Frost on My Window

by Angela Weaver

  “It’s beautiful near the water, but right now I wouldn’t mind being in Arizona. Anyway, how are you?”

  “Hot. The city’s battling another heat wave,” I explained.

  “How long?” His concern came through the phone line. My heart jumped a little. This was my little secret, the small treasured thing held close. Singer Sean Andrews of Exile cared. I switched the phone to my right ear and sat up.

  “It’s been two days. The weatherman says we’ll get some relief tomorrow night.”

  “Good. So are you liking the big city?”

  I leaned against the headboard, resting my head against the wall. “It’s wonderful. This place is exciting, lots of different people, hundreds of things to do. I really want to give New York a chance.”

  “But there’s something missing?”

  Damn, the man was perceptive.

  “I miss the quiet sometimes. The open spaces and the sky. There’s nothing like the Los Angeles skyline after a long, hard rain. I don’t miss the traffic, though. I think everybody should have a chance to take a break from driving.”

  “I know how you feel. I won’t miss being on the road day after day.”

  “How much longer are you going to be on tour?” I asked.

  “Just one more month.”

  “Any plans for afterwards?”

  “I’ll take a few weeks and go out west. Spend some time at the ranch. Then I think I’ll head to New York.”

  I almost dropped the phone in surprise. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had thought the connection between the two of us would be severed by time and distance.

  “I didn’t know you liked New York. Thought you were a California boy.”

  He laughed. “Don’t be fooled by the blond hair. I’ve already leased an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll be staying there when I’m in town next week.”

  The tickets. “That’s right, your concert’s next week. I heard you sold out the Garden. Nervous?”

  “Some. But not for the reasons you think.”

  “Oh? So what’s got Mr. Confident nervous?”

  I couldn’t think of anything more intimidating than playing to a packed house in Madison Square Garden. Although a newcomer, I’d already heard that all the greats had played on that stage and if you weren’t good, New Yorkers didn’t hesitate to let you know it. But I’d also heard that if they loved you, they would keep you in their hearts forever.

  “You’ve never been at one of my concerts before.”

  My heart stilled and then beat slowly as my mind struggled to come up with a response. I wanted Rena’s advice more than I wanted anything at this moment, but the girl never got out of bed before noon on Saturdays. This was her world, the friendship, the caring. I’d never get used to the switch. One minute Sean was a regular guy off the street and then he was the man, the one whose singing spoke to people all over the world and captured women’s hearts.

  “If my being there will make you nervous…” I started.

  “No. I want you and Rena to be there. Did you get the tickets?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ve never been so close to the stage before. It’ll be wild.”

  “Just make sure you stay out of trouble,” he teased.

  “Ha. You mean don’t get trampled by teenagers with runaway hormones?”

  He laughed. “Tom promised me that security will be pretty tight.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “I’m going to be in the city for the week giving interviews. Would you mind being my dinner companion one night?”

  Would I mind? Hell no. “Any place in particular you want to eat? For some of the good spots you need to make early reservations.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth I wanted to pull them back. Sean was a celebrity and in New York that meant something, including immediate access to the top restaurants.

  “How about we play it by ear?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I replied and got out of bed. Stretching, I walked over to the windows and opened the blinds, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the sudden deluge of bright light.

  “So you can fit me into your schedule?” he asked.

  “For you, my friend, I’ll even skip my gym class.”

  “You’ve joined a gym?” His voice was incredulous.

  I laughed as I walked down the hallway towards the kitchen with Simba trailing behind. I remembered telling Sean about how much I hated being inside LA gyms. The emphasis on gym fashion and looks far outweighed the supposedly friendly atmosphere.

  “Not all of us have world-class personal trainers,” I teased.

  “So you’re actually going to the gym?” Disbelief was evident in his tone.

  “One of my college friends and I work out in the morning before going to work. I’ve actually taken a couple of spin classes.”

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked while scooping cat food into Simba’s bowl.

  “Maybe this is something I have to see to believe. You’re getting up at six in the morning?”

  “Five-thirty,” I automatically corrected.

  “To go to the gym?”

  I could still hear the skepticism in Sean’s voice. “Miracles do happen once in a while,” I laughed.

  “Good for you. I’m proud of you.”

  “Now that you’ve had your laughs for the day, why don’t you go and do something useful, like lie on the beach?”

  “Ouch. That hurt.”

  “Really? Good.”

  “You are one tough lady, Leah Russell.”

  “Yeah, just because you can’t wrap me around your finger doesn’t mean I’m tough. Just means I’m immune.”

  “Immune? You make me sound like a disease.”

  “As in immune to your charms. Now, some of us have work to do. So I’ll leave you to rest.”

  “It’s Saturday,” he protested.

  “For those of us without bodyguards, personal assistants, room service and maids, Saturday’s not a holiday. I’ve got a ton of laundry and some grocery shopping to do.”

  “Oh.”

  My lips twitched. “Oh.”

  “Well, I’ll call you Tuesday.”

  “Okay.”

  “Take care, Leah.”

  “You too, Sean.”

  I pressed the off button on the phone and laid it on the countertop. Simba rubbed his tail against my leg, purring. Absentmindedly, I leaned down and patted him on the back before putting his food bowl on the floor. Switching on the coffeemaker, I sauntered towards the bathroom with a smile on my face and giddiness in my heart. Sean Andrews had invited me, Leah Russell, to dinner. Although there was nothing romantic about it and we’d had dinner together many times before, I still sang in the shower.

  Chapter 7

  When I went out in public with Sean, we met for drinks at a bar or for dinner at a small, family-owned Mexican restaurant where our faces never raised eyebrows or startled whispers.

  He’d order an assortment of dishes while I laughed at him over the rim of my Corona. Sometimes I’d just pretend, always imagining things were more than what they were. After leaving Sean sleeping by the cliff that morning after the party, I hadn’t expected to hear from him.

  I had chalked the night up to doing a good deed, just helping a stranger. Then the flowers arrived. Rena was always getting flowers, but two days after the party, a bouquet of orange-red orchids and pale violet lavender nestled with white lilies arrived. The card had my name. I’d opened the small beige-colored envelope with shaking hands.

  He remembered, I had thought. Lance remembered my birthday. Instead, I found a note from Sean written in bold blue letters.

  You left before I could say thank you. Have dinner with me. Friday, eight p.m.

  The first time Sean and I had dinner it was in an exclusive restaurant in Beverly Hills. We sat in the back near bay windows hidden by bamboo screens. I sat amazed as w
aiters fell all over themselves to serve us and almost dissolved into laughter when the restaurant chef with his French accent and tall white hat came to ask about the meal.

  I spent most of the dinner trying to convince him that he owed me nothing. Sean, on the other hand, sat back and smiled. The man just asked questions, so many questions. Like he wanted to crawl inside my skin and wallow in my mind. At first, I thought he was just an eccentric white boy. He wore a black curly wig like the spoiled rich kid who refused to grow up. But after witnessing the attention and all the special treatment, I came to realize that the man not only had money and connections, he was famous.

  I didn’t know what game he was playing, but I went along with it. And the flowers kept coming, dozens of roses, daises, iris, tiger lilies—until I agreed to have dinner with him again. When I told my cousin Sean’s name, her face squelched up a little with puzzlement as though chasing a lost memory and then she shrugged her shoulders. Actors, musicians, entertainers, and celebrities flocked to Los Angeles. There was no telling which group Sean fell into.

  Soon Rena started to worry, and so did I. Somewhere after the tenth delivery of flowers, Sean had crossed the line from being a sad suicidal rich boy to a would-be stalker. The night of the second dinner, after I spent the day pleading, Rena agreed to get me out of the mess I’d somehow gotten myself into.

  Rena opened the front door and burst into laughter. I stood with my fingers ready to dial 911 when Sean walked into the room. My cousin with tears in her eyes took the cordless phone from my nerveless fingers and sat down on the couch.

  “Cuz, let me introduce you to Sean Patrick Andrews. Your would-be stalker just happens to be the lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter of Grammy-winning alternative rock band, Exile.”

  She wagged her finger at me. “See what happens when you talk to strangers.”

  I just stood there looking back and forth between Sean and Rena. He broke into laughter and I followed soon after.

  Sean threw himself into my life like a man drowning. His sorrow and rage about his mother’s death sometimes threatened to overwhelm me. Nights on the beach I’d try to pour my warm happy memories of home into him. Then he would fly like a kite in the wind. His joy was so strong and so deep that I couldn’t breathe.

  He saw many things and felt them with an intensity that showed in his green eyes. In those moments, dressed like a teenager and walking on the sidewalk, I knew what it was to feel like a true actress. I was a lead character and Sean was the tragic hero, my chance to correct past mistakes. I’d save him from himself.

  We would sit in the corner of a small restaurant and I’d place my elbows on the table and put my face between my hands and he would talk. I was captivated by the way he saw life around him. He saw into the marrow, the quick. He heard music in everything. Sean savored music’s richness, the feel of words lapped together and poured out on the strings of his guitar.

  I found myself not remembering when Sean wasn’t a friend, when I didn’t pick up the phone and listen as he put the receiver up close to his six-string guitar and strummed some melody that had come floating up in his ear. Rena would laugh and click her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Some nights he would call while I was sitting on the sofa watching a basketball game. After we finished talking trash about which team was going to win, he would talk about the band and his self-doubts and I’d talk about work and bad dates and serious regrets.

  Only on the nights when both of us were full of life and good food would he mention his mother. She floated like a ghost between us. Clad in oversized cargo pants and a black shirt, Sean would sit on the floor of his million-dollar bungalow in Beverly Hills, a lost look on his face as his fingers swept over the guitar strings. The recessed lighting softened the deepening shadows under his eyes and I would sit quiet, his audience of one.

  He would sing and I could close my eyes and my mother’s face would come swimming up in my thoughts. His deep raspy voice never cracked as memories overflowed into the music. To me it was as if he were singing lullabies.

  One night I crawled towards him on the soft carpet and placed my hand on his head as though soothing a small child. His eyes glowed with unshed tears, yet his fingers kept strumming. His grief seemed to fill up the large living room.

  The night I met him standing next to the cliff had been the third anniversary of his mother’s death from cancer. Each time he left me at my front door after hanging out in the obscure sections of Los Angeles, I’d unsteadily rushed to the phone only to catch myself before dialing home just to hear my parents’ voices. And as sleep came washing over me, all I could do was pray that the Lord would keep me and mine safe.

  * * *

  “You have got to be kidding,” Rena said, barely glancing at the video I held in my hand.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

  “Can we say ‘white chick flick’?” she replied.

  “Hey!” I put my hand on my hip.

  “Cuz, tonight is not the night to watch blonde women with no intelligence, breast implants, and clothing issues lament over the wrong man, but end up marrying Mr. Wonderful and living in the five-bedroom Colonial house by the end of the film.”

  “Good point.” I put the movie back on the shelf. “So what did you pick?”

  I took a look at the video she held in her hands and shook my head. The first clue was the chalk outline of a body. “Nope.”

  “Why?” Rena asked.

  “No chick flick, no murder movies.”

  “So what are we going to get?” she asked, exasperated.

  After twenty minutes of looking and fifteen minutes of arguing, we stood in line with a mystery and an action comedy.

  “Hey Rena?” I whispered, looking towards the new release section.

  “Hmmm?” she replied absentmindedly, her gaze focused on the overhead video screen.

  “Cute man at four o’clock,” I whispered.

  Rena languidly turned to look in the direction I was subtly pointing.

  “No good.” She shook her head.

  “Why? What’s wrong with him? The man is fine.” Just to make sure I gave him another glance.

  “Take a good, long, hard look and pay attention to the shoes.”

  I examined the pressed khaki pants and the nice indigo polo shirt that wasn’t tight but managed to accentuate the brother’s milk chocolate complexion and flat stomach.

  “I don’t get it.”

  Rena tisked. “Girl, didn’t I teach you anything? He’s matched and he’s pressed.”

  “And…”

  “That means he’s either married, gay, shacking up, or living with his mama. There’s no way he dressed himself that nice and checked for the matching socks and shoes.”

  I started to protest but the object of our speculation took that exact moment to walk by on his way to the other side of the store. I very carefully followed his movements, checking for the gold band. As I looked up it turned out that I didn’t need to. I watched as a smile lit his face and he embraced a petite black woman who’d just entered the store.

  “Another one bites the dust,” I sighed.

  “No kidding,” Rena agreed. “At least we’ve got some movies.”

  “At least you’ve got Trey coming over,” I added. The singer was back in town from a quick trip home to Texas.

  “What?” Rena’s neck should have snapped from the speed at which she turned back towards me.

  “He’s coming over to hang out, don’t you remember?” I tried to play it off.

  “Remembering implies that I was told.”

  “Oops, guess I let the cat out of the bag.”

  “Trey is not coming over,” she said, giving me a warning look.

  “I invited him.”

  “Without telling me?” Her voice rose.

  I shrugged. “Chill, it’s just a movie. You don’t even have to speak to the man.” I watched as she rolled her eyes.

  “Look, Rena. Trey just wants to hang out, eat some p
izza, and watch a movie.”

  My cousin stared at me with a suspicious frown. “I’m going to remember this.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I laughed before reaching over to take the videos out of her hand. “Just to make it up to you, I’ll pay for the movies.”

  “And the pizza,” Rena added.

  “No need. Trey’s got the food and drink covered.”

  Twenty minutes later, after we’d gotten home, Rena was still protesting. “Leah, he can’t come over,” she repeated as we both sat on the sofa.

  Just at that moment, the doorbell rang. I smiled as she let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Too late,” I announced, standing up and walking towards the door.

  * * *

  Four days later and two hours before Sean’s sold-out concert at Madison Square Garden, I was the one on pins and needles.

  “Are you ready to go?” Rena’s head peeked through the doorway. I ignored her and continued tracing the edge of my lips with the brown liner. My hand shook with excitement. Tonight I’d see Sean in concert.

  “We’re going to a rock concert. Why are you looking like we’re going uptown to the ballet?”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I asked.

  Rena leaned against the doorway and smiled. “Nothing if we were going to Carnegie Hall to see Mary J. Blige. But we’re going to a rock concert, sweetie.”

  “And?” I replied before replacing the cap on my lipstick.

  She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “That means the music going to be loud, the crowd wild, and the teenagers crazy.”

  “I’m waiting for you to make your point.”

  “Trust me, Leah. Just go back to your closet and put on some jeans and sneakers. We may have front row seats, but I doubt that either one of us is going to be doing any sitting and those heels you’ve got on are going to hurt like hell after an hour of standing.”

  I looked at her standing there in jeans and a short-sleeved top and I nodded my head. Rena was in the music business and I’d rather be safe than sorry.

  “You win. What color top should I wear? Green or blue?”

  “Red,” she replied without hesitating.

  “Why red?”