by Wendy Wax
“But how are you ever going to have the strength to do a two-hour concert tonight?” Maddie asked, thinking of how “on” he’d been all day. Just trailing behind him had worn her out.
“The Majestic’s not far, and I should have time to catch a nap at the hotel before we head back.” Will paused. “God, I am old. That’s what amphetamines used to be for.”
Maddie fell in love with the Majestic Theatre at first sight. Built in the Beaux Arts style in 1921, just a handful of years before Bella Flora, it took up most of one downtown block. According to the venue liaison who met them that evening, it had spent the twenties as a vaudeville theater, the thirties as the site of Hollywood film premieres, and most of the decades that followed showing movies. Now gorgeously restored and listed on the National Register of Historic Places, it had an opulent baroque lobby with original black-and-white marble floors, decorative molding, egg and dart borders, acanthus leaves, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors in gilt frames. A crystal chandelier shimmered above it all.
The performance hall was equally beautiful, its three levels a riot of Corinthian columns, balustrades, urns, and trellises—all highlighted in gold leaf. Opera-style box seats fanned the walls facing the stage. The carpet was the same wine color as the curtain.
She imagined Avery’s excitement over the architecture, how she’d relish the details of the renovation, and wished she were here. The crew had spent the day unloading and setting up. The band’s equipment was in place. Dean’s drums were positioned on a riser; the backdrop of Hightower’s latest album hung between twin scaffolds of lighting. Now they moved around her with a quick efficiency, double-checking the sound, the angle and spill of each light, taping position marks to the stage floor. Everywhere there was movement, purpose, the squawk of communication.
She followed Will into the greenroom, where he offered her a soft drink or bottled water. “Unless you’d like something stronger? I’m sure there’s alcohol here somewhere stashed strategically and tactfully out of my sight.”
“No, I’m good.” She accepted a bottled water, screwed off the top.
“I’m going to sit and go over the set list with the guys, get in the zone.” He hesitated. “You can hang in my dressing room. Or, I don’t know, I can ask Lori to . . .”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You just do whatever you need to do to get ready.”
His kiss on her cheek was perfunctory, his mind already with Kyle, Robert, and Dean as he went to join them in a corner of the greenroom. Unsure of what to do with herself, she wandered back toward the stage, fingering the laminated all-access pass that hung around her neck. Everywhere she looked, people rushed about their business. Equipment, lighting, and sound were checked yet again. Beefy guys in black T-shirts with Security written in white block letters moved to their positions at the doors and corners of the stage as the opening act set up their own equipment.
Aaron Mann appeared at her side. “Great scarf,” he said, smiling. “Very rock ’n’ roll. How’s Will doing?”
“Good,” she said. “Focused.” He’d fallen asleep the moment he got back to the hotel and had received a wake-up call from Lori exactly thirty minutes before they had to leave for the Majestic. He’d used ten of those minutes to wake up and twenty to shower and dress in wardrobe that mimicked his casual style but wasn’t. Both of them now had stylists. “Is there anything I can do? To help, I mean?”
“I think you being here is pretty huge for Will. I thought he came across great today. And I think he was right about letting go of all the visual gimmicks and focusing on the sound. Let me show you where you’ll be sitting.” He led her to a director’s chair carefully placed in the wings, where Will would barely have to turn his head to see her. “They’ll be letting the audience in in about fifteen minutes. You be sure and let Lori know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” The Aquarian publicist raised a hand in question and Aaron headed over.
Maddie looked at her seat. Adjusted it slightly. Sat. Looked around. Her position within sight of Will’s microphone made her think of Kyra on set within sight and sound of Dustin. She stood and shot some backstage photos to send to her daughter. Then she shot photos of the auditorium and sent them to Avery.
She’d just pocketed her phone when Hugh West, the tour manager, stopped to say hi and, presumably, check her off his to-do list. Late forties with a shock of bright red hair, a freckled face, and a high-octane smile, he’d been a teenaged roadie back when Will and the original band were touring. “We’re locked and loaded. Ready to rock and roll,” he said. “You okay here?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He flashed the smile. “I can’t believe how different Will is. Hell, the whole business is different. Rock stars traveling with accountants, and families, and genuinely nice, age-appropriate girlfriends. But, I guess you reach a certain age and you have to get healthy and live right to survive this. I gotta tell you, though, it’s starting to feel suspiciously like real life. I was traveling with Alice Cooper back when he traded drink and drugs for golf.” He grimaced. “Please tell me Will doesn’t golf.”
“No, of course not,” she said with a smile of her own. “He, um, fishes.”
She heard the auditorium doors open and the buzz of excitement as the crowd began to enter. She imagined them finding their seats, settling in, craning their necks in hopes of catching sight of something or someone behind the heavy velvet curtain.
She stayed where she was as the opening band performed. During their last number she felt a presence behind her, smelled the spicy scent of Will’s cologne, sensed the heat of him. She rose and turned. He exhaled a great puff of air. His eyes were bright. His excitement was palpable. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and she felt the jolt of it, absorbed its hum. Together they watched Kyle, Robert, and Dean take their places onstage, adjusting a guitar strap, leaning over a keyboard. Dean twirled the drumsticks between his fingers.
As one they turned to Will. When he nodded back, Dean counted the licks off on his drumsticks. The curtain opened.
The crowd was already cheering when Will’s hand dropped from her shoulder. He strode out onstage, and the crowd was on its feet. He greeted them. Lifted his guitar from its stand, settled the strap around his neck. When he began to pick out the opening notes of “Mermaid in You,” they cheered louder still.
As the familiar melody wrapped around them all, Maddie forgot where she was. Forgot that she had nothing to do. Blue strobes streaked out over the audience. The spotlight bathed Will in its warm glow. She’d seen him play at the Lorelei, at Tampa Theatre, at the concert in North Carolina, but standing this close, watching his eyes flutter closed, seeing the sweat form on his brow, this was something else entirely. His voice was raw and powerful as he disappeared into the music, into the thrall of the crowd.
The audience was equally rapt. They swayed, sang along. Her eyes lingered on the women’s avid faces, their eyes telegraphing their interest in more than the music. Any one of them would have given anything to be there with Will. Waiting in the wings for him.
After the first songs, he looked her way and shot her a wink. She grinned back at him, still on her feet, as excited as the crowd. This was the Will who had hung in poster form on her bedroom wall. Glorious and unobtainable. But somehow now hers.
This Will had depths her teenaged self could have never imagined. She saw him now through different eyes, understood his inner demons, knew his strengths and weaknesses, and heard them twisted up inside the music, intimate and true.
Afterward, in the greenroom, she stood back while a crowd surrounded him. Women postured, radio-station-contest winners stammered, record label people preened, while local celebrities and media folks soaked up the spill from his spotlight. He looked up and scanned the room, his eyes landing on her. Maddie felt a shiver of anticipation as he moved toward her, the crowd parting so he could pass.
“What’s
a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he murmured when he reached her.
“I heard there was a concert,” she murmured back, her gaze tangled up in his. “Thought I’d come by and see if the lead singer was as hot as I heard.”
“And what did you decide?”
“Definitely hot. Scorching, really.”
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.” He took the glass of wine out of her hand and set it aside. “Can I give you a ride home?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she breathed back.
“Will? I have someone here who’d like a few minutes.” Maddie recognized the PR girl’s voice. Got a glimpse of the long legs. But Will was leaning over her. His teeth were nibbling on her earlobe. His breath was warm on her neck.
“Excuse me, Will?”
“Sorry. Gotta go. Early flight tomorrow.” Will placed a hand on the small of Maddie’s back and gently urged her forward.
“But . . .”
“Please have the car brought around,” he said quietly to Lori, who had materialized beside them.
“He’s already waiting for you out back,” Lori said, elbowing Vicki out of the way. “See you two in the morning.”
They moved to the stage door entrance, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. In the limo Maddie could feel the adrenaline coursing through Will and, by extension, through her. He kissed her and ran his hands down her back as the car pulled away. His kiss grew hotter, deeper. For a brief moment she imagined the partition going up and her sliding onto his lap. But they were still kissing, their breathing growing ragged when they reached the hotel.
They had the elevator to themselves, and he backed her into the corner and pressed himself against her.
By the time they were inside the suite all she wanted was more. Of him.
He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. She did the same.
Moments later they were naked and in bed.
“Definitely not the seventies,” he said as he pulled her underneath him. “According to that clock it’s only eleven thirty.”
“I hope you’re not thinking about stopping to trash the room,” she teased even as his mouth began to move on her bare skin. “Or wishing you had some kind of orgy going.”
“Nope, not stopping for anything. And all I want is you.”
Twenty-three
Sunday morning dawned bright and crisp and inviting. Gemma and Sofia had slept in, clearly lulled and comforted as much as Nikki was by their father’s presence. He filled the cottage, warmed it, turned it into “home” in a way it could only be when they were all together.
Still in their pajamas they sprawled across Joe’s chest, as eager to touch and be touched by him as she was.
“You know, we’re going to have to decide where we want to be full-time,” he said as he grasped a wiggling Gemma and tucked her beneath his arm, pretending to take her prisoner. A giggling Sofia was “imprisoned” next.
“Hmmm?” Nikki turned on her side, her head resting on one hand, the curve of her body serving as an outer wall. Letting her gaze run over Joe’s naked chest, his muscled arm, his rugged profile, she dropped a kiss on Gemma’s head and added a tickle to Sofia’s belly.
“Well, if we’re going to stay on St. Pete Beach, I should probably look at renting out the Hibiscus Island house,” he said, referring to the house near South Beach that he’d been living in when they first met. “And we might need to consider a bigger place here. Maybe something on Vina del Mar or Bella Vista.”
“Oh, but . . .”
“We could keep the cottage—I’m sure my folks would love to spend winters down here near us.”
“You’d be willing to do that?” she asked, wondering when she would stop being surprised by his thoughtfulness.
“Umm-hmmm.” He plucked Gemma back off his chest, blew a raspberry on her bare arm that set her giggling, then resettled her between them. “My new assignment’s going to keep me on the road, and it’s important that you and the girls are comfortable and happy. The beach is beautiful and Bella Flora does seem to be the center for all of you. But Maddie could end up spending most of her time with Will, and you said there’s going to be a full-court press to sell the units here—it won’t be a private Bestie Row anymore if that happens. And Bitsy, well, we’ll hear more today about her situation. I’m good either way. But of course, Luvie’s here.”
She scrunched up her face at the mention of Luvie’s name, still irritated at being shooed off and missing Gemma’s first real steps.
“Are you sure we can afford to own so many places?”
“Yes. Especially if we rent out the Miami house and maybe include this place in the rental pool when family’s not using it.”
She stared up at the ceiling, swamped by a swirl of contradictory emotions. He moved so purposefully and cleanly through life while she seemed to blunder along, barely thinking at all. Completely dependent.
“What’s wrong?”
She continued to stare upward as if the answers to questions she hadn’t bothered to ask herself might suddenly appear. “I hate not contributing financially. I’ve been supporting myself since I was a teenager. I built a business.” Things she hadn’t even realized she was thinking poured out. “I was . . . someone.”
When she looked at him, his eyes were pinned on hers. He turned on his side. Sofia giggled as she slid off his chest. Joe wasn’t laughing. “You’re still someone, Nikki. A formidable someone. Plus, you’re a wife and mother. And frankly, taking care of our children, raising them to be happy and secure human beings, is not nothing.” He kept his voice even, but she could see the hurt in his eyes. He was so strong, so invincible. And yet she had the power to wound him.
“I know. I do.” She sat up against the pillow, drew her knees up to her chest. “Believe me, I’ve come to understand that all mothers are ‘working’ mothers. I want to go around and apologize to every stay-at-home mom I pictured watching soaps and eating bonbons. It’s just that I feel like I’m not pulling my weight.”
“If you keep losing weight like you have been, there won’t be anything left to pull,” he said more lightly.
“Very funny. Yet flattering,” she said. “But not the point.”
“I know. And I do hear what you’re saying.” His eyes met hers, held them. “Your life is completely different than it used to be, and you need a sense of purpose and accomplishment.”
She blinked.
“You built a major business and your role in Do Over was significant. And I haven’t forgotten how instrumental you were in finally bringing your brother to justice. I love you, Nikki. I think it’s just a matter of figuring out what else you need to make you feel happier and more fulfilled. Maybe we can take a run down to the Paradise Grille a little later and brainstorm over lunch. I promised to meet with Bitsy and June this afternoon. Do you want to check and see if they’d like to sit down there and talk afterward?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, we could. But I have to say I think you rushed your steps a little there.”
“Steps?” he asked innocently. I’m not sure I know what you mean.” He added his best we’re in this together smile.
“Seriously?” she replied. “You don’t think I recognize the Behavioral Change Stairway Model? The hostage negotiation model favored by the FBI?” She pulled Gemma back between them. “Step one, active listening? Check. Step two, empathy, including a rephrasing of your understanding of the issues important to the person you’re trying to defuse—that would be me—which emphasizes the fact that you listened and understood. Check.”
She watched his face, enjoying the surprise that suffused it. “Step three, rapport. Established through your active listening and empathy. And, no doubt, the fact that we’re in bed together, and have children together, et cetera, et cetera. Check. Step four . . . hmmm . . .” She flipped over,
opened the nightstand drawer, retrieved the printout of the article on BCSM, and read, “‘Once rapport has been firmly established, the negotiator is in a position to begin to make suggestions to the other side’—once again me!—‘explore potential and realistic solutions to the conflict, and consider the likely alternative available to the other side.’ Check.” She paused dramatically. “Of course, step five, the actual behavioral change, is a little trickier. And I’m kind of wondering if there’s a step six that you can’t see unless you’ve got security clearance? One that advises said negotiator how to defuse the situation when his wife realizes he’s using the FBI manual to try to handle her?”
She replaced the printout and flipped back on her side to face him.
“No step six,” he said sheepishly. “But I think I’m going to have to suggest they take a look at it. Along with how to negotiate with a woman pumped full of pregnancy hormones. I never figured that out, either.”
Sofia watched her father’s face adoringly and patted his cheek. Gemma reached up, grasped Nikki’s nose, and squeezed it.
“Ouch.” She removed Gemma’s hand. “The only nose you’re allowed to squeeze is your own, missy.” She placed Gemma’s small hand on her tiny nose. “I’ll text Bitsy. But let me explain one thing in the meantime so you can pass it on to the folks at Quantico. Women do not want to be handled. Not even delicately. And definitely not by their husbands. No matter how highly trained they might be.” She looked into Joe’s eyes. “Clear?”
“Crystal.” He kept his face carefully neutral. Nikki did the same. But as they got the girls ready to go out, she realized she felt better. As if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It was time to take action, to create the home scenario that felt right for them and to reach for the extra things that mattered to her.
“Ready?” she asked, lifting Sofia into her arms.
“Yep.” He picked up Gemma and slung the diaper bag over his other shoulder.
As they took the walkway past the pool and onto the beach, Nikki was careful not to smile too widely. Or whistle. Or betray the new spring she felt in her step. She’d cut out her tongue before she let Joe know that the morning’s BCSM had actually worked.
