“Stop talking about yourself like that,” her friend Charli said whenever they discussed the bad old days. “You were never, ever a groupie, April. You were their freakin’ muse.”
That’s what they all told themselves. Maybe, for some of them, it had been true. So many fabulous women: Anita Pallenberg, Marianne Faithfull, Angie Bowie, Bebe Buell, Lori Maddox…and April Robillard. Anita and Marianne had been the girlfriends of Keith and Mick; Angie was married for a while to David Bowie; BeBe was involved with Steven Tyler; Lori with Jimmy Page. And for over a year, April had been Jack Patriot’s lover. All the women were smart and beautiful, more than capable of forging their own way in the world. But they’d loved the men too much. The men and the music they made. The women offered counsel and companionship. They stroked egos, smoothed brows, overlooked infidelities, and entertained with sex. Rock on.
“You weren’t a groupie, April. Look at how many you turned down.”
April had been discriminating in her way, refusing the men she didn’t fancy, no matter how high on the charts their albums hit. But she’d dogged those she wanted, willing to shrug off the drugs, the rages, the other women.
“You were their muse…”
Except a muse had power. A muse didn’t lose years of her life to alcohol, pot, Quaaludes, mescaline, and, finally, cocaine. Most of all, a muse wasn’t so afraid of corrupting her little boy that she’d virtually abandoned him.
It was too late to fix what she’d done to her Dean, but at least she could do this. She could make him a home and then once again disappear from his life.
April rested her head on her knees and let the music wash over her.
Do you remember when we were young,
And every dream we had felt like the first one?
Baby, why not smile?
The farm belonged to the valley. Dean and Blue arrived at sunset when low clouds of orange, lemon, and purple draped the surrounding hills like ruffles on a cancan dancer’s skirt. A curving, bumpy drive led from the highway to the house. As Blue caught sight of it, her current disasters slipped from her mind.
The house—big, rambling, and weather-beaten—spoke to her of America’s roots: of planting and harvest, Thanksgiving turkeys and Fourth of July lemonade, of hardworking farm wives snapping beans into chipped white enamel pans, and hardworking men stomping the mud from their boots at the back door. The oldest and largest part of the house was built of stone with a deep front porch and long, double-hung windows. An abbreviated wooden ell, a newer addition, bumped back on the right. The low-pitched roof held a ramble of eaves, chimneys, and gables. This had been no hardscrabble farm but a once prosperous enterprise.
Blue took in the mature trees and overgrown yard, the barn, fields, and pastures. She couldn’t imagine a more unlikely spot for a big-city celebrity like Dean. She watched him head toward the barn with the easy, loping grace of a man at home in his body, and then she returned her attention to the house.
She wished she could have come here under different circumstances so she could enjoy this place, but the farm’s isolation made her situation more difficult. Maybe she could get hired by one of the crews working on the house. Or she’d find something in the nearby town, although it was barely a dot on the map. Still, she only needed a few hundred dollars. Once she had that, she’d set out for Nashville, rent a cheap room, print up new flyers, and start all over again. The trick was getting Dean to let her stay here rent free while she put her life back together.
She had no illusions about why he’d brought her to the farm. By not tearing off her clothes for him that first night, she’d turned herself into a challenge—a challenge he’d forget about the instant one of the local southern beauties caught his eye. That meant she’d needed to find another way to make herself useful to him.
Just then, the front door opened and one of the most amazing creatures Blue had ever seen stepped out. Amazon tall and slender, she had a bold, square face and long, uneven blades of poker-straight, streaky blond hair. Blue remembered photos she’d seen of the great fashion models of the past, women of the sixties and seventies like Verushka, Jean Shrimpton, and Fleur Savagar. This woman had that same presence. Smoky blue eyes peered out from a dramatic square-jawed face, almost masculine in its strength. As the woman reached the front step, Blue saw a faint set of lines bracketing that wide, sensuous mouth and realized she wasn’t as young as she’d first thought, maybe in her early forties.
Narrow jeans perched on bladed hip bones. The strategically placed rips at the thighs and knees hadn’t been put there by wear, but by a designer’s calculated eye. Metallic threads edged the suede shoulder straps of her crocheted, cantaloupe-colored camisole. Copper leather blossoms bloomed on the toes of her slides. Her look was both boho funky and chic. Was she a model? An actress? Probably one of Dean’s girlfriends. With such dramatic beauty, a few years’ age difference hardly signified. Although Blue didn’t care about fashion, she was suddenly conscious of her own shapeless jeans, baggy T-shirt, and unkempt hair, which drastically needed a decent cut.
The woman took in the Vanquish, and her wide, crimson-slashed mouth curved in a smile. “Lost?”
Blue bought a little time. “Well…I know where I am geographically, but, frankly, my life’s kind of a mess right now.”
The woman laughed, a low, husky sound. There was something familiar about her. “I know all about that.” She came down the steps, and Blue’s sense of familiarity grew. “I’m Susan O’Hara.”
This sexy, exotic creature was Dean’s mysterious housekeeper? No way. “I’m Blue.”
“Damn. I hope it’s temporary.”
Right then, Blue knew. Holy shit. That square jaw, those blue-gray eyes, that quick brain…Holy, holy shit.
“Blue Bailey,” she managed. “It was a…uh…bad day in Angola.”
The woman regarded her with interest.
Blue made a vague, meaningless gesture with her hand. “Plus South Africa.”
Boot heels struck the gravel.
As the woman turned, the fading light picked out long strands of blond and fawn in her hair. Her red lips parted, and the delicate fans of strain at the corners of her eyes constricted. The boot heels came to an abrupt stop, and Dean stood silhouetted against the barn, his legs braced, arms tensed at his side. The woman might have been his sister. But she wasn’t. Not his girlfriend, either. The woman with the stricken ocean blue eyes was the mother he’d dismissed so brusquely just that morning when Blue had asked about his family.
He stopped for only a moment, and then his boots ate up the ground. Ignoring the brick path with its uneven edges like broken teeth, he stalked across the overgrown lawn. “Mrs. Fucking O’Hara.”
Blue flinched. She couldn’t imagine blasting her mother with the f-word, no matter how angry she got. But then, her mother was impervious to verbal attacks.
This woman wasn’t. The bangles slipped on her wrist and a trio of delicate silver rings caught the light as she touched her throat. Long seconds ticked by. She turned away and went inside without a word.
The dazzling charm Dean employed so skillfully was gone. He looked stony and remote. She understood his need to withdraw, but now wasn’t the time for it. “If I were a lesbian,” she said to break the tension, “I would totally go for her.”
The shuttered look vanished and outrage took its place. “Thanks for nothing.”
“I’m just being honest. And I thought my mother drew a lot of attention.”
“How do you know she’s my mother? Did she tell you?”
“No, but the resemblance is hard to miss, although she must have been twelve when she had you.”
“A skin-deep resemblance, that’s for damn sure.” He mounted the steps and headed for the front door.
“Dean…”
But he was already gone.
Blue didn’t share her mother’s intolerance for violence—witness her recent contretemps with Monty—but the idea of that exotic creature with the wounded eyes being
its victim bothered her, and she followed him into the house.
Evidence of the renovation was everywhere. A staircase with an unfinished banister rose on the right, along with a wide, plastic-draped opening that must lead to the house’s primary living area. On her left, beyond a pair of sawhorses, lay the dining room. The smell of fresh paint and new wood permeated everything, but Dean was too intent on finding his mother to check out the changes.
“Believe me,” Blue said, “I understand what it’s like to have serious maternal issues, but you’re not in the best state of mind to deal with this. Maybe we should talk it through first?”
“Let’s not.” Shoving aside the plastic, he peered into the living room only to hear footsteps overhead. He headed for the stairs.
She had more than enough trouble of her own, but instead of letting him go, she stayed at his heels. “I’m just saying that I think you need to give yourself a little time to cool off before you confront her.”
“Beat it.”
He’d already reached the top with Blue only a few steps behind. The smell of paint was stronger up here. She peered around his broad back into the big, irregularly shaped hallway. All the doors were missing, but, unlike the downstairs, this area had been painted, new electrical sockets waited for sconces, and the old wide-plank floors gleamed. Just past Dean’s shoulder, Blue glimpsed a bathroom that had been carefully restored with white honeycomb tile, freshly painted tongue-and-groove wainscoting, an antique medicine cabinet, and pewter fixtures.
His mother emerged from a bend in the hallway, a slouchy metallic tote stuffed with papers in her hand. “I’m not sorry.” She met his eyes defiantly. “I’ve worked harder than any real housekeeper.”
“I want you out of here,” he said in a cold steel voice that made Blue flinch.
“As soon as I get everything organized.”
“Now.” He moved deeper into the hallway. “This is bullshit, even for you.”
“I’ve done a good job.”
“Pack up.”
“I can’t go now. Tomorrow, the men are coming with the kitchen countertops. I have electricians showing up and painters. Nothing will be done right if I’m not here.”
“I’ll risk it,” he snapped.
“Dean, don’t be stupid. I’m staying at the tenant’s cottage. You won’t even know I’m around.”
“You couldn’t be invisible if you tried. Now get your crap together and get out of here.” He brushed past Blue and headed downstairs.
The woman stared at his retreating back. Her head came up, her shoulders straightened, but then her weight seemed too much for her. The tote dropped from her fingers. She bent down to pick it up, then sat on the floor instead, her spine pressed to the wall. She didn’t do anything as dramatic as bursting into tears, but she looked so sad that Blue’s heart went out to her.
The woman bent her knees and wrapped her arms around them, the silver rings showing off her slender fingers. “I wanted…to make a home for him. Just once.”
Blue’s own mother would never have thought of anything like that. Virginia Bailey understood nuclear disarmament treaties and international trade agreements, but she knew nothing of homemaking. “Don’t you think he’s a little old?” Blue said softly.
“Yes. Too old.” The long blunt ends of her hair fell over the crocheted whirls of her camisole. “I’m not a horrible person. Not now.”
“You don’t seem horrible.”
“You probably think I shouldn’t have done this, but, as you can see, I didn’t have anything to lose.”
“Still, hiding your identity probably wasn’t the best way to manage a reconciliation. If that’s what you’re looking for.”
The woman drew her knees closer to her chest. “It’s too late for that. I just wanted to fix up this place for him, then get away before he figured out I was his Mrs. O’Hara.” With a self-conscious laugh, she lifted her head. “I’m April Robillard. I haven’t even introduced myself. This must be embarrassing to you.”
“Not as much as it should be. I have an unhealthy curiosity about other people’s business.” She noticed a little color returning to April’s pale cheeks, so she kept talking. “I don’t actually buy the tabloids, but if I walk into a Laundromat and see one lying around, I’ll dive over a row of washers to get to it.”
April gave a shaky laugh. “There’s a certain fascination in reading about other peoples’ screwups, isn’t there?”
Blue smiled. “Would you like me to get you something? A cup of tea? A drink?”
“Would you…just sit with me for a minute? I miss being around women. The men who work here are great, but they’re men.”
Blue had a feeling April didn’t easily ask for help. She understood all about that. The smell of fresh lumber drifted up the stairs as she sat on the floor across from April and searched for a neutral topic. “I like what you’ve done.”
“I tried to make the renovations fit the bones of the house. He’s so restless. I wanted him to be able to relax here.” She gave a choked laugh. “I guess tonight wasn’t the best way to get a start on that.”
“He seems pretty high maintenance.”
“He gets it from me.”
Blue ran her hand over the worn, polished floorboards. In the sunlight, they’d gleam like honey. “You’ve accomplished a lot.”
“I’ve loved doing it. You should have seen what it looked like when I got here.”
“Tell me about it,” Blue said.
April described what she’d found when she arrived and the changes she’d made. As she spoke, her love for the house shone through. “We’re further along up here than downstairs. All the beds have been set up, but there’s not much else. I was planning to attend some estate sales soon to supplement the furniture he’s already ordered.”
“Where are the doors?”
“Being stripped and refinished. I couldn’t stand the idea of putting in new ones.”
Downstairs, the front door opened. April’s expression clouded, and she quickly rose to her feet. Blue needed to leave them alone, so she stood, too.
“I have to call the contractor,” April said as Dean came up the stairs.
“Don’t bother. I’ll figure it out.”
April’s jaw set. “Spoken like someone who’s never renovated a house.”
“I think I can handle it,” he said tightly. “If I have any questions, I’ll be sure to send you an e-mail.”
“I need at least a week to get everything organized before I can leave.”
“Forget it. I want you out of here tomorrow.” He propped his foot on the top step, blocking Blue’s exit point. He stared coldly at his mother. “I made a reservation for you at the Hermitage in Nashville. If you’d like to stay there a few extra days, put it on my tab.”
“I can’t leave that fast. There’s too much going on.”
“You’ll have tonight to get organized.” He deliberately turned his back on her so he could inspect the bathroom.
The first hint of entreaty came into April’s voice. “I can’t walk away from this job, Dean. Not when I have so much invested in it.”
“Hey, you’re good at walking away. Remember how it was? The Stones arrived in the States. You were gone. Van Halen played Madison Square Garden. Hello, Big Apple. Be out of here by tomorrow night.”
Blue watched April lift her chin. She was a tall woman. Even so, she had to look up at him. “I don’t like to drive at night.”
“You used to tell me that night was the best time to be on the road.”
“Yeah, but I was stoned then.”
Her response was so in-your-face that Blue couldn’t help feeling at least a little admiration.
“The good old days.” A corner of Dean’s mouth curled unpleasantly, and he headed back down the steps.
April followed him, addressing the back of his neck, her show of rebellion fading. “A week, Dean. Is that too much to ask?”
“We don’t ask things from each other, remember? Hel
l, of course you remember. You’re the one who taught me that.”
“Just…let me finish here.”
Blue watched from the top of the stairs as April reached for his arm, only to draw back before she touched him. The fact that she couldn’t touch her own son struck Blue as sad beyond words.
“The tenant’s cottage is out of sight of the house.” April stepped in front of him, forcing him to acknowledge her. “I’ll be with the workmen during the day. I’ll stay out of your way. Please.” Her chin came up again. “This…means a lot to me.”
Dean was unmoved by her pleas. “If you need money, I’ll write you a check.”
April’s nostrils flared. “You know I don’t need money.”
“Then I guess we don’t have anything more to say to each other.”
April finally realized she’d been beaten and pushed her trembling hands in the pockets of her jeans. “Sure. Enjoy the place.”
Blue couldn’t bear watching April’s heartbreaking attempt to hold on to her dignity. Even as she told herself this wasn’t her affair, the unplanned, ill-advised words came spilling out.
“Dean, your mother is dying.”
Chapter Five
April’s lips parted in shock. Dean stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
Blue had sort of meant it figuratively—that April was dying inside—but Dean didn’t seem to be in a figurative turn of mind. She never should have spoken. But, honestly, how could things get any worse?
She came slowly down the stairs. “Your mother—The, uh, doctors—” She tried to put it together. “There’s this hole in her heart. Your mother’s dying, but she doesn’t want you to know.”
April’s blue-gray eyes widened.
Blue reached the bottom and curled her fingers around the banister. Okay, so maybe she’d gone a tiny bit overboard, but when it came to maternal relationships, she was too screwed up to be held accountable.
Dean’s complexion had grown ashen. He gazed at his mother. “Is this true?”
April’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Blue’s grip on the rail tightened. Finally, April’s throat muscles began to work, and she swallowed. “It…might not be fatal.”
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