You’re stunned into silence for a moment. It’s been so long since you’ve even thought about Freddie, you don’t know how to respond.
“You do remember, he’s a good friend. An old friend.”
“How is Freddie?” you ask.
“Ah, he’s a tough old bird,” Maxx looks up at the ceiling and smiles at some memory. “He’s found his happiness again. Can’t keep Freddie down, you know.” His smile becomes solemn. “But you threw him for a loop, Honey Noble, you did.”
You feel heat rise to your cheeks while you do your best to repress the fragments of memory you’ve tried so hard to forget. You feel an urge to bolt from the room, but you fight it and stay glued to the spot.
“You know he only ever wanted the best for you. He was only trying to help.” Maxx finishes.
“It wasn’t easy for me, either,” you say, “but I needed to make a clean break. For my own reasons.”
Maxx smiles widely again, but some of the warmth has left his eyes. “Your own reasons. Well. I expect you did have your own set of reasons. And it’s really none of my business. I just wanted to let you know that Freddie holds a tender spot for you. Does to this day. And he forgives you. He’d tell you himself, if you’d let him.”
You feel the sting of unexpected tears. “Thank you, Maxx. I appreciate you telling me.”
You give him a hug and walk out of the room, silently vowing to call Freddie when you get a spare moment tomorrow.
Back at the hotel, you eagerly strip out of your constricting gown, wash the makeup from your face, and bundle into a cozy robe. You smile at the bodyguard lounging on the couch outside your room, and gently close the door to begin your evening ritual of recording the music and lyrics eternally swirling through your mind in the pages of the tiny notebooks you still keep by your bedside. You pull one from your bedside table and notice a square of folded paper drop to the floor. Before you can bend to pick it up, there’s a knock at the door.
Dr. Childs’s low voice soothes you as he gently inserts the little needle and catheter into your arm. “Don’t worry, I got your text. You’ll sleep well tonight. You’ll feel like new again before you know it, I promise.”
The last thing you see before your eyes close is the slow drip, drip, drip of the liquid in the IV bag filtering endlessly into your veins.
You awaken to find yourself floating somewhere over your body. There is perfect, black stillness all around you and profound silence as you gaze down upon your own sleeping form. You reach toward your body, trapped helplessly on the bed below you, but the blackness pulls you away too soon.
You drift for what feels like hours, weightless and totally at peace. You hover high above the city, glimpses of diffuse light just reaching you from below. Through a shroud of filmy clouds you see throngs of people crying, thrusting armfuls of sunflowers and bee-shaped balloons at the red-carpeted entrance to a theater. When you see that the marquis reads THE GRAMMY AWARDS, you try to swim down through the clouds but you are sucked back up into the blackness again.
Then you catch sight of Dr. Childs fighting his way through a press of flashing cameras and microphones. His head is down, and he’s pushing away the accosting media, who yell his name from every direction. You see Serge’s face, then Sasha’s face, and Freddie’s. Then the faces of your family, which flash before you then fade into darkness one by one.
In the distance, you hear music. It’s a song you recognize, though it’s one you haven’t yet written. You let yourself drift toward the melody until you are one with it. And then you are nothing.
THE END
To take Honey on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.
From page 161 . . .
A single tear slides down your cheek as you lift the phone and dial Sasha’s number. He picks up on the first ring.
“Henry?” His voice is a mixture of alarm and relief. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Tidal Basin.” You close your eyes against the sun. “Can you come get me?”
“Yes, of course . . .” Sasha hesitates for a second. “Where exactly is the Tidal Basin?”
Freddie’s voice cuts through the silence in the background. “We’ll figure it out.” You can hear a shift as he grabs the phone from Sasha.
“Stay put, Honey,” he instructs. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
“Thanks,” you tell him, and stand up to brush the fallen blossoms from your jeans.
Two laps around the Tidal Basin with Freddie and Sasha and you have it all figured out. Freddie will arrange a hiatus and puts a call into a center he knows in Arizona that offers complete confidentiality and privacy. You link your arms with your two best friends, the loves of your life, and know everything will be alright.
* * *
It’s Christmas Day ten years later. Looking back, you can barely remember that day in D.C. Everything that has happened since seems like a dream. You look up at the framed photos that adorn the piano’s top. The centerpiece is the gorgeous wedding photo from that day you will never forget, when you stood in front of hundreds of Hollywood industry heavyweights, all of your closest friends, and of course your family, who filled the front rows. The sweet scent of the honeysuckle that adorned the arbor, the sound of helicopters circling overhead to try to snap a photo, and the love in Freddie’s eyes as you joined your life to his.
You ruffle the hair of the little boy sitting next to you and scooch over to make room for his sister.
“Mom!” yells Sebastian, “show me how to play it!”
“I’ll show you how,” Camille grabs her brother’s hand and places it on the keys, spreading his fingers wide.
“Ouch!” he yanks his hand away. “You’re hurting me!” Freddie puts down his newspaper and rises from his chair. You exchange a knowing look. “She’s not trying to hurt you, Sebbie, she’s trying to help.”
“I want Mama to show me, not Cammie!”
“We can both show you, okay?” You glance over at your daughter, her hands perfectly poised above the keyboard. “Then you can try it.”
Camille is a natural musician and picks up melodies with an uncanny effortlessness. Her ability brings you an immeasurable amount of joy. Her twin brother doesn’t seem to have been graced with Camille’s knack for instrumental music, but he’s both a comedian and a fantastic little singer. Together they are like a two-man variety show, and keep you endlessly entertained.
Camille plunks out the first few notes of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and Sebastian adds the vocals. Freddie rests his hands on your shoulders as you accompany your daughter. Your heart could not be more full, and you vow to commit this moment of pure domestic bliss to memory so that you can call upon it anytime. You never dreamed you could be so happy.
Sasha’s voice drifts into the room, first gently overlaying Sebastian’s and then adding an irreverent lyrical twist.
“Then one froggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say, Croak, croak, croak,” he sings in a froggy voice, sending the twins into peals of laughter.
“That’s not it!” Sebastian howls, “It’s soggy, not froggy!”
“Oh, that’s what I meant!” Sasha plays along. “Then one soggy Christmas Eve, Santa splashed through the rain . . .”
A pro at five years old, Cammie literally doesn’t miss a beat, deftly replaying the verse as Sasha rewinds the lyrics.
Freddie laughs and does his best to sing along.
“Daddy,”—Sebastian frowns up at him—“do you have to sing?”
“I do have to sing,” Freddie answers. “If Uncle Sasha can sing, then so can I!” Freddie sings even louder, making Sebastian groan.
The song ends and Sebastian moves to the piano, waggling his fingers dramatically over the keys. He lifts his hands and pauses. “No,” he says, “I have decided the piano is not for me. I think I’ll stick to singing.”
Cammie looks over sweetly and gives her brother a squeeze, then leans in and whispers, “I think you made a good choice.”
This sends you, Freddie, and Sasha into another round of laughter. “Come on.” You rise from the piano bench and stretch your back, which is just beginning to feel the strain from the extra weight of the new little family member you are expecting in the spring. “Let’s go have some fruitcake!”
“No!” your family yells, laughing, as they follow you into the kitchen.
* * *
The new baby comes early, almost two weeks before your due date. Sasha rushes you from the studio, and tracks down Freddie, who is off playing golf. Freddie grabs the twins from school early so that they can be there when the baby arrives.
Freddie hurries into the room, his brow sweaty and a look of panic in his eyes. “It’s fine,” you tell him, “I probably still have hours to go.”
“Daddy picked us up early.” Cammie tentatively enters the room, nervously observing the cords and wires monitoring your contractions and the baby’s heart rate. Sebastian hangs back, holding onto Freddie’s arm.
“It’s okay,” you assure them. “It’s just hospital stuff. Want to see?” You point to a long ream of graph paper spitting out of the monitor and piling onto the floor.
Cammie wrinkles her nose and shrugs her shoulders. “Does it hurt?” she asks shyly.
“It just squeezes,” you explain, resting her little hand on your belly. A sharp kick from the baby makes her jump.
“Whoa!” she exclaims, her eyes wide. “I think she’s ready to come out!”
“I think so too.” You smile and squeeze her hand.
A nurse briskly ushers the kids out of the room. “Doctor’s on his way in to check you,” she explains. “You kids can wait right on the other side of the curtain, okay?” Then she catches sight of Freddie. “Sir, are you feeling alright?”
You’ve been so caught up in the kids that you haven’t even glanced at Freddie since he first entered the room. Now that you look at him, you can see that the sheen of sweat on his brow has worsened and his color isn’t quite right. In fact, he looks alarmingly pale.
“Freddie?” you sit up slightly, causing the belt velcroed around your belly to shift and the monitor’s alarm to sound. “Sorry.”
The nurse hurries over to readjust you. “Just relax,” she tells you, pushing you gently back down onto the bed. “We’ll take care of your husband.” She reaches into the rolling cart and extracts a blood pressure monitor, strapping it around Freddie’s bicep. You can’t read her face, but her words are terse.
“Mr. Angel, I’d like to get a doctor to take a look at you.”
“I’m fine,” he protests, but as he does, he staggers a step.
“Freddie!” you yell as the nurse catches him by the elbow and eases him down into a chair in the corner of the room.
“Daddy?” Sebastian’s voice calls through the thin curtain.
“I’m fine.” But his voice is strained.
The next few minutes are a blur. Later, you’ll remember a frenzy of doctors and nurses, the children confused and alternately scurrying to try to be with you, to stay out of the way, and to go with Freddie as the nurse wheels him away. You manage to roll over far enough to text Sasha, who arrives in seconds to restore order and to distract the kids by taking them down to the gift shop.
The nurse returns with an oxygen mask and brusquely straps it over your nose and mouth. “Deep breaths,” she tells you, grasping your hand as the contractions begin to come hard and fast and you bear down.
“How is he?” you ask, desperate for any news.
The nurse avoids eye contact as she tightens the mask’s elastic straps. “It’s his heart. We’re doing all we can.”
Suddenly, you cannot breathe. The suffocating scent of honeysuckle fills the oxygen mask, and you pull it from your face.
“I need you to calm down,” the nurse tells you, pushing the mask firmly back into place. “Deep breaths. Let’s bring this baby into the world safely.”
The baby emerges eerily quiet, finally letting out a lusty cry when the doctor cuts her umbilical cord. You smile through the flood of tears soaking your flimsy hospital gown.
Sasha returns with the twins once the baby is cleaned up and bundled into your arms. The look on his face is one you haven’t seen before. Every trace of mirth and sarcasm is erased, and he looks far older than his years. The kids cling to each of his hands, their eyes huge, frightened saucers.
At last, a doctor enters the room, walking slowly and purposefully. He looks down at the kids and the baby in your arms. “Perhaps they should wait outside?” he suggests.
“No, they can hear whatever you have to tell me.” You hold the baby closer, bundling her up under your chin.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Angel.” His face is grave, his voice low. “We did everything we could.”
Cammie locks eyes with Sebastian and seems to confirm something she sees there. “Noooooooooo!” Her scream echoes through the room and pierces your heart.
Sasha drops to his knees and presses their little faces into his chest as they sob. He manages to work one hand out of the embrace and reaches up to take your hand in his. He squeezes your hand, warming your heart. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m here.”
* * *
A year later the pain is still fresh. There are nights you awake in a cold sweat, sure you hear Cammie’s scream echo through the empty room. Still, every morning you awake to count your blessings. The twins have come through the tragedy admirably, Cammie throwing all of her energy into helping with the new baby, and Sebbie mustering his strength to become the little man of the house. Little Freddie is growing quickly, already taking her first steps and beginning to babble her first words. “Mama,” warmed your heart and “Dada” almost broke it. She toddles around the house holding a finger on each of her big brother’s and sister’s hands.
Sasha has been a lifesaver, standing by you every second of the grueling memorial service you were forced to endure just days after baby Freddie was born. He took care of every detail, helping you make both the big decisions and the smaller ones, and helping with the kids any time you needed him.
You’ve finally found the strength to return to the studio and are working on your next album, which has a distinctly different feel from the sweeter pop that came before. You hope your fans will enjoy it—but whether they do or not, it’s immensely cathartic to pour your emotions into your art. Colton Powers has taken over as your manager and is working on plans for your next tour, convinced your fans will come out in droves to support you and to witness your evolution.
It’s hard to believe it’s been a year. You still sometimes feel a biting guilt at the moments of joy you experience, but your heart is beginning to thaw as the weather begins to warm and buds begin to emerge on the trees. The little cherry tree you’ve planted in the front yard is the first to bloom, which you think is a sign from Freddie that life must go on. “Spring is a young person’s season,” you remember him saying. And he was right. You know now he meant that you should enjoy it, live in it, and let the kids grow in the love and light he left behind.
That afternoon you decide to set up a little picnic in the grass beneath the cherry tree. You sip a glass of wine with Sasha while the kids drink pink lemonade and bask in the sun. Little Freddie’s dark curls shine in the sunlight. “Cha-cha,” she waves her chubby fist and squints up at Sasha, the sun in her bright blue eyes.
Sebbie begins to giggle, sending a spray of lemonade through his nose.
“Gross!” Cammie laughs. “That’s disgusting!”
“Did you hear what she called him?” He dries his nose on a napkin. “Cha-cha!”
Sasha thinks for a minute, then breaks into a wide grin. He puts a finger on Freddie’s button nose. “Cha-cha.” He smiles. “I like it!”
“Cha-cha, cha-cha,” Freddie repeats, sending you all into helpless laughter.
“I’m gonna call you Cha-Cha, too!” Cammie squeals.
“I’m not,” Sebbie says stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest and making Sasha lau
gh even harder.
You look up at the tiny pink buds just beginning to form on the tree. Beyond it, the sky is a perfect blue. You catch a subtle scent of honeysuckle on the wind, and know that Freddie is near. The filtered sunlight warms your face, and you feel Freddie’s kiss in its warmth, a benediction.
You whisper a private thank you to Freddie, then turn your attention back to your little family to bask in their love and in the promise of the new season.
THE END
To take Honey on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.
From page 91 . . .
The walls seem to close in around you and suddenly you cannot breathe. You notice curious stares in your direction and a few raised cell phones, their users surely snapping as many candid photos as they can. The room begins to swim in and out of focus and you hear an incessant buzzing in your ears. You manage to pull Crispin to his feet as you topple into the booth in back of you.
Crispin looks crestfallen but maintains his composure. “Honey, are you all right?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I can’t catch my breath.”
“Just try to relax,” Crispin tells you, gently rubbing your back. At last, your heart begins to slow and your breathing regulates. You look up to see that the room has come back into focus and the curious crowd that had gathered is beginning to return to their drinks or to the dance floor.
Crispin sits down next to you. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what just happened. That was the strangest feeling.”
“Being asked to marry me, you mean?” Crispin asks with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Crispin, of course that’s not what I meant.”
Crispin’s lips are drawn into a line of disappointment and the hurt is visible in his eyes.
“That was a total surprise,” you explain. “Maybe I was a little overwhelmed for a second.”
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