by Moody, Diane
“Um, I didn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with groupies, of course. I used to be one. Well, I mean, I wasn’t really a—”
There it was again. That funny, nervous laugh. She dropped her head in her hands, hiding her face from him.
He got up, sliding onto the coffee table directly in front of her, popping a slice of Monterey Jack in his mouth as he pushed the plate aside. “Okay, let me help you.” He pried her fingers away from her face and took both of her hands in his. He finished the cheese and looked at her, face to face. “Hannah, it’s nice to meet you,” he said softly. “Now the way I see it, you must be someone very special to have an invitation from my mom and dad on Christmas Eve. And if you’re special to them, then I should make an effort to get to know you too. Now, tell me—how do you know my parents?”
She was looking him over. He watched her glazed eyes move from his hair to his chin to his mouth . . . He suppressed another smile. Ordinarily, this kind of reaction got old fast. Real fast. But tonight he was intrigued. Who is she? Who is this unexpected guest on a night Mom always reserves for family only? And why is that face so fascinating?
He patted her hand. “So are you from around here? Do you work at Dad’s company?”
She tried to answer. Something resembling a croak erupted from her but nothing more. He looked at his parents for answers, but then it hit him. “WAIT! Are you from UNC? A college girl stuck in town for the holidays?”
A grin spread across her face. She nodded her affirmation.
“For real? No way! That’s great! We have a Tarheel in the house, people! Man, I love UNC. One of these days I’m gonna go back and get my degree. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
“Jason, will you quit peppering our guest with all your questions?” his mother admonished, moving behind the sofa where Hannah sat. “I’ve met Hannah several times before, and this evening I invited her to join us for the service at church and dinner here at home. That’s all you need to know right now. We’ll have plenty of time for you to get acquainted. Now go do something with this dog and clean up. It’s time for supper. Go on, now,” she ordered, holding the squirming puppy out toward her son.
He looked back at Hannah and gently squeezed her hands. “Apparently duty calls. I’ll be right back.”
Laura took Hannah by the hand, helping her off the couch then leading her into the kitchen. “Now, just remember. He’s a normal person like anybody else. He’s really just a kid. My kid. And while he’s home, we don’t do the celebrity thing, okay?” She was quite serious. “I guess I should have warned you about Jason, but then I hate to be presumptuous and assume everybody knows who he is. I take it you’re familiar with Out of the Blue?”
This time Hannah laughed out loud. “You could say that.”
“Well, trust me. All that crazy lifestyle may look glamorous but it’s a hard way to live. And we don’t cater to any of it when he’s home. So just relax. All right? You’re a lovely young lady who is our special guest tonight, and we want you to feel right at home like part of the family.”
Laura pointed Hannah to her seat at the kitchen table, set with Christmas dishes, colorful plaid napkins and a cluster of candles and holly at the center. Somehow the serenity of the setting helped calm Hannah’s nerves. She started to take her seat then remembered the slime of puppy germs on her hands. Holding them up in silent explanation, she laughed at Laura’s reaction then headed for the sink.
“By all means,” Laura answered. “In fact, I think I’ll join you.” They scrubbed Baby’s remnants off their hands, sharing the pump soap dispenser. Laura faked a shiver, still laughing.
“I know. I love dogs, but I’m a neat freak about clean hands,” Hannah said. “Guess I must have listened to Mom more than I realized.” She dried her hands on the fresh dish towel Laura offered her.
“Good girl. Your mother would be proud. Now have a seat and we’ll eat before it all gets cold. Jason! Frank? C’mon, guys, we’re hungry!”
Jason flew into the room, sliding across the hardwood floor in his socks. He rushed toward the table, then threw his leg over the back of the chair and flopped into his seat. He looked up grinning at Hannah, then turned to face his mother and father. They weren’t smiling.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot.” He got up, stepped away from the table and turned back around, his hands folded against his waist. “Mother? Father? Hannah? Good evening.” Then, with the most elegant of manners, he lowered himself into the chair, snapping his cloth napkin into the air before gracefully placing it across his lap. “Shall we dine?”
Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie and their son reached out to hold hands for prayer. Jason held out his hand to Hannah, that mischievous smile taunting her. She slowly placed her hand in his, hoping and praying she wouldn’t pass out at his touch. His fingers wrapped around her hand. Still smiling, he winked just before bowing his head.
And as her heart hammered against her chest, Hannah listened in wonder as her childhood idol—whose face once lined her bedroom walls and starred in a thousand of her dreams—began to pray.
“God, you’re so amazing . . .”
Hannah recognized it immediately. That familiar sensation of being on the outside looking in. In a situation, but like some surreal, out of body interlude, merely observing the whole scene even though her body continued to interact. It felt so strange.
Such was her experience at dinner with the McKenzies. She listened, she spoke, she laughed, and she ate as if in a dream. Then, somewhere between the main course and dessert, she realized she was starting to rejoin the little party. Or maybe it was the reassuring touch from Laura when she served her that cup of coffee. The fog cleared and there she was—no longer shocked and nervous about whom she was with, but simply enjoying a quiet dinner with a remarkable family.
Well, sort of quiet.
As the four of them passed dishes of hot fruit salad, smoked ham, sweet potatoes, and angel biscuits, Jason talked non-stop. In between he wolfed down his mother’s cooking like he hadn’t eaten in months. Hannah hung on every word as he rambled about her teen idols, his closest friends. He bounced from one subject to the next, covering everything from JT’s latest tattoo (don’t ask) to the two teenage girls who broke into Jackson’s hotel room while he was in the shower.
“So these two girls are standing there in the bathroom, screaming and laughing and begging to take some pictures, and Jackson is going nuts! ‘How’d you get in here?’” Jason mimicked his best friend’s voice. “‘Y’all get out of here! This isn’t funny!’ He kept yelling and those girls just kept giggling and squealing.” He hooted with laughter. “Oh my gosh, it was hilarious.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jason,” Laura interrupted, not amused. “Where was your security? I thought they locked down your floors at the hotels. How did this happen?”
“That’s the funny part, Mom. That whole penthouse floor was ours. I mean, not just the five of us, but the whole entourage. The band, the back-up singers, our lead group, everybody. And we’ve got strict rules about who does and does not get on those floors when we travel. But Frito, one of our tech guys, had met these two girls after the show. You’ve gotta know Frito—he’s from some other planet. He can fix any musical instrument as fast as any pit crew at Daytona. He’s incredible, but when it comes to fans, he just doesn’t get it. He’s clueless.
“So these girls are flirting with him down at the Hard Rock after the show, and he’s just putty in their hands. He’s falling for all their bull, thinking he’s just all that. And all the while, they’re just scheming to get to us. Duh? Kids pull this stuff everywhere we go. He should have known better, but he’s only been with us a few months. He never had a clue how devious these kids can be. So Frito soaks it all up, loving every minute of the attention these girls are dishing him. He swears he never told them he was part of our crew. But I guarantee they knew all about him long before that night. Knew just where to scope him out after the show, the whole nine yards.
“So they sweet tal
k the old Frito Bandito,” Jason postured, imitating the girls, his voice in a ridiculous falsetto. “‘We really love you, man. Pleeeease take us up to your room—we just wanna hang with you, man!’ And Frito melts like butter on a hot biscuit, and off they go. He sneaks them up the elevator—mind you, you have to have a special key for that elevator. Then they hang out in his room for a few minutes until he goes into his bathroom to take a leak—”
“Jason—”
“Sorry, Mom.” He winced at Hannah then continued, never missing a beat. “He goes to relieve himself then comes out and guess what? Miracle upon miracle, they’re gone! Ya think?”
He stopped to shove a generous fork full of ham into his mouth. Frank took the opportunity to get a word in. “Your mother’s right, Jason. What good is your security if you can’t even trust your own crew? You may need to think about getting a new security team. And I hope you’ve disciplined this Frito guy.”
“Oh, you could say that. Gevin went ballistic. He was furious.”
Hannah visualized Gevin Michaels, oldest of Out of the Blue at 33, with a deep bass voice as smooth as velvet. The decisive father-figure of the group, Gevin usually called the shots when it came to organization and details, with the help of the management team that oversaw their every move. Tall, with spiky black hair, thick eyebrows, and a close-cropped beard, Gevin’s maturity was no hindrance to even the youngest of fans. He had an equal number of “Marry me, Gevin!” signs in every audience, just like the others. He was also Jason’s cousin, nephew of Frank and Laura.
“Gevin? I would think Jackson would be the one who was upset,” Laura countered.
“Jackson? Come on, Mom. Jax? You know how he is. He loves all that attention. He’s still laughing about it.”
Hannah had always adored Jackson Greer. The baby of the group, joining when he was only sixteen, Jackson had all the right stuff: messy white-blond hair, cobalt blue eyes, a raspy tenor voice with an endless range, and an outrageous sense of humor.
Jason continued. “Of course, I guess if Frito hadn’t come when he did and snatched them out of there, Jackson might not be laughing. He would’ve been pretty ticked if they’d gotten pictures of him in his nakeditity and sold them to the Enquirer.”
“Well, hey, inquiring minds want to know,” Hannah quoted.
Jason paused then smiled at the unexpected joke. “Well, Hannah, is that a fact? Would you like to elaborate on that a little?”
“Uh, no . . . I don’t think so,” she laughed, embarrassed again. She faked a cough then plowed on, avoiding his teasing eyes. “But I’m curious. Is it always such a circus when you’re on tour?”
Jason nodded. “Oh, the stories I could tell you, girl. Most of the time it’s so surreal it’s hard to even believe. People are so crazy. They will do anything. You cannot believe some of these kids. Mostly the younger ones. I’m talkin’ girls like twelve, thirteen, fourteen. But you’ve gotta watch those middle-aged housewives too.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m tellin’ you—they’re the most dangerous because they have the money to finance the chase. It’s unbelievable the lengths some of them will go to. But y’know what? Most of the time we get a kick out of it all. I mean, it’s just part of the package. We’ve learned to expect it. But there are times—sometimes when you’re already exhausted and you’ve been away from home for too long—that’s when it gets old. And those are the times you have to consciously fight your thoughts and those feelings of anger or frustration. And you have to realize that these fans, even the crazy little girls, are the ones who buy the music, buy the concert tickets, the whole enchilada. And then you just take a deep breath and go on.”
“And those are the times when you head home for a little sanity, right?” Laura reached over to squeeze his hand.
He lifted his mother’s hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “No place I’d rather be, Mom.”
“How long will you be home, son?” Frank asked.
“I’m trying to stay for a week or so if we can make some schedule changes. We’re supposed to do some studio time but none of us are in the mood. We’re all too tired. We scattered in five different directions for Christmas so I doubt we’ll make it to the studio. But as far as I know, everyone’s still planning to be here for New Year’s.”
Laura stood up and began to clear the dinner dishes. Hannah started to join her when Jason placed his hand over hers. “That’s okay, you’re the guest. I’ll help her.”
She bit her lip, chiding herself for still melting at his touch.
Laura pinched his cheek. “Such a good boy,” she bragged in a borrowed Yiddish accent. “He sings, he dances, he washes the dishes—what more could a mother ask for?”
“Grandchildren?” Frank quirked a hopeful smile.
Jason cleared his throat, ignoring the question. “So Mom! What’s for dessert?” He picked up his plate and Hannah’s.
Stacking the dishes in the sink, Laura looked over her shoulder at the towering son behind her. “Chocolate pecan pie. What else?”
“Sweet! You always come through for me, woman! Hannah, wait ’til you taste this. It’s incredible. It’s a good thing Sergio isn’t here. We wouldn’t get a bite.”
“How is my favorite Spaniard?” Laura asked as she cut into the dark pie.
Sergio Cruz, the handsome European hailing from Barcelona. Everyone said he looked like a young Antonio Banderas, the movie actor. Hannah pictured his curly black hair usually worn in a pony tail, the dazzling smile, and the dark bedroom eyes that had stopped hearts all over the world for years. The mere sound of his accent used to make her knees go weak. She caught herself twisting her napkin.
“I’m not sure, Mom. You know Sergio. Totally unpredictable. He’s supposed to be in Hawaii but then he could show up any minute. He’s fine, I guess. Although I don’t care much for his current steady squeeze.”
Laura placed the dessert plate on the table before her husband. “Well, as I recall I didn’t care much for your last ‘steady squeeze’ either.” She shot a look at Hannah, rolling her eyes.
“Gee, Mom, and wouldn’t I love to spoil this perfect evening with a rowdy discussion about my ex-fiancée.” Jason served Hannah her pie then sat down to his own. “I don’t think so.”
That’s when Laura gently placed her hand on Hannah’s shoulder and looked kindly into her eyes. “Would you like some coffee, sweetie?”
Hannah couldn’t explain it. The term of endearment, the touch of a mother’s hand on her shoulder. The hospitality of this kind woman and her family, the palpable love between the three of them. The surprising ease she felt in Jason’s presence. Hannah felt like she’d been wrapped in a warm blanket of love, at ease and completely comfortable here. The nervous butterflies seemed to have vanished.
She looked deeply into those compassionate eyes. “Laura?” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Laura leaned over to hug her. Hannah blinked away the moisture in her eyes, avoiding the long familiar eyes she felt upon her. When she finally looked up, she smiled back at Jason. He ducked his head, absently picking at his pie with his fork. After what seemed like an eternity, he peeked back at her under his brow and flashed a quick smile before refocusing on his dessert.
What was that all about?
Beside her sat one of the most famous celebrities of the music world. The sandy blond hair—characteristically unruly, of course. The pronounced jaw line and exaggerated dimples, and the greenest eyes God ever made, set in a perpetual smile. Though she had adored him for more years than she cared to admit, she had never before met Jason McKenzie in person. For all she knew, he could have been conceited, arrogant, and none too happy to find a stranger at the family dinner table tonight. Yet, here he was, as normal and down to earth as anyone she’d ever met.
Stealing glances at me like a shy school boy?
“Honey, that was outstanding,” Frank said, interrupting her thoughts. “And to think you did it all by yourself.”
&nb
sp; “Hey! I still know how to put a meal together,” she teased. “Just because Jason insists I hire a little help around this big ol’ house doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten all my old recipes.”
“Laura, thank you so much,” Hannah added. “Thanks for inviting me to join you all tonight. Everything was so good. They’re right—you’re an amazing cook.”
Jason snorted and leaned toward her. “You should see what she does with lima beans. To die for.”
Laura sighed audibly. “Jason, would you leave the poor girl alone?”
“Actually,” his eyes twinkled with mischief. “I was thinking I’d challenge her to a game of pool. You like to play, Hannah?”
“Me? Well, yeah, but I need to go. It’s been really nice but it’s getting pretty late.”
Frank stood up, coffee mug in hand. “I was just thinking about that. It’s almost one o’clock, Hannah. I think you ought to stay over instead of getting out on the road tonight. Jason could take you home if you’re not comfortable with that. But I’m a bit uneasy for anyone to be out on the streets this late, especially during the holidays. Most folks don’t know when to draw the line on their holiday cheer, if you know what I mean.”
Laura jumped at the idea. “Frank’s right. And besides, that way you can spend the day with us tomorrow if you don’t have any plans.”
Hannah’s heart began to pound a little harder. Christmas with Jason McKenzie and his family? No, no, no. “No, no—that would really be too much,” she said, begging off as best she could. “I just couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. Sure you could,” Jason said. “You’re just afraid I’ll beat you at pool, aren’t you? A little chicken, are we? That’s it, of course. You’re chicken.” His eyes taunted her. “Bawk bawk bawk . . .”
Throwing all her inner restraint out the window, she took the bait. “You’re on.”
“Whoa! Sounds to me like you’ve played a little pool before?”