and dialed up an exaggerated stony stare. “Go for it,” he commanded.

  Adrian gave his best mate a jostling with his elbow, jutting his chin for the cameras that had trailed after Alexander. “Shoot.”

  The pair mugged adorably for the cameras, just like the days of old. Together, they radiated a sensual energy that could only come from two dynamic talents who had played off of each other’s strengths and weaknesses for years. The potency had strengthened during their estrangement. If performing was akin to an orgasmic experience for Adrian, I could only imagine that the band’s reunion was like the best make-up sex ever.

  “Digger, what were Riff’s last words to you, back in ’88?”

  “I believe they were”—Adrian smirked, and in his best imitation of Rick’s slightly more cultivated tone—“‘See you in hell, me old China.’”

  “And Riff? Digger’s first words to you last month?”

  Rick suppressed a laugh, and captured Adrian’s murmur spot-on. “‘Hell’s a right bit chilly, ain’t it? Seems to ’ave frozen over.’ Wasn’t that it, mate?” He pulled back to look fondly upon his blood brother.

  Alexander furiously scribbled in his notepad, shaking his head and grinning at this rare exclusive he was getting. “And when do you plan on growing that glorious hair back?”

  It was as if Rick hadn’t heard the question, the way he turned back to the conversation being held at the table with a distracted smile. Then again, it had been Alexander’s third question, and Rick had only agreed to two.

  “Alex, have you met Kat yet?” Adrian slid an arm around my waist and kissed my cheek.

  “Has he met me yet?” I joked. “I’m the one who invited him over.”

  “Inviting the paparazzi to our table?” Adrian sputtered in mock horror. “That’s unheard of!”

  “Revolutionary,” Alexander agreed. “Perhaps I should write a
n article about you someday, my dear.”

  Déjà vu sliced through me like a double-edged sword. Adrian had once, during a moment of raw frustration, expressed his wish that someone would write a book about me, because he just couldn’t crack me.

  “Did Digger put you up to that?” I glanced at my lover now, but his gaze had locked on me first, a smile playing on his lips. He’d done one better. He’d written a song about me.

  No smoke and mirrors, no saints here,

  Only saviors, survivors, no fear

  Catch a glimpse of the future

  Emerald eyes hold it clear . . .

  He now knew me better than anyone, I was sure of that.

  “Are you kidding?” Alexander laughed. “He barely puts up with me, period. Who needs to remember the Alamo when we’ve got the Applejack Diner?”

  Adrian winced. “Sorry about that Blue Plate Special to your bonce, mate.”

  “You can make it up to me now, with a drink at the bar. And a chat.”

  “Go,” I said, when Adrian turned to me. This night really wasn’t just about me, and I was perfectly fine with that.

  “Only if he gives this exclusive the headline ‘Life After Death’ . . . there is more to my life”—he smiled and corrected himself—“to our life, than Corroded Corpse, after all.”

  ***

  “You’re very different than his prior conquests, you know.”

  Dinner was winding down, but Riff Rotten was just winding up. He allowed the waiters to swoop in with their crumb brushes, whisking away plates and glasses until only his silver flask of single malt Scotch remained. “Robyn was about as shallow as a child’s paddling pool,” he continued, unprompted. “You are deeper than that.”

  “Yes, we’ve already established that. I am a bottomless pit of need.”

  “No.” Rick did the drunk sway, elbows on the table, and frowned like he was disagreeing with both himself and me. “That was just me being a jealous bastard. You’re even deeper than that. You’re his dream girl.”

  “And Isabelle?”

  Rick waved a hand to dismiss the thought. “She’s soulless. This business sucked her dry.”

  “Then why are you aligning yourself with her? Out of loyalty to Simone?”

  “Can we change the subject, please?” He stared stonily into his glass; his expression the perfect accompaniment to the phrase “all clammed up.”

  It reminded me of the question I wanted to ask him.

  “Care to tell me how this came into Abbey’s possession?”

  I slid the shell across the table.

  Rick rested a long, elegant finger on its ridged hump. He didn’t speak for a moment. “I gave it to her as makana aloha.” The Hawaiian words sounded more magical when siphoned through his British accent. “A gift of love.”

  “You know what it is, don’t you?”

  Rick smiled. “Why don’t you tell me, Miss Marple?” He slid it smoothly back across to me, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “We are on your turf, after all.”

  Of course the library sleuth in me had been curious, and I’d had a chance to run a quick search on it—not within the city’s flagship temple of learning, but on the Internet, back at Adrian’s. “It’s a Langford’s Pecten. Otherwise known as the rare sunrise shell. Although, this one’s color makes it a moonrise shell, hence an even rarer specimen.”

  “Bravo,” Rick said, barely above a whisper, raising his eyes toward the gently curved glass ceiling to avoid meeting mine.

  “They’re worth about a hundred dollars a pop.” I carefully set it back in front of him. “Why would you give one to a five-year-old?”

  “It’s worthless to me.” Rick once again pushed it away. “I lost its mate, years ago.” I heard his words, but it was the haunted look in his eyes that I truly understood. “You see . . . it’s rare to find a single moonrise shell.” He placed it in my hand, bumpy side down. “But to find a natural matched pair, well . . . that happens once in a lifetime.”

  I let its cool weight rest against my open palm, and tried to imagine its other half.

  “Simone was crazy about them. She’d comb the beach for hours at dawn, just hoping to catch a glimpse of that flicker of color, lying in the sand. She even enlisted our boys—Paul, Jonah, Ari—her faithful army, in her quest.” A pained laugh broke through his memory. “I thought she had completely lost the plot . . . you know?” He spun his finger at the side of his head. “Gone crazy. I couldn’t see the point of her wanting one so desperately. Until it dawned on me, she needed one.”

  Rick’s dark eyes pleaded understanding. He didn’t want to voice it, and I didn’t make him. In my research, I’d learned that the shells represented hope, strength, and protection.

  “So who finally found this one?” I asked quietly.

  Rick smirked. “Digger always said I wouldn’t know a good thing even if it jumped up and bit me on the arse. I stepped on it. Blasted thing nearly sliced my toe off.”

  He gently traced the shell’s ruffled edge where it was nestled in my hand. From afar, it must’ve looked like he was reading my palm. And perhaps, in a way, he was. Fortune-telling through his own eyes and experiences.

  “See where it’s jagged here? It must’ve weathered some rough surf. But the wings are its most delicate part, and they are intact. There was ligament at one time, hinging the two sides when we found it. Simone both celebrated and mourned it; joined at the hip like us, she said. But it was empty inside.” Also like us, the sad dwindle in his voice implied.

  I thought back to Adrian’s story of the night he was arrested; of Simone confiding that she’d finally decided to leave Rick, for good. That obviously hadn’t happened. Death had parted them first.

  “No two sides are the same, you know,” he continued in that quiet murmur. His voice had a velvet quality to it, and a pitch indicative of the many ranges he could reach while singing. “The top half, brighter. And the bottom half, smoother. Perfectly paired, but quite different.”

  We both glanced toward the bar. Adrian was in deep discussion with Alexander, good-naturedly wagging a finger to prove a point. The reporter was gazing with rapt attention, yet his anticipation was palpable, ready to interrupt at any moment but respectfully refraining. Until Adrian paused to take a sip of his whiskey, and Alexander launched into his litany. Adrian glanced my way, catching my eye and winking.

  “Like I said before. Once in a lifetime.”

  “Twice, if you’re lucky,” I insisted. The grim twist of Rick’s lips dimpled his cheek and mocked my optimism. He moved a hand under mine, his strong thumb pushing my fingers closed over my palm and his gift.

  “Enjoy it.” His face was once again impassive. I carefully deposited the shell back into my evening bag. His makana aloha may have been intended for Abbey, but the message of peace he offered seemed to be directed straight at me.

  ***

  “Is that our limo waiting?” I nodded toward the long black stretch at the curb as we began our descent down the regal stairs.

  “I believe it is. Perfect timing, no?” Adrian asked, and I almost expected a clock somewhere to begin chiming midnight.

  “Well, let’s use it, before it turns back into a pumpkin,” I joked.

  “Wait, wait.” His eyes surveyed the steps. “Yes, it was exactly here.” He pulled me down to sit next to him on a stone-cold step. “This is where I found Patience.”

  He turned to the stone lion at our right and tipped an imaginary hat. “’Ello, guv’nor.”

  “And this is where I’d so hoped I’d find you,” I whispered, snuggling close to kiss him.

  “Easy, Tiger . . .” He sang the words, just as he had during the concert the night before, but this time the lyrics were for my ears only, from the first to the last, as he wound his tuxedo jacket around my bare shoulders and held me close.

 
“Adrian Graves,” I admonished, “did you go and write me a heavy metal love song?”

  “Well now, maybe I did.”

  “I thought if love was going to appear in your music, it had to be doomed, damned, or deadly,” I teased, quoting words he used in the past. He sat back to look at me, and the raise of his brow indicated he wasn’t the only one who remembered a surprising number of details.

  “I’ve learned since that love runs much deeper than that.” His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me even closer. “Deeper than dreams,” he murmured against the shell of my ear. “And if I’ve made even one of your dreams come true tonight, then I am a better man for it.”

  His gaze caught mine and I felt the world stop for a moment. All the attention and fuss during the day had been fun and surreal. But it made no difference whether we were standing side stage at the Garden right before showtime, by the lake watching Abbey chase the seagulls, or dressed to the nines in the freezing cold while a gala raged on behind us. Side by side, in it together. There was no place else my head, my heart, and my body wanted to be.

  “Are you ready to go home?”

  Now I was certain; bells were ringing somewhere. Maybe back in Adrian’s spacious Manhattan apartment, or up at my cozy house in Lauder Lake, where it took three minutes for the motley menagerie of clocks to welcome in the midnight hour. Home was anywhere we were, whether it was somewhere out on tour, or right here on Fifth Avenue. And even if the road separated us for a while, we’d be home . . . because home was love, as well.

  Adrian stood, and then slowly backed down a couple of steps, his gaze never leaving me. Despite the chilly November temperature, he began to roll up his shirtsleeves.

  “What are you—”

  As if he were about to be knighted, my prince knelt on one step in front of me. He extended his bare forearm, and there, wound between the tattooed cat paws, were words written in Abbey’s childish scrawl:

  Mommy, will you marry Adrian Graves please?

  Yet another person he had enlisted to help pull off this magical evening, right under my nose. He had, literally, had something up his sleeve the whole time. And he had managed to keep it from me all day, under wraps . . . and even in the shower.