Love Songs for the Road

by Farrah Taylor

  Marcus smiled broadly, as Charlotte nodded appreciatively at the tablet over Ryan’s shoulder. “I won’t crowd you, I promise,” he said. “I just want us to be able to, you know, continue what we started.”

  Ryan flipped through the slides again. The Crane House was light and airy, comfortable but stylish—a dream home. It was hard not to get excited about the possibility of carving out a little study corner under that roof.

  “Don’t you want that?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Ryan said. “Of course I do. But…buying a house.”

  “Hey, I told you it was reasonable, didn’t I? I’m just doing it because it’s a good investment.”

  He winked at her. “Ha. Very funny.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t living together, but somehow, Marcus’s suggestion seemed even more outrageously adult to her. What would her parents say if they found out one of the world’s most famous rock stars had rented a beautiful vacation home in Michigan, just so he could date her?

  Marcus leaned in and nuzzled her. “What do you think?”

  Ryan looked up at him and smiled. Would she ever find a man like this again in her life? There was just no way. He was so sweet and giving and…scrumptious from head to foot. His faults weren’t even faults—they were just the circumstances that came along with the great success he’d achieved.

  “I love it,” she said, kissing him.

  …

  Minutes later, Marcus was reading a novel on his tablet, lazily delaying his shower so he could enjoy the morning for a few more precious minutes. It was almost eight. He had a full itinerary planned with Ryan and the kids—a walk through the Garden District, a little antiquing, lunch at Café Atchafalaya, then maybe a trek across town to Bayou St. John. Dinner at Mimi’s in the Marigny, or Booty’s in Bywater, and then, sans enfants, drinks and rice and beans at Vaughan’s. There were so many spots to visit, and so little time to fit them all in.

  Ryan had already helped Charlotte and Miles get ready, and was now back in her room preparing to leave. Marcus knew he had to get it in gear himself. With a melodramatic sigh, he roused himself from the plush, comfy couch.

  A knock on the door. “Come in, Serena,” he said. It was a 50/50 shot between Alex and her, so he figured he’d roll the dice.

  Indeed, his assistant walked in the door. She frowned, an iPhone in her hand.

  “Don’t tell me,” Marcus said. “You’ve got something you just have to show me.”

  “I’m sorry, Marcus.” The poor thing looked miserable.

  “Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it’s not your fault.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  Marcus wasn’t worried. The hearing was over, and the lawyers were already drafting a new custody agreement. The judge wasn’t going to reconsider her carefully rendered decision because of a power-ballad and a kiss. “Which blog is it? I’ll put it up here.”

  “The New York Post.”

  “Awesome.” The Post had always had it out for Marcus. He typed the URL into his browser. “Okay, then, what am I looking at?”

  “It should be right there, above the fold,” Serena said, leaning over him on the couch and pointing.

  At first, Marcus was distracted by “Syrian Rebels Sorry for Beheading Wrong Guy” and “Woman Trades Wedding Ring for Lakers Tickets,” but then he found it: “Meow! Troy Nanny Scratches Her Way to the Top!” The photograph, from the Superdome, showed an irritated-looking Ryan seeming to scowl right at the camera while Marcus, his back to the audience, serenaded her on one knee. Had the photographer simply caught an awkward expression, or had Ryan maybe not enjoyed her appearance last night as much as he had?

  Marcus read:

  Two months ago, no one in America had heard of small-town beauty Ryan Evans, including her employer, rock icon Marcus Troy. But in a few short weeks, the no-name nanny has changed her fortunes by carving herself a place into the heart of the musician, whom many friends say is trusting to a fault.

  “Ryan’s clever, I’ll give her that much,” said up-and-comer Jacey Richards, the opener on Troy’s summer tour. “She’s sweet as pie around Marcus, and has those kids of his wrapped around her little finger. But when he turns his back, the nails come out.”

  Richards went on to describe more than one incident in which the innocent-seeming nanny was quite decidedly the aggressor. “The first night I met her, Ryan threatened to attack me in the hotel room we were sharing. She was this close to hitting me over the head with a table lamp.”

  Later, Richards claims, “It was obvious Ryan was gunning for Marcus, a musical career of her own, or both. She said I was the opening act for a reason, and that I’d always be the opening act. She was going to become the headliner, though—in her words, ‘the main attraction.’ It’s unbelievable how calculating this girl is.”

  But Jacey Richards isn’t the only casualty of Evans’ manipulations. “She stole my kids from me,” says Bianca Troy, Marcus’s ex and the mother of the two children they share. “I don’t know who she had to sleep with—besides my husband—to make this happen, but the judge at our custody hearing this week decided my children should be spending more time with this complete stranger than with their own mother.”

  Ms. Troy, who plans to appeal the judge’s decision, said that during a ninety-minute limousine ride the two shared together in Southern California last month, “Ryan refused to speak to me, and gave me the stink-eye the entire time. She pretends to be shy, quiet, and sweet, but she’s always plotting and manipulating. How else could she have gotten to where she is now?”

  Evans has had brushes with the press, too. Reporter Benjamin Little says that “Ryan got physical with myself and a photographer at one of Marcus’s concerts. It came out of nowhere, really.” No one got hurt, but, says Little, “with her, the threat of violence is always just under the surface.”

  “Wow,” Marcus said. “Jacey couldn’t have timed it better. She waited until the tour was over so I couldn’t fire her.”

  “Looks that way,” said Serena.

  “What room is she in?”

  “She checked out this morning.”

  Marcus stood, massaging his temples, trying to stay calm and figure out what his next step would be. “I need to go to Ryan’s room, talk to her before she sees this. The kids are ready to go—can you get them on the bus so Ryan and I can have a few minutes alone? This isn’t going to be easy for her.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Marcus had spent a lot of time over the last decade weighing the pros and cons of his profession, but the negatives seemed to be stacking higher and higher lately. Could he do this anymore, balance the demands of his music with his personal life? He couldn’t imagine not being a musician anymore, giving up on the dream he’d had since before he could remember. As he walked the short distance from the suite to Ryan’s room, he wondered whether he simply wasn’t supposed to be in a personal relationship, ever. Maybe that was the price he had to pay.

  Every woman he’d become serious about since becoming successful as a musician had run screaming from the chaos that his career created. Marcus had a lot of love to give, he knew, and could be a great partner if given the chance. But he knew that nobody got everything they wanted. He wanted Ryan, badly, but he feared she might make a hasty exit herself, unless he was able to persuade her otherwise.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  God Closes One Door…

  Ryan sat on the edge of Marcus’s bed, the tablet on her lap. She couldn’t believe what she was reading. Worse, she couldn’t believe that, after being burned once, she’d allowed this to happen a second time.

  “Marcus, you said everything was going to be fine from now on.”

  He kneeled in front of her and took her hand. “It is, don’t worry. The worst is behind us.”

  “Behind us? They’re making me out to be a monster.”

  “I know, but the hearing’s over, and the tour’s over, too. The court knew all this tabloid stuff was just a bunch of bull. They
can’t come after me or the kids anymore.”

  Ryan stood up and waved his hand away. “Are you really that selfish? Don’t you care about what this does to me?”

  “What do you mean? This article will blow over.” He stood, too, then offered his hand again, but she wouldn’t take it. “What do you have to lose?”

  “I’m entering a graduate program in child development. I’ll be doing field work—that means being in the same room with kids, interviewing them, studying them. If you were a teacher or a parent, would you let your kid in the same room with the girl in this article? I mean, ‘the threat of violence is just under the surface.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if I get a call from U of M’s admissions department about this. I could be a danger to the school.”

  “You’re overreacting. Really. This will pass in a couple days.”

  “Not for me. Any time somebody Googles me, this is the first thing they’re going to see.”

  “Ryan, you have to be able to look beyond that. People read all kinds of lies about me when they look me up, but I’ve learned not to let it bother me.”

  “Only because you don’t have a choice. And because you get to enjoy all the good things about being famous, too.”

  “I guess.” Marcus looked as innocent and clueless as Miles. But he had to see how unbearable it was to be in the orbit of his fame.

  “Come on, you get to do what you love,” Ryan said. “And you can’t live without playing to thousands of people every night, or having strangers adore you. At least admit that.”

  Now Marcus was pacing the room. “So, what are you asking me to do, stop playing music? Give up everything I’ve worked for just so I can pursue a relationship? You’re talking about my life’s work here.”

  “Well, I may not be old enough to talk about my ‘life’s work’ yet, but I’ve worked hard to get where I’m going, too.”

  “Please don’t make comparisons. You can still do anything you want. You can change—I can’t. Even if I never made another record or played another concert in my life, I’m a household name. Wherever I go, I’ll be Marcus Troy.”

  “Exactly, and can’t you see how impossible that makes it for me to be with you? For anyone to be with you?”

  “Again, there’s no need to make comparisons. Let’s just stick with you and me, here.”

  He wasn’t trying to hold her hand anymore. He looked hurt, and angry. But did he have more of a right to be hurt than she did? He wasn’t the one who’d just gotten smeared across every corner of the Internet.

  “It’s hard to stick with just you and me, Marcus, when there are so many other people always trying to get between us.”

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. And you knew exactly who I was before you started coming on to me.”

  “Me, coming on to you? You were the one who hit on me.” Ryan couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “Come on.” Marcus shook his head. “From the minute you drove up my driveway, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me.”

  “Only because you were half naked! And I ran out of there as fast as I could, because you were so obnoxious.”

  “But you came right back, didn’t you? Why? Because you were attracted not to me, but to my celebrity, my fame, just like everybody else.”

  “I came back because I needed the job, you jerk, and that was the only reason.” She was so mad, she wanted to scream. “You’re really impossible, you know that? You think the entire world revolves around you and your career. Maybe that’s why…” But Ryan stopped herself. This was one comparison she didn’t want to make.

  “Go ahead, finish your thought. I’m the most self-centered person in the world, right? My personality’s too big, my celebrity is overwhelming, and it’s suffocating you.”

  “Well, yes, sometimes it does feel that way. It’s suffocating me, and maybe it’s suffocating you, too.”

  “Well, that’s how every woman in my life has felt, so why should you be any different? You love the ride, until you hit a couple bumps, and then it’s adios.”

  “Marcus, who’s doing the comparing now? I’m not Bianca.”

  “Well, you’re acting just like her—punishing me for circumstances that are way beyond my control. It’s crazy.”

  “Don’t call me crazy.”

  “I didn’t. I said—”

  “I’m not crazy, and maybe Bianca wasn’t, either.” As soon as she said it, she wished she could have the words back. But it was too late.

  “Well, she left me. And now it looks like you will, too. Maybe you’re more alike than I realized.”

  “Marcus, I…I think I should quit.” She tried to walk past him, but he grabbed her forearm and held her.

  His eyes flared angrily. “You can’t. I already fired you!”

  Ryan glared at him. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Fine. I’d better be on my way, then.”

  Marcus released his grip, and she was free of him. She brushed past him on her way out, and slammed the door behind her.

  On the flight to Kalispell, Ryan, truly alone for the first time since the road trip had started, exhaled for what felt like the first time since June. She hadn’t spoken to Marcus again after storming out of his room. After a quick good-bye to the kids, during which she’d panicked and said only that she would “see them soon,” Ryan was finally free to go.

  The chaos that had followed the Post piece had been extraordinary. The “rock star nanny,” as Ryan was now being called, was generating international attention. Though Ryan no longer spoke directly to any members of the press, not to mention the publisher or the two film executives who had asked for the rights to tell her story, she’d had to change her phone number and delete her social media accounts. She felt like she was going into hiding.

  Ryan’s parents picked her up at the airport, and she surprised herself by bursting into tears at baggage claim. Her mother embraced her, and let her cry into her shoulder all the way home, while her dad drove in silence. Would Ryan ever be able to find a love like theirs, to make the kind of simple, trusting bond that had sustained her parents for decades? After Nick, after Marcus, it didn’t feel like she ever would.

  “There, there, sweetie,” her mom said. “You’ve got a whole, happy lifetime ahead. Everything under the sun awaits you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Just remember, sweetie. ‘All good things…’”

  Ryan hadn’t finished the sentence. She wasn’t feeling very patient at the moment. Burying her head in her mother’s shoulder, she cried harder than she had since she was a little girl.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  …And Opens Another

  For a few days, Marcus tried to write off his relationship with Ryan as an ill-advised fling, a joyride: fun while it lasted, but not built to last. That was how he explained it to anyone who asked, even Smitty, who could probably tell he was lying, but had the decency to let him grieve in privacy.

  For the two-day bus ride home, a replacement nanny was sent through an agency, and she tended to Charlotte with an air of corporate competence, but little warmth. They were devastated to lose Ryan with no warning at all, and Marcus struggled to explain to them what had happened. What was he going to say—that they’d probably never see her again? That their father couldn’t hold on to any woman, so it was best that they not get too close?

  Once back in Montana, he began to piece his life together again. After ten days with their mother, the kids were with him again, and were now enrolled in a public elementary school in Bigfork. Bianca, claiming nervous exhaustion following the hearing, had fled to Cancun with her latest boyfriend. Reversing her position completely, she seemed uninterested even in joint custody, giving them to Marcus, excepting vacations, for the remainder of that school year. “If you want them, you can have them,” she’d told him over the phone, confirming for Marcus that their fight hadn’t had a whole lot to do with the children in the first place.

  Marcus and the kids were totally alone in Big
fork. Smitty, who was considering buying a place in the area, dropped in every few weeks, but except for Serena, who stayed on but worked from a home office in LA, Marcus didn’t need any staff. He was a full-time parent now, and had no regrets about it.

  In business terms, the summer had been an unqualified success. The reviews had been respectable (Marcus was a favorite target for brainiac rock critics, so even mixed notices were a major victory for him), and album sales had spiked 400 percent. Having done his duty, Marcus reasoned that he deserved a break for a year, two, or maybe more. Anyway, he didn’t care about record sales, and seeing his picture online or in a magazine just made his stomach curdle now. He was richer than God, and wanted less attention from the media, not more. He was doing the disappearing act he’d planned with Ryan, but he was doing it alone.

  After six weeks, Marcus and Smitty, staying at the house for a long weekend, recorded a crude acoustic version of “I Lock the Door” and uploaded it to YouTube under an alias band name, The Ambulance. His fans had figured it out soon enough, and within a week, the clip had been viewed over three million times. Many of them still hated it, but to Marcus’s delight, the uber-hipster website Pitchfork ran a positive piece about the song in mid-October, calling it “a major artistic breakthrough for the formerly middlebrow Troy.” Marcus couldn’t believe that the same snobby rock critics who had been giving him such a hard time for so many years were now lavishing him with praise. And the kids who read Pitchfork and Brooklyn Vegan and all the rest now seemed interested in exploring his past work. One of the executives at his label said that his Daisy and Spotify numbers were through the roof. Even without performing live, Marcus could reach out to a new, younger audience, without ever leaving the comfort of his home.

  Before long, Marcus found himself imagining the possibility of never touring again. For so many years, he’d tried to say yes to everything, fearing that if he began to turn down offers, they would dry up on him when he wasn’t looking. Also, even for someone who had “made it,” the pressure to continue grinding away was immense. If Marcus didn’t tour, his label didn’t make money, which was fine. But neither did his band; neither did Smitty. Still, Marcus reasoned, he had enough money to keep his guitarist fat and happy until their dying days. If the two of them could write and record, alone here in Montana, hiring local musicians only when they needed them, they might well enter a whole new phase of their artistic collaboration. How had the hippies put it, back in his parents’ day? Turn on, tune in, drop out.