Sara's Song

by Fern Michaels

  Carly stared helplessly at her sister. “I didn’t know . . . I thought . . . Listen, Sara, I’m having some trouble with all this. Are you saying you were going to marry him for his money?”

  “No. In a way. God, I don’t know. He seemed to need me. I guess in my own way I needed him, too. I don’t honestly know if I would have gone through with the wedding. I was blowing hot and cold, more cold than hot. I feel so . . . empty and . . . guilty. I’m alive and Dallas is dead. I wanted to . . . you know, go to bed. I really wanted to make love to him. He thought . . . felt . . . I don’t know, some kind of special respect for me. Old-fashioned. I thought it was sweet until my hormones kicked in. There was a point where I was really lusting after him and he . . . ignored it. He said when we were married we could live in bed. He was so old-fashioned where I was concerned. I do . . . did love him, Carly.”

  “Things happen for a reason. We had this discussion so many times. You were the one who always said things and events were preordained. Are you saying now that’s wrong?”

  “No. I can’t believe he’s gone. I just can’t.”

  “Sara, don’t fall apart on me. It’s happened, and we’ll deal with it together. I’m here for you the way you’re always here for me. Let’s shower and dress and be ready for whatever the day has in store for both of us. You go up first and I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

  Sara nodded, her gaze fixed on the small-screen TV.

  Sara was halfway up the steps when she turned around and went back to the kitchen for the tape and recorder. In the living room she stopped at the desk and withdrew the envelope full of tapes she’d made with Dallas the day before Thanksgiving. In her room, she placed everything in the voluminous quilted shoulder bag she was never without. She didn’t know why, but she felt less jittery and nervous knowing the tapes were safely in her bag.

  In the bathroom, Sara sat down on the edge of the bathtub, dropping her head into her hands. She tried to conjure up Dallas’s face behind her closed lids, but his countenance refused to materialize. She cried then because she didn’t know what else to do.

  Fresh from her shower, dressed, Sara started to cry again. With nothing better to do, she climbed into her bed to hug her pillow as she roll-called her life. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to be happy the way her friends from school were happy, with their families. Maybe she was meant to go through life with only her career for fulfillment. Or was it that she was one lousy judge of character when it came to the men in her life. Where was the man who would make her pulses pound and her heart sing? If Dallas could do it once, someone else could do it again. She needed patience and she had waited patiently and now Dallas was gone. She would never, ever know, if he was the man she was destined to spend the rest of her life with. She thought he was. Was she wrong? And then the biggest question of all: Would she have gone through with the wedding or would she have backed out at the eleventh hour? She simply didn’t know.

  “Sara, are you okay?” Carly called from the foot of the stairs.

  Sara slid off the bed. “I’m okay.” The clock told her she’d been asleep for several hours.

  “Come on down. They’re showing Dallas’s brother. There is a film crew at Dallas’s house. God, it looks like the world is camping outside his gates. His brother is going to make a statement. Hurry up, Sara.”

  Sara sighed. What could Adam Lord say that would interest her? Nothing.

  Wearily she walked down to the family room where Carly had the large-screen TV tuned to CNN, the volume turned high. She accepted a cup of coffee from her sister before she sat down in her favorite chair to stare at the man responsible for Dallas’s Canyon River Band’s financial success.

  “So that’s what a Great White looks like,” Carly murmured. “He’s a hunk. That’s a Savile Row suit, custom-made. I know that for a fact because Dr. Mitchell has one just like it. Fits him like a glove. Designer shades, a monogrammed shirt, handmade shoes. He’s a walking bank account. He doesn’t look to me like he’s grieving. Does he look like he’s grieving to you, Sara?”

  “People react to grief differently. You know that, Carly. The man has to be in total shock. I know I am. So are you for that matter.”

  “He looks pretty calm and cool to me. I don’t think I like him.” Carly’s voice was stubborn, petulant-sounding.

  “You don’t know him, Carly. You shouldn’t say something like that.”

  Sara stared at the man standing near the gates she’d driven through so many times. Overhead, helicopters hovered, men leaning out as far as they could with their cameras as they struggled to get the best shots while someone inside held on to them with ropes tied around their waists. The noise overhead was deafening.

  And then Adam Lord took over the entire television screen. Sara felt herself flinch as she stared at the man who was Dallas’s brother. She didn’t realize her hands were clenched into tight fists until Adam took a step backward. His voice was cold and controlled when he said, “Push that mike in my face again, and it’s your lunch.” He stepped back, adjusted the polished sunglasses. “Please, I’m asking all of you to respect our grief and our privacy for now. I realize you all have a job to do, but I have a job to do, too. Dallas was my brother. For now, please, just give me some space.”

  The sun glared down on Adam’s polished sunglasses. Sara wished she could see his eyes. A moment later he swung his lithe body into Dallas’s Jeep, the one she’d driven so many times.

  “Is it true, Mr. Lord, that Dallas was planning to get married? Tell us who she is. We’ll find out one way or the other,” a reporter shouted.

  “My God, Sara, they know!” Carly said.

  The Jeep roared up the driveway, the helicopter following.

  Carly turned the television off.

  “He didn’t answer them. He doesn’t know my name, or he’s forgotten it. If no one knows my name, they can’t hound us.”

  “Get real, Sara. This is Dallas Lord we’re talking about here. That means there are big bucks involved in any pictures, any stories no matter how far-fetched. Big Al Cherensky knows about you. So does Dallas’s ex-girlfriend. It’s possible the whole band knows by now. Another thing, the guy Dallas hired to replace Billy Sweet met you. You are out of your league, Sara. Those rag magazines have money to burn. Dangle big money in front of anyone and eventually you’ll get someone who will talk.”

  “I really think we should give some thought to going away for a little while. Me, especially. You’re still going skiing with Hank, right?”

  “We leave at the end of the week. Listen, Sara, I just had a horrible thought. Does Dallas’s ex-girlfriend know about the song?”

  A numb look on her face, Sara nodded.

  “Remember what I said earlier about the song being valu-. able. If he finds out, Adam Lord is going to want it. When artists die their paintings suddenly become more valuable. Even when they’re awful they are still valuable. This is the same kind of thing. Are there any other copies of the song that you know about?”

  “There aren’t any. I have the master copy and one other copy plus the sheet music. Dallas gave them to me. They are mine, and I’m not selling them. Nor am I giving them back. Dallas and I agreed the song was just for us.”

  “Sara, that was then, this is now. The rules have changed. Hell, right now I don’t think there are any rules. If I were you, I’d take the tape you played for me to the vault right now. If you have anything else of his you want to keep private, take it, too. I’m going with you. Just let me get my purse. I’m driving, too. You look too whacked-out to my eye. You need to get a grip on things.”

  Sara stared at her younger sister so long her eyes started to water. She was right of course. “If you’re going upstairs, bring my bag down with you.”

  “Where’s your safety deposit key?”

  “In my wallet.”

  In the car, Sara put on her sunglasses. “I’m sure we’re being melodramatic, Carly.” The lack of conviction in her voice caused Carly to snort in disgust. />
  “They’re going to find you, Sara. They’ll dig back to Billy Sweet and go on from there. I’m sure of it. I think you are, too. What did you think about the brother?”

  Sara chose her words carefully. “I think he was holding his grief in check. He was rigid. Right now he needs to get a handle on things and make solid decisions. From what Dallas told me, Adam is not a man who cares what anyone thinks or says. He’s a law unto himself. I would hope he’ll do what is best for everyone. This is just a hunch on my part, but I think Adam Lord puts himself last.”

  “Sara, what are you going to do about the funeral.”

  “Nothing. It will be one of those A-list, short-list, invitation-only funerals. I can always go to the cemetery at a later date. Dallas would understand.” Sara leaned closer to her sister. “Carly, I feel sad, numb, and I want to cry. On top of that I feel this overwhelming sense of . . . guilt. Why is that? Is it because it was him and not me? Because I’m still here and he’s gone? Tell me the truth.”

  “Normal. Honest. When we leave the bank, let’s stop at St. Margaret’s and say a rosary and light a candle for Dallas.”

  “I would like that very much. Thanks, Carly, for being my sister.”

  “My pleasure. Now, look, don’t act like you have something valuable when you go to the vault. Pretend you’re putting insurance papers in the box. Don’t take all day either. They clock you. Sooner or later someone is going to come nosing around. I watch Diagnosis Murder and Murder, She Wrote. That’s how they do things.”

  The moment the safety deposit box slid back into the opening, Sara felt her shoulders lighten. “I’ll keep it safe, Dallas. That’s a promise, and I never break a promise,” she whispered to herself as she made her way out to the car. “I miss you already. Sing for the angels, Dallas.” Tears rolled down her cheeks again. She couldn’t stop them, and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything.

  Adam entered his brother’s house through the kitchen door. The members of the Canyon River Band were sitting around the kitchen table drinking coffee. As one they asked if there was anything they could do. Adam shook his head.

  Upstairs he walked up and down the hall, looking in the bedrooms for one he thought would be comfortable. He finally settled on a small room at the end of the hall. The room overlooked the tennis court and pool area. He pulled the drapes and turned on the lights. He could still hear the helicopters, but at least they wouldn’t be able to pierce the heavy curtains with their telephoto lenses.

  The first thing he did was unpack and change his clothes. The moment his room was tidy, he sat down on the edge of the bed, his briefcase in his lap. His hands trembling, he opened the leather case and extracted a framed picture of himself and Dallas taken the night of his brother’s first concert. Dallas’s arm was around his shoulder, and both of them hammed for the camera. It was one of his most treasured possessions, and he never traveled without it. The picture was always the first thing that came out of his bag when he was on the road. Hot tears pricked the inside of his lids. A tear slid down his cheek as his shoulders started to shake. His clenched fists beat at the mattress. “Why? Why Dallas?” he cried hoarsely.

  And then all hell broke loose down below. He could hear shrill shouts, loud squeals, and sharp whistle blasts. He-ran to the hall to see Izzie bounding up the steps, the fat pups streaking past her in their haste to get to him. He squatted at the top of the steps. Izzie bowled him over, the pups circling him, yipping and yapping like a miniature band of Indians. Tom Silk’s whistle might as well have been underwater. The band members stared in awe as Adam tussled with the dogs.

  “Sorry, Adam. Izzie knew you were up here. I couldn’t stop her. Right now this whistle is worth shit. Tomorrow it will be different. I guarantee it.”

  “It’s okay, Tom. They need to get the feel and smell of the house. We’re going to be here for a little while. Let them roam today.” His voice choked up when he said, “Where’s Dallas Six?”

  “He’s the one pooping in the corner. I’ll take care of it. Go about your business, Adam. By dark they’ll be in line. Give some thought to sleeping accommodations. By the way, there is some glitzy-looking chick in the kitchen who is looking for you. Said her name is Sandi Sims.”

  Adam nodded. Sandi could wait. He had other things to do right now. The pups leapfrogging ahead of him, Izzie in their wake, Tom Silk bringing up the rear, Adam searched out Dallas’s bedroom. When he found it, he entered and closed the door behind him. He looked around the oversize room, surprise registering on his face at the mess in the middle of the bed. Other than the stacks of files and folders, the room had a spartan look to it. Pictures of the band at different concerts dotted the walls. On the night table next to the king-size bed was a large gold frame with a picture of him cut from a magazine. In the lower right-hand corner in Dallas’s childish scrawl was written, My Brother Adam.

  Adam bit down on his lower lip so hard he drew blood. A lump the size of a walnut formed in his throat.

  To Adam’s trained eye it looked like no one had ever used the room. For some reason he’d expected to see piles of junk and clothes littered about. Two rock and roll magazines that looked untouched and unread were on a table next to a chair that looked like it had just come off a showroom floor.

  The room length walk-in closet held very little. He counted nine pairs of jeans, most worn and faded, some with holes in the knees, Dallas’s trademark. Shirts hung on hooks, boots and sneakers and one pair of shiny dress shoes were lined up like soldiers. A tuxedo and dress suit hung at the far end of the rod in a cleaning bag. A duffel bag, battered and worn, was on the top shelf, a winter jacket and windbreaker stuffed inside it. Dallas’s wardrobe. The lump in Adam’s throat grew.

  The dresser drawers were almost empty. One drawer held Fruit Of The Loom underwear, at least forty pairs. A second drawer was full of white cotton socks and two pairs of black dress socks. A third drawer held two dozen ironed tee shirts. The last drawer held four sweaters.

  Clothes obviously were not a priority for his brother. But then he’d known that.

  Adam stared at the files and folders. How overwhelming it must have been for Dallas. How threatening. He tried to remember where the office was. Down the hall and to the left.

  Adam opened the door and immediately closed it. Now, this was a Dallas room. Cautiously, he opened it again and stepped inside. He snapped off a smart salute to the flaglike chair before he sat down in it. It swiveled. He took several moments to marvel at the blinding colors, at the electricity of the room. Yes, this was definitely a Dallas room. He couldn’t help but wonder what Dallas had planned to do in here. He sniffed. Fresh paint and wallpaper paste. Even the floor had a new look to it. He wondered if he would ever know. Like the bedroom, the room had an unused feel. “I need a sense of you, Dallas. I need to feel you. Where in the hell did you live? If not in this room, if not in the bedroom, then where?”

  The studio of course. He flew down the steps, his Nikes slapping at the stair treads as he galloped to the bottom of the steps and then down the long corridor to the studio with the red light over the door. This was Dallas’s lair. This was the place where he spent his time when he was home. He probably ate in the room and slept on the floor. Goddamn it, Dallas, how could you die? It wasn’t your time. His vision blurred. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It should have been me, Dallas, not you.” He sat down on a high stool, the one Dallas always posed on for the album covers. Hard driving sobs tore at him. He gave into his grief, the unreal sounds filling the room.

  When he was emotionally and physically drained, Adam slid off the stool. He felt a hundred years old. “I don’t know what to do, Dallas. For the first time in my life I don’t know what the fuck to do. I need some help here. I know you’re up there watching me. I even bet Billy’s got his arm around your shoulder. You’re probably saying something like, ‘Let’s watch old Adam handle this.’ Keep watching, guys, because I’m feeling my way.”

  Adam w
alked around, touching the equipment. A pile of sheet music was on the floor. He bent over to pick it up. Dallas’s writing. Probably the last thing he’d worked on. He pressed the sheets to his chest. Dallas was never, ever, going to write another song, never race across the stage, never pick at his guitar. Dallas would never come into this room again. Ever.

  Dallas was gone, but his music would live on forever. It was up to him to keep his brother’s music alive. He could do it too. He had it in his power to rock Dallas’s music and his memory into the twenty-first century. He would make the music world sit up and take notice. So what if his guts churned while he was doing it. Dallas would expect it, and he would do it for that reason.

  Adam leafed through the pages in his hands. The beginning of a song in Billy’s memory. Unfinished, of course. He rather thought the small blotches on the paper were Dallas’s tears. How difficult this must have been for him. He scanned more pages. Different words, all for the Billy song. Maybe the band could do something with it. What was SS? More words, gentle words, pretty words. Words from the heart, but in snatches. What did they mean? For now it was a hodgepodge of nothing. He wished then he knew more about the music end of things, more about what went on in this room when the guys were together. In that respect he’d always been an outsider.

  Time to go out to the kitchen and talk to the band. He hoped he would have the words when he faced them. What would they expect from him? Same old same old? Did they expect him to be cold and strictly business? Well, he might as well get to it and get it over with. In forty minutes he had to leave for the airport to claim Dallas’s body. His stomach was full of knots when he walked into the kitchen.

  Adam took the initiative. “Look, I don’t think any of us want to talk this to death. It is what it is. We can’t bring Dallas back. We have to go on. Dallas would like seeing all of you here in his kitchen drinking his coffee. I know he’s up there writing a song about this as we speak. I’ve decided on cremation. Dallas wanted to be . . . what he wanted was to be scattered to the winds. He believed, and because he believed, I have to also believe, Dallas will become part of the whole world. I’ll keep some of his . . . ashes and plan a memorial garden here in the canyon. I don’t want to commercialize my brother’s death, but I do want him to live’ on for all those young people who haven’t tasted his music yet. To that end we’ll all work together. If the world wants another Graceland, we’ll give it to them. Not right away, though.