by B. B. Miller
“So, what do we have this week?” I open the folder in front of me and glance up to our giving director, Nadia Baskov, sitting next to April.
“Sixteen dreams were already approved by the Eligibility team this week”—she takes a sip of her tea—“but they bumped these seven cases up to us.”
I hum in understanding. Although our Eligibility team is responsible for evaluating each request, they only implement the relatively straightforward dreams, such as those for new pets, birthday parties, or trips. The more complex requests are sent upstairs where the four of us—April, Nadia, Duane Allen, our finance director, and I—deliberate on the possibilities and appropriateness of the requests.
I skim through the seven cases before sitting back to let Nadia take us through each one. Her fingers toy absently with a lock of her silky blond hair. With her sharp green eyes and stylish navy suit, she looks the epitome of a cold, calculating businesswoman, but underneath her austere demeanor beats a sensitive and compassionate heart.
A twelve-year-old girl with a brain tumor wants an audition with the Moscow Ballet. Hmm, that’s a little tricky in the current political climate. However, Nadia’s cousin is a trainer with the San Francisco ballet . . . maybe that could work instead. A six-year-old boy from Colorado with a degenerative lung condition wants to score a goal against his favorite hockey star. A ten-year-old boy with MS loves airplanes and dreams of being a pilot; my contact at Alaska Airlines can provide a complete tour, everything from the tarmac to the cockpit. Maybe we can throw in a trip to one of the flight schools, too.
We work through the cases, discussing the merits of each and formulating initial plans. The children’s faces that peer up at me from the folder look happy and hopeful, but when I read their stories . . . I glance out the large window at the bright blue sky, blinking back tears. I hate that so many virulent diseases threaten so many young lives. So many futures at risk. So many poems and symphonies to write, or planets and species to discover. One of the children we see here could hold the key to solving the world’s greatest problems, but may never get the chance.
Ever since I was fifteen, when I saw what cancer could do, I’ve wanted to do something about it. Science has never been my forte, so I knew I wouldn’t be the one who would find the cures. But I could do something to ease the patients’ suffering and bring a little joy to their lives, as well as the lives of their families.
“You okay there, Abby?” I glance up to see April’s concerned face. We all have our moments when the stories and the kids behind them break through the professional veneer we try to maintain during these meetings. Last week it was Tess who’d had to excuse herself during the discussion of a six-year-old boy with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, who simply wanted to take his grandfather to Disney World. The grandfather had been an illustrator for some of the Disney movies back in the sixties.
I suddenly become aware that I’ve brought the discussion to a halt. “Yes, I’m fine,” I assure her and nod at Nadia. “You were saying?” I smile encouragingly, and she continues, holding the last profile aloft.
“Now, I think I sent to you the details on the meeting we’re having today a few days ago, Abby, but I haven’t heard your thoughts on it yet.” Nadia fans the pages out on the table. She takes a breath and slowly lets it out, her eyes lingering the last page.
“This is Parker Jensen,” she begins, indicating the grinning blond boy on the top sheet. “Eleven years old with leukemia. He lives right here in San Francisco, and his dream is to enjoy a day as a rock star with . . .” She taps the second photo in the set, and there is a collective intake of breath around the table.
“Oh, my,” April says appreciatively. “He’s aged well, hasn’t he?”
“Kennedy Lane?” Duane questions. “Isn’t he a little old for the preteen crowd?”
Nadia’s eyeing the photo like it’s a triple-decker hot fudge sundae. “He’s not that old,” she scoffs. “He’s only thirty-six. Apparently, Parker idolizes him. He’s learning to play the guitar and wants to be just like Lane when he grows up.” Her expression becomes wistful. “And I hope he has the chance.”
We’re silent for a moment. The thought Parker may not get a chance to grow up sobers us. Then April sighs, a smirk curving her lips. “Well, Parker has excellent taste in music. I don’t remember how many awards this guy has won, but he’s incredible. And when you throw in that face . . .” She points to the publicity photo. “I think spending a day with Kennedy Lane would be my dream, too.” Tess giggles in agreement; Duane rolls his eyes at her. “Oh, please. Get over yourselves. You don’t see Abby getting all swoony. Besides, when was Redfall’s last hit? They’re never on the radio anymore,” he complains.
“Abby never gets swoony. And, Redfall has a new album coming out soon,” April shoots back, peering at Duane over her chic cat-eye glasses.
“Oh, what? I suppose the money’s running low, so he’s going to squeeze out something to make the teenage girls and their mothers scream? Then he’ll take his money and run back to wherever aging rock stars go when they retire?”
“What’s got into you?” A frown mars Nadia’s lovely features. “We deal with celebrities all the time.”
He shrugs. “I just don’t think he’d be a good influence, that’s all. The kid should idolize someone more worthwhile.”
“They can’t all want to go to Disneyland.” April waves her hand at him. “And Lane is more than a rock star; he’s an artist. At least, he was.”
Their sniping fades into the background as I peruse the two pages. Parker is adorable with bright blue eyes and an infectious grin. Lane is . . . Actually, I’m not sure what Lane is. Handsome seems inadequate when you consider his chiseled jawline and sensual pout. But, April is right; he’s so much more than his looks. The complex rhythms and cerebral lyrics that have always characterized his sound set him apart from his contemporaries. His band was a staple during my college years and beyond; in fact, I have dozens of Redfall’s songs on my playlists now.
But how wise would it be to fulfill this particular dream? Parker’s treatments have left him in a fragile state. Is Kennedy Lane the type of man who would understand—and respect—that?
I’d started researching him as soon as Nadia had sent me the report, but had come up with mixed results so far. His older interviews revealed an intelligent, whimsical mind that appealed to me. He sounded like someone I’d love to sit with for a beer and conversation. His more recent comments in the press, however, had sounded so angry. Arrogance and negligence had replaced the whimsy and playfulness. Maybe he succumbed to the pampered celebrity lifestyle, or maybe it was just a bad day. Who knew?
I flip the promo photograph over, focusing on the more recent paparazzi photos Nadia included in the packet. The photos captured him leaving a club with his entourage. He was obviously annoyed and probably drunk. But more than that, there was something in his eyes . . . something familiar in that glazed stare . . .
I manage to suppress a shudder when a particularly unpleasant memory leaps to mind; a memory of screamed threats, desperate begging, and a final, terrifying good-bye. My ex, Lucas, had hid his addiction before finally slipping up. After months of pleading and empty promises of rehab, his inability to change led me finally to wipe my hands clean of the mess his addiction had made of our lives.
It’s funny how having a gun pressed to your temple can make everything so clear.
“Abby? What do you think?” My attention snaps back to the here and now, and I see all eyes trained on me. I take a deep breath to compose myself, and lock the past where it belongs—in the past.
“Actually, Duane has a good point.” I ignore how he puffs up his chest at my comment. “I’m not sure if exposing a young boy to this scene is a good idea. You know, the whole sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll’ thing.” I hold up a hand when I see Nadia getting defensive. “I know—it’s a stereotype. But, I’m honestly concerned why Lane dropped out of sight for so long. Was he in rehab? Or was he off on some s
piritual journey meditating with the Dalai Lama or something?” I pause and thoughtfully tap the photos with my fingertips. “All that aside, granting wishes is our mission. If we can make this happen, we should. We’ll have a better idea once we meet with his team today.”
“We?” There’s no mistaking the annoyance in Nadia’s voice. “Well I have an appointment with his manager and a representative from his record label at the Fairmont at one. The record label was very enthusiastic.”
“Will Lane be there, too?”
She adjusts her glasses, looking like the cat that got the cream. “There is that distinct possibility.”
I share a quick glance with April; she cocks an eyebrow, and I know she’s also noticed Nadia’s odd demeanor.
“I’m going with you.”
“Oh, uh . . .” She falters, drawing my gaze up to hers. Nadia rarely hesitates. “Are you sure? You don’t usually attend these sorts of meetings, Abby.”
“I know, but I want to ensure this goes smoothly.” At her sharp look, I add, “I’ve heard Lane’s manager can be difficult, and you might need the extra firepower.” I don’t want her to think I doubt her abilities. Nadia is extremely skilled at her job. I’m probably misreading her—she’s too professional to fuck around with a case, literally or figuratively. “And, given what we’ve just discussed about the potential negative influences in his lifestyle, I’d like to hear for myself if his team understands Parker’s situation.”
She hums, sounding mollified, and peers at me speculatively. “This is one of those cases for you, isn’t it?”
I sigh, knowing that she’s right. Sometimes, a dream fulfillment will hit you just the right way, and it becomes “yours.” And apparently Parker Jensen, with all his struggles and his soulful eyes that touch my heart, has become one of mine.
“I guess you’re right.”
“Okay,” she replies, with a touch of resignation. “I’ll send the appointment over to Tess so she can arrange your calendar.”
Duane deflates with Nadia’s statement, and we quickly adjourn. I exit the room, pretending not to hear Duane calling my name. I’m not in the mood for whatever he wants to say, especially if he’s going to complain about my decision. I swear, the man can pout worse than a thirteen-year-old girl.
Back in my office, I tuck a stray hair back into my perfect chignon and adjust the collar of my crisp cotton blouse. Not bad for thirty-four, but still, April is right. ‘Swoony’ is definitely not a word I subscribe to, not even for fuckhot rock stars.
Sitting at my desk, I pull Lane’s promo photo out of the file and stare at it. Peering out from beneath a mop of thick black hair, those deep blue eyes seem to leap off the page to see right through me. It’s disquieting. Suddenly, the only word I can think of to describe Kennedy Lane is . . . dangerous . . . in more ways than one.
But how can I say no when he’s a little boy’s heart’s desire?
Kennedy
I’M IN HELL where they play “Flight of the Bumblebee” over, and over, and over again. It’s muffled and sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far away, but still; it’s torture to the fucked-up state of my head right now.
“Shit, shit! Double shit!”
A panicked, and highly amusing, female voice reaches in and pulls me from the darkness. I stretch my legs out on the sofa and crack an eye open, peering out to the awe-inspiring San Fran skyline from the suite at the Fairmont. Thank fuck I kept my sunglasses on. The sun blazes through the terrace doors, doing nothing for my headache.
Tucker’s form is evident on the terrace, and in a rare display, he looks relaxed as he sits in a lounge chair, peering out over the city.
The annoying ringtone slices through the solitude of the vast living room, and I can’t help but grin. Why the hell would anyone use that tune on their phone?
I hear rustling from across the room and something being dropped on the piano. There’s a series of jumbled and erratic notes that stirs something deep inside me. Finally, thank fuck, the ringtone silences.
“Mom!” It’s a whisper-yell from the same woman’s voice, and I slowly lift from the cushions to peer over the top of the couch. “You’re on speaker, but I can’t talk right now.”
“I just don’t know where all this uptightness comes from,” another female voice complains through the phone. “Even your father lets his hair down once in a while now. Tell me, how are things in the love department?”
“I’m not uptight!” I take a scan across the room, and the woman slowly comes into view. She’s leaning against the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys, her dark hair swept up to expose the curve of her neck. I drop my eyes over the back of her tailored black suit: a fitted blazer hiding her ass, and a conservative knee length skirt with black stockings. The shoes give me pause. They’re high and black and really the only thing I see that would put into question the uptight description I heard being bellowed from the phone. “I’m the director of a respected charity. I can’t just go around yapping about my sex life all the time.”
Charity . . . It’s all coming back to me now. The meeting that Brodie and Tucker reminded me about this morning. This morning, when I was barely lucid and woke up with a nameless groupie in my bed. I should have been alone. Alone is good. Alone is fewer problems and potential fuck-ups.
“Ah-ha!” the echoed female voice crows. “You do have a sex life! Does he treat you well? You know, satisfies you—”
I watch as she takes the phone off speaker, disappointed I’m not going to get to hear the rest of the conversation.
“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m about to go into a meeting.” Her fingers trail across the keys, and from deep inside, I hear another few chords beckoning me over. “Because I’m nervous and . . .” Her voice trails off as she listens to whatever is being said on the other end of the phone, and I get a minute to appreciate the tempting curves of her body—real curves—not plastically enhanced.
“I know I’m never nervous. You know what? Never mind. Is something on fire or is someone dead?” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the notes that are tempting me, but her conversation is too damn distracting to focus.
“You called me to set me up? Mom! How many times do we have to—”
I open my eyes to watch her once more. Clearly, her mother is a source of frustration. She’s wired tight, this one. I could do something about that.
From the terrace, I see Tucker move to the door, his eyes trained on the woman, ready to take her down if need be. I hold up a hand, silently stopping him.
“What kind of a name is Beau? Was his mom a Dukes of Hazzard fan or something?”
She stares up at the ceiling, shaking her head. “We can talk about this later. I have to go.” Another pause as her eyes move back to the piano. “I love you, too.” I watch her shoulders sag as she presses a button on the phone to end the call and tosses it back into her bag, before sinking to the piano bench.
I’m up and off the couch, crossing the room to the piano before I can stop myself. Sliding in beside her on the bench, my fingers still over the keys. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I had no—”
“Shhh . . .” I pause, trying to focus, and I wonder if it’s ever not going to hurt when I think about Robin. She loved when I played. She always said it was where I wrote my best songs. She used to sit and watch me, offering her honest and unique commentary on whatever I dreamed up.
“I’m just going to leave—”
“Stay right here.” I feel the tension release from my shoulders and brush my fingers across the keys, igniting my adrenaline.
“Do you have a recorder on your phone?” I see the notes come into view behind my closed eyes. I play as the melody finds me like it always has. It’s the one thing that never fails. The one thing I can always trust.
“A what?” she whispers.
“Just record this.”
I play the same few chords, feeling her stiffen beside me, and hearing a little huff of aggravation. “Okay. I’ll video it
. Will that work?”
“Do you have something to write on when I’m done?”
“How’s this?” I finally open my eyes as she thrusts a file folder in front of me. I see my name on the tab at the side, along with another underneath it. Parker Jensen.
“Perfect. Start recording.” I play the simple melody that will end up being the foundation for the song. I don’t know how many times I repeat it, altering and weaving when it wants to take me somewhere else.
The words come spilling out of me as I hit what will be the chorus.
“If you let me take your hand, I’ll wrap you in my arms
And I’ll make sure you’re safe tonight underneath a sky of stars—”
“Fuck!” I lift my fingers from the keys in frustration as the lyrics fade off. “I fucking had it.” I rake my hand through my hair. “I hate that.” I turn to look at the woman beside me. “You know what I mean?”
Behind my sunglasses, my eyes lock to her big, hazel ones. Even with the hangover from hell, those eyes hold me. Vibrant amber gold flecks play in caramel brown, deep green around the edges. She looks like she’s in shock, her pretty mouth dropped open slightly as she stares at me in an awkward silence that yawns between us.
Now that I get a chance to really look at her, I can appreciate how gorgeous she is. Soft features, perfectly full lips, a natural color blushing her cheeks. She’s real in a way I don’t get to see much these days. Real, and looking at me like I just dropped down from another planet.
“Sort of? I mean not with this, obviously, because that was just . . .” She pauses, searching my face. “I don’t have words for what that was. But, I know it’s frustrating when you want something, and it just doesn’t work out like you hoped.”
“Yeah. That was kind of shit, wasn’t it?”
Her eyes widen. “No! That’s not what I meant. That was amazing.”
“Really?”
She passes me the folder. “You should write it down, or whatever it is you do now.”