by Karina Bliss
“Yeah, but I slept better after, you wild woman. You wore me out.” Was it weak to need her so badly?
“Poor baby, but you don’t fool me. I know exactly what’s wrong with you.”
“Yeah?” he said warily. He wasn’t ready to talk about his voice issues yet; had one of the band squealed on him?
“Celibacy. It’s been what? A week?”
“Funny,” he said, but his bleak mood lightened. Even after thirty-six hours of hell, she could still make him smile.
“Well,” Elizabeth sighed, “there’s nothing for it.” She began unbuttoning her pajama top. “Skype sex.”
Zander laughed. “Don’t lie. You’ve been dying to do this.” He waited until she’d stripped off the jacket, his hungry gaze caressing her soft pale skin and rose-tipped breasts. “But darlin’,” he said regretfully, “I’m leaving for an interview in five minutes.”
“Why did you let me take off my PJs?”
“Because you’re beautiful,” he said. “And those freakin’ pajamas are hideous, what the hell’s on them?” Two minutes with Elizabeth and the loneliness melted off him like ice.
“Dalmatians,” she said, shrugging the jacket on, but leaving it unbuttoned to tease him with cleavage. “My niece chose them for me.”
“Leave them in New Zealand. Have you confirmed your return flight yet?”
“I’ll get into JFK late afternoon on the twenty-fourth.”
“Damn. I’ll be at a concert briefing, so get the cab to drop you at Rockefeller Center.”
“Won’t that look a little odd, showing up with suitcases? We’ll meet at your apartment as planned.”
“Then we won’t get any time alone until after my charity appearance. I’m hosting a cocktail party beforehand for the major sponsors.”
“Zander, we need to be—”
“Careful,” he supplied.
Her gaze was direct. “Yes.”
“Screw that, let’s go public.”
“What?”
“When you come back, let’s stop sneaking around.” She was the only brightness in his dark life, he wanted more. “I’m crazy about you, you’re crazy about me.”
Red brows lifted. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” he said with the arrogance of desperation. “You are.”
She bit her lip. “And crazy is good?”
Dizzy with relief that she felt something for him, Zander laid his palm against the screen. “Crazy is the only way to live.”
Tentatively she touched hands. “I’ll need to think about going public.”
“You have until Sunday,” he said magnanimously.
“No promises.” Solemnly, she removed her hand and he experienced a rare moment of doubt.
“But in principle, you’re not rejecting the idea.”
That made her smile. “In principle, I’m thinking about it.”
Zander relaxed. As good as a yes from his cautious lover.
* * *
Elizabeth wasn’t going to call it love, not yet.
Crazy about Zander, yes, but that was only a good thing in his mind. In hers, it was a red flag.
The minister gave a signal and she and the rest of the congregation slid forward to the kneelers with a rustle of clothing and faint creak of old bones.
The seven a.m. Morning Prayer service was sparsely populated on a weekday winter morning when the heating didn’t have enough time to heat the vaulted space. The hardy folk mostly, the aged, the insomniacs and those—like her—in need of serenity.
She’d always liked first service. The scents of incense, polished wood, and flowers seemed fresher, richer in the quiet dawn, as though inhaled by the building overnight and breathed out again into the morning.
A draft blew in with a late arrival and she lifted the collar of her coat. As the sonorous voice of the minister led prayers, she responded automatically, her thoughts returning to her dilemma.
Elizabeth didn’t kid herself. Going public would result in a seismic shift in how people perceived her, and it was irreversible—regardless of how long their relationship lasted.
The familiarity of ritual, the repetition of well-known prayers in the company of other faithful quietened and settled her, but she rarely felt reverence through services, possibly because she’d grown up running between the rectory and the church the way other kids ran between home and Nana’s house. God had always been accessible like that.
Did she want her private life in the public domain? Her first listing on search engines to be bonking a rock star? Many people would define her by it, regardless of her own achievements. It would be like her fishbowl childhood all over again, multiplied many times over.
She leaned against the back of the pew to take the pressure off her knees. Thinking in the house of the Lord was like bringing a problem to the world’s best listener.
There were leaps of faith in any commitment, but with Zander that leap spanned the Grand Canyon.
Common sense, his romantic history pointed to temporary. But then, so did hers. He said he’d end their relationship before he slept with another woman, and that, she thought wryly, was no comfort whatsoever.
Sunlight hit the stained glass window and threw jewel tones onto the hat of the old lady kneeling in front of her. As they finished the prayer and slid into their seats, she caught a whiff of tobacco from the pensioner’s coat and suffered a pang of longing for Zander so sharp she had to stop herself leaning forward to stroke the tweed.
Her lover was a self-confessed disaster in his private life. He was sober, he was drug-free, but that was for the tour. When it was over, what then?
The liturgical assistant, Theresa Newman, approached the lectern and found her place in the gilt-edged Bible. “A reading from Luke fifteen.” She cleared her throat. “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?”
Elizabeth sighed, knowing exactly how exasperated that shepherd felt. Writing the first draft of Zander’s memoir, she was finding gaps. Oh, there was disclosure, shocking anecdotes, wry humor, and revelations, but something indefinable was missing; the closest she could come to describing it was soul. Relationships were built on trust, but Zander didn’t trust her. And she didn’t trust him either. Not yet.
And if she was being completely honest—and being in the house of the Lord demanded self-scrutiny—pride played a part in her reluctance.
Logically there was no reason for her and Zander to be together, and logically was how their relationship would be judged by her friends, family and peers. Allied to a rocker, there was a disconnect, a suggestion of mental instability, at the very least a question of judgment. And unlike her lover, Elizabeth did care what the people she loved thought of her.
Was that wrong?
Absently she scratched some paint off one knuckle, recalling Pat’s delight when he’d seen the freshly painted kitchen.
Her relationship with Zander so far was on his terms, in his world. Would he fit into her world, could he? Did he care enough to try?
She had no answers, only questions and doubts.
Falling in love. Even the metaphor suggested that at some point she’d hit concrete. Crazy for him was better because, like rabies, there might be a cure, or at the very least a containment option. And she really needed to believe she could manage these new and very scary feelings before she took the next step.
The prayer service ended. The minister blessed the congregation and told them to go in peace. “Amen to that,” Elizabeth said and side-shuffled out of the pew, her decision made. No.
She needed more time.
Chapter Twenty-three
Is Zander Freedman phoning it in?
Zander hurled his cell across the room. Serve him right for looking at the message boards on the fanzine site. He itched to jump online and defend his performances. But no knee-jerk reaction. And no excuses. He could always find people to tell him what he wanted to
hear. Taking the pulse of his fans kept him honest, kept it real.
Silently cursing, he walked across the room and picked up his cell. After checking it for damage—none—he returned to scanning message boards, trying to assess the criticism dispassionately.
The unhappy concertgoers were less than five percent; everyone else approved of the increased contribution by the other band members.
Okay, then. He went into the bathroom, found another nicotine patch and added it to the two already on his hip, then rolled himself a cigarette. The band’s increased input hadn’t stopped every concert this week being a torture.
His nerves were strung so tight, his hands started shaking an hour before he went on. Through every song, another refrain played in his head. “Will my vocal chords rupture on this one?”
And when he survived to sing another day, he stumbled offstage knees weak with relief and dread already building for the next show.
He could feel it gnawing at his bones now, ahead of tonight’s performance, though it was still eight hours away.
The finished cigarette was a lumpy, misshapen thing. Not that he could smoke it. Unable to trust himself, he’d thrown out all his lighters. With an exclamation of disgust, he tossed the cigarette on top of those already in the trash and hauled the curtains closed, ignoring the Acropolis, starkly white under a noon sun. He didn’t need to look at fucking ruins, he confronted them every day.
Nights he woke sweating from nightmares in which his throat swelled and choked him while the crowds jeered.
He’d lost his appetite and was existing on protein shakes and crushed vitamin supplements. He’d started sending the other band members to do publicity while he holed up in his hotel room, obsessively reviewing his financial statements. But though he held a calculator more often than a microphone, the numbers didn’t change. Five more concerts to break even.
Sprawling on the bed, he closed his eyes and tried to nap. Thank God Elizabeth was too engrossed in finishing the first draft and helping Pat to care that he’d canceled two Skype interviews.
He’d made up for it with flowers—daily—and notes, saying he was giving her space to make her decision. Zander suspected that in his current state, he might beg.
He didn’t want to lie to her about what was going on with his voice and he didn’t want to tell her the truth either. One clear-sighted look from his biographer would be the tipping point for an avalanche of doubt. And right now holding fear at bay, holding his nerve, took everything he had.
Zander rolled over and jammed a pillow over his head to shut out the ambient light. He existed in no man’s land. Too exhausted, too sleep-deprived, too intensely focused on getting through the travel, the setup and the performance to think beyond today. Not to mention the constant care his voice required.
And today, he needed sleep. He concentrated on making his breathing slow and regular, but the clamor in his head didn’t let up.
Given the stress he could no longer hide, his band couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t cancel a few concerts and rest his voice, particularly when Jared was also taking it hard, since Kayla and the kids left.
Unable to explain his financial situation, Zander let them believe he was greedy for every last dime. And if their tacit disgust hurt—well, hell, he’d relearn the habit of disappointing everyone again.
Except for Elizabeth. For her, he would be better. And when his conscience whispered that meant telling her the truth? Zander ignored it.
* * *
“You’re here to help me ease the strain on my vocal chords for the benefit performance, not change my voice.” Zander fought to keep his temper and failed. “Millions of people have no problem with the way I fucking sing.”
“Do not yell at me please,” Signora Masutti said coldly. “Or use profanity.” All offended dignity, she lifted her chin. “And I am aware of preferences of masses. We in opera fight discrimination all the time.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not knocking opera.” Zander doused his temper with desperation. “But you have to understand, my skill lies in being able to throw the note away, not release it like a relief valve on an air compressor.” Yeah, that would really get her on his side. He tried again. “In opera, the emotion comes from the singer’s control. Every note is clean, pure. In rock, the emotion comes from vulnerability, knowing when to forget the technical. You need to give everything. Anything less is bullshit.”
She snorted. A small snort that somehow managed to encapsulate a world of classical disdain.
But Zander barely heard her, struck by the truth of his words. He sat down heavily, glanced around his hotel suite with its ubiquitous luxury, taking a moment to recall where he was. His gaze fell on an Etruscan vase. Italy…Rome. “You know I always thought,” he said huskily, “that my end would come with a bang.”
She twitched her chiffon scarf irritably. “What rubbish you talk now?”
“My heart would implode on stage, I’d crash my Viper, or be murdered by an ex-girlfriend. A death in keeping with my life,” he managed a ghost of a smile, “overblown, dramatic, with a touch of comic opera.”
“You insult opera again!”
“Turns out the Almighty enjoys irony.”
Signora Masutti crossed herself.
“Not with a bang,” Zander said slowly, “but a whisper.”
“You are mad.”
He refocused on her disdainful face. “You know what, Signora, we’re done. Take your condescending aria outta here.”
Her brow lifted suspiciously. “I think you insult me.”
“Only think? I must be losing my touch.”
Zander barely heard the pithy shredding of his character as she left. As soon as the door closed, he dropped his head in his hands. There would be no miracle. And he’d been a fool to hope for one.
If he canceled his charity appearance, two days out, without good reason, his name would be mud. More importantly, the vets would miss out on hundreds of thousands of dollars. Zander was the star attraction, the big name, and he’d left them no time to find a replacement. And financially he wasn’t in a position to make up the shortfall.
So he had to perform, which gave him two choices. Take his chances and sing live—or lip-sync.
If he sang live and his voice failed, the event would get publicity, but not the right kind of publicity. It would divert attention away from the vets and turn a serious issue into a sideshow.
And playing around with sound mixing—alternating between his voice live and a recording on the tough notes—wasn’t an option. He arrived in New York the day of the performance.
Which left him well and truly caught between a rock and a hard place. He thought about asking Elizabeth what Jesus would do. But Zander already knew the answer—he just fucking hated it.
* * *
The New York cabbie was charming, which was disappointing. Elizabeth had wanted rude, she’d wanted opinionated… She’d watched too many movies, the Haitian said. At least his driving matched her expectations, lots of gesticulating and horn blaring.
As the taxi jostled its way toward Zander’s SoHo duplex, her pulse accelerated to match the city’s frenetic energy.
Tearing her gaze from the Manhattan skyline, she fumbled in her bag for eye drops. Though she’d washed and changed at the airport, her eyes were a work in progress after seventeen hours in a pressurized cabin. As she tilted her head back, the taxi braked and she poked her eye instead. “Oww.”
Streaming tears, she waved aside the cabbie’s apology and sat back, telling herself to chill out, take a deep breath and stop making such a big deal of this. But her brain couldn’t control her body’s pinball slam between nerves and excitement. Seriously, people in lov—crazy about each other—enjoyed this sensation?
“Here we are, ma’am.”
Too late, Elizabeth made a grab for her handbag before the door opened. It toppled onto the pavement, spilling its contents onto the shiny shoes of a liveried doorman.
“Hi,” she sa
id weakly.
“Miz Winston?”
“Yes.” Clutching her eye drop dispenser, she stepped over the contents of her handbag.
“Welcome to New York. I’m Ronnie.” He helped her collect the scattered items—pens and lipsticks, tissues and bank cards.
“I’m Elizabeth.” She retrieved her wallet from the gutter and opened it.
“I’ll pay the cabbie and get your luggage, Elizabeth.”
“Thank you, Ronnie.” Getting out of his way, she glanced up at the twelve-story building’s ornate cast-iron facade. The contrast with her bungalow, a nondescript clapboard house in need of a repaint, couldn’t have been more marked. At least Pat’s place looked good. He and Butterball had left two days ago to convalesce with his son’s family and check out the retirement home. Whatever he decided, his house was now fit for habitation.
“Elizabeth!” Dimity strode through the building’s revolving glass door, looking every inch the uptown girl, in a gray pencil skirt, slashed on one side to midthigh and a diaphanous white blouse. Her sleek ponytail bounced with every step.
“Thank God you’re here, I need female reinforcements.” She steered her into an austere white marble foyer. “Zee’s been in a snarly bear-fest for days. And Jared’s as bad since Kayla and the kids flew home.”
“The family aren’t on tour anymore?”
“Zee didn’t tell you? Things got dicey for a while, I’ll fill you in later. Looks like they’ll be okay, though. And Stormy scored an even better nanny job in LA, thanks to me.”
It was tough, but Elizabeth managed to keep the amusement out of her voice. “You’re a good friend.”
“Damn right.”
Ronnie arrived with her bags and Dimity frowned at the tinsel on the handles. “Who are you, little orphan Annie? Ronnie, keep them down here until the cocktail party’s over.” The PA hustled her over to the elevators. “Zee’s been delayed for another hour, so we’re holding the fort.”
“I figured I’d hide out in my room.”
“You figured wrong,” Dimity retorted. “I invited the publisher especially to meet you. He’s already a big fan of yours.” As she swiped her card for Zander’s floor, she scanned Elizabeth’s appearance. “You look surprisingly chic for someone who’s flown all night and all day.”
