Gray bored straight into his manager’s know-it-all gaze. “This has gotten insane, Chris. You’re right. We’ll talk about it along with several other things. Like a different picture for my new album. Here. Abby’s work.” He reached behind the sofa for a folder he’d stashed earlier and handed over Abby’s picture of him.
“Lord in heaven.” Spark grinned. “She Photoshopped your body.”
Gray grinned. Chris laughed out loud.
“You’re a hoot, Covey. The little woman’s fantasy ’eh? Black-and-white. A little cliché. But cute, Gray. Very cute.” He handed it back.
“I’m serious,” Gray said, losing his smile. “We’re showing this to the art department.”
Chris patted his face twice then slapped it softly. “You’re getting cheeky in your old age. Forty-five-year-olds.” He winked at Spark. “Can’t do a thing with ’em.”
“It’s hell, man.” Spark nodded.
“Enjoy your party tonight, my friend,” Chris said. “You’ve earned it. Tomorrow we’ll discuss the rest of the tour. I’ve got some major interviews lined up during the breaks, and we’ll talk about how to maximize the story of what you’ve been through.”
Gray’s heart nearly punched a hole through his ribcage. “There’s no story. It’s a dead story. One word gets out about where I’ve been, and there’ll be hell to pay.”
Nobody was going to make a spectacle out of Abby. Or of Kim and Dawson.
“They want to know something, Gray.”
“Then we’ll tell them something, and it’ll be all they need to know. Gimme a break. I need all the help with this you can give me.”
Chris sighed, long-suffering and pathetic. “I don’t know what the hell happened to you in the past few weeks. I’ll be glad when you have your little hiatus out of your system.” He smiled. “You’ll feel better after your birthday.”
“I sure will.” Gray calmed his annoyance. “There’s a big party planned back in Minnesota. I told you about the birthday I share with Abby Stadtler’s daughter?”
“Fuck, Gray! Don’t do this to me. You are not going back there!”
“Chris?” There was no point in reacting further. “Go. Have some more pâté or whatever other fancy food you’ve ordered for us. Eat, drink, be merry. Stop worrying.”
“You’re killing me, Covey. I swear to God.”
Chris skulked off, and Gray dropped into the sofa next to Spark. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Man, don’t worry about it. You’re his pride and joy, and things have been a little dicey the past eighteen months. He thinks he’s protecting you.”
A vibration from his back jeans pocket caused Gray to start. He reached to pat his iPhone and it buzzed again. “What the hell?” He pulled the phone free and squinted at the number. Adrenaline from joy and concern pumped into his system. Abby!
“Hey you!”
“Gray?” A timid, quiet voice filled with trembling tears launched his heartbeat into the stratosphere.
“Kimmy? Honey, what’s wrong?” He shot Spark a desperate look and stood.
“I’m s . . . sorry to call you.”
“It’s all right, you know it is. But, honey, it’s three in the morning there. What is it? Is it your mom? Is it Dawson?”
“M . . . Mom.”
Oh, God. “What happened?”
“She didn’t go to work this afternoon, but she left and was gone such a long time. She was so sad when she came home . . .” Kim’s voice caught, and she gulped. Gray forced patience, waiting, his fingers ice-cold. “She told me things are really bad with the finances, and there’s no money to fix the well. She . . . she . . .” Her crying turned to quiet sobs. “She sold Gucci.”
Her words made no sense. Abby loved that horse with a passion. She needed that horse. And in the millisecond it took to remind himself of that, he realized, too, how tied to Gucci he felt himself. The space occupied by his heart suddenly contained a boulder.
“No, Kimmy, she couldn’t have.”
“I know. I can’t believe it. But she says she did. And she went down to the barn late and wouldn’t let me or Dawson help clean stalls. She told us she just wanted to be alone for a while, so we didn’t bug her. Now she just woke up, and she’s crying, and I don’t know how to help her. I told her to call you . . .” She hesitated.
“That’s good. That’s fine,” he promised, his voice hoarse, his careening thoughts useless.
“She won’t. She said it was her problem to solve.”
Gray’s boulder-heart cracked painfully. “Well, I’m glad you called. Are you okay?”
“N . . . no. I’m scared. I’m sad for her.”
“I’ll call her, honey, don’t worry.”
“No! She’ll be upset if she knows I called. I don’t know why I did. Just, you said . . .”
“Yes, I did, and I meant it. Listen, you go and climb into bed with her, and hug her as tight as you can. Sleep with her all night if you need to. And you tell her everything will be okay. Promise her that, okay? Because it will be.”
“I . . . I know.”
“Does Dawson know about this?”
“Yeah, I told him. I don’t think Mom wants anyone else to know, though.”
“Your mom’s brave, and she likes to take care of everything. I won’t tell her you called.”
“Thanks.” She sounded calmer.
“I’ll be there in ten days for our party, okay? You call me again if you need me. I can be your dad as much as I’m Dawson’s. You mean a lot to me—I don’t like that you’re sad.”
“You mean a lot to me, too.” There was a longer pause, a short sniff, and then a sigh. “And to Mom.”
He hung up the phone and returned to Spark in a daze. What the hell had he gotten himself into? Why the hell did he have to wait ten more days until he could get back to it?
“ED? IT’S GRAY.”
“Goddess? This is a surprise! How’s the spy business?”
Gray laughed into the phone at the crusty old warmth, familiar and comforting. “Great, great. Full of spies.”
“What can I do you for?”
“Kim called me last night and said Abby sold Gucci. I’m worried about her, Ed. I realize you don’t know me that well, but please believe I’ve come to care about her and Kim very much. Tell me how bad things are for her—she puts on a brave face when I’m around. Is she all right?”
The extra-long moment of silence told Gray almost all he needed to know. “She struggles,” Ed said at last. “Syl and I do the best we can to help her, but, first of all, she don’t take help easily. Second, we’re too old to have much to give her.”
“You’re like parents to her, Ed, don’t kid yourself.” Gray sighed and let his brain click furiously. “Can you do a little James Bonding for me yourself? I know she doesn’t like help, but we can’t let her lose Gucci. That animal is part of her sanity.”
It was true, she wouldn’t want his help. But she’d said she’d trust him to do right by her. She’d just have to make good on that promise.
“Do I get to wear a fake mustache?” Ed interrupted Gray’s thoughts.
“You’re nothing but funny, Ethel, you know that, don’t you?” Relief overwhelmed him.
“I don’t know why I like you enough to trust you with Abby, but something about you . . . What is it you want me to do?”
“Find out where Gucci went and how much the new owners want to buy him back. I know it means being sneaky with Abby, but she’ll stop us otherwise.”
“I can be sneaky. How do I get hold of you?”
Gray gave him his number, told him about his schedule, and thanked him—profusely.
“Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for. Somebody’s got to watch out for that girl. Sometimes I think she’d have fought the Alamo without asking Davy Crockett.”
Gray’s throat tightene
d, then he swallowed away the emotion. “Ed, I don’t know why the hell you like me, either.”
“Got a soft spot for James Bond. Besides . . .” he said, hesitating, “. . . the only other time I’ve seen a girl look at a man the way Abby looks at you was the first time I met Sylvia.”
Chapter Twenty
NOTHING COULD DRAIN a body as quickly as oppressive Minnesota heat. Abby shuffled along the winding, wooded park path just above Kennison Falls, hoping to find any relief from the unrelenting sun. The past two days were a nightmarish blur. Yesterday had been the worst since Jack and Will’s death, her still-swollen eyes bearing the testament. Selfishly, angrily, she believed that, if not for Kim, she’d have given up a functioning well for the rest of her life if it could have meant not loading Gucci onto that trailer.
It hadn’t made things any easier to have Ed and Sylvia there, serene as gurus, promising her everything would be all right. She was breathing, as were her children—no, as was her child; when had they both become hers?—so she supposed everything would be all right. But she didn’t want it to be. She definitely didn’t want anyone to tell her it would be.
Except maybe Gray. An unstoppable tear escaped the corner of one eye, and she brushed it away, hugging her Minolta into her stomach. He didn’t know about Gucci. How could she tell him she’d sold her best friend to strangers for a pump and three hundred feet of pipe? Him, for whom purchasing several hundred dollars’ worth of shavings had been equivalent to buying a new shirt? She missed him, but she didn’t want to miss him. Just like she didn’t want to miss Gucci. Or Will. Or Jack. Sometimes surviving life was simply too difficult.
“Mrs. Stadtler?”
Abby jumped, staring at the enormous lens on the Nikon in the hands of the man who’d spoken. When she stopped being envious, she remembered to be angry and stared into the steady, hazel eyes of Gray’s nemesis.
“Mr. St. Vincent.” Her voice frosted the hot air. “What are you doing in town? Gray isn’t here.”
“I know. I went to his come-back concert. I’m happy to report it was triumphant. Could we talk for just a few minutes?”
“I’m pretty sure that isn’t a good idea.”
“I disagree. Respectfully, of course.” His sandy mustache lifted in an easy smile that held no threat. “I have important information for Gray, but I have to get him to listen. You could help.”
Abby glanced over her shoulder as if she expected Gray to appear and catch her cheating. “It’s disloyal for me to even talk to you. After that picture you took, and after betraying his mother, why should I trust you?”
Elliott took his camera from around his neck, offered it to Abby and then held out his hand for hers. Confused but fascinated, she complied. “It’s common knowledge I took the photo,” he said. “But I never sold or sent it to anyone. The file got stolen, and it’s taken weeks to figure out who did it and how. As for Laura, I never went to see her.” He held the old Minolta to his eye, looked at the settings, and nodded with appreciation.
“So, who do you think took it? Or sold it? Or both?” Abby stroked the beautiful Nikon and examined its lens, as Elliott had hers. It was like holding a Stradivarius.
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll please hear me out. Is it all right to call you Abby? I’m Elliott.”
Something in his sincerity told her he wasn’t out to hurt her. Still, she respected Gray too much to be gullible. “Elliott,” she consented. “I’ll listen, but I won’t promise to believe.”
“Fair enough.” He slipped a hand roughly through his hair, looking something other than collected for the first time. “Every day, I download all my picture files to a secure online storage site. Since they’re sometimes sensitive, I rarely leave them on my camera. If I lost it, you see . . .” A half-smile finished his sentence. “I never have lost it, and I never leave it out of my sight. It’s like a third limb. But someone got into that online site at least three times.”
“And you think you know who.”
“Chris Boyle.”
“Gray’s manager?” The allegation appalled her. She wasn’t smitten with Chris, but Gray talked about him as if he was God, responsible for every bit of his success. The idea of Chris Boyle backstabbing his star seemed preposterous.
“His very controlling manager.”
“Isn’t controlling things part of his job?”
“Not to the point of using sabotage as a marketing tool. Here’s the honest truth. Chris is worried. Gray is still crazy-popular with people who’ve followed him all along, but he isn’t gaining new fans like he once was. If he stops making money, Chris stops making money. His reputation lives or dies with Gray’s.”
“So he does things that hurt Gray’s career. That makes no sense.”
“Chris Boyle is on a weird, misguided mission. For the past two months he’s drawn attention to all the negative things that have happened and spun them to generate interest and sympathy. He’s sensationalizing Gray, making him look like a victim. The old idea that even negative attention is good attention.
“I’d forgotten that two months ago, I left my computer with Chris for one night when I wasn’t going home. He has an assistant who’s a techno genius. I’m sure they hacked the access codes to my storage site, because it was after that my pictures started appearing in public.”
“Of course they did.” Disgusted, Abby tried handing his camera back, but he waved for her to keep it. “That’s the stuff of movies, not real life.”
“I wish, Abby. I believe Chris took a calculated risk by stealing and selling the Jillian Harper picture. The public got its shock, and then he circulated the story that his boy was framed. The question he put in people’s minds pushed Gray’s current record from number fifteen to number five in a week.”
“That can’t be true. Maybe you’re just a jerk trying to deflect suspicion from yourself?” She sighed, confused and worn out.
“All of us in the entertainment business are some level of jerk. Gray is when he has to be. Chris is more than one. But Gray and I, and his guitarist, Spark, we’re also closet nice guys. Gray’s been looking for a way out of the closet for a while now. When I saw him with you and your kids? He was all the way out and a long way from the door.”
All she could do was stare. He could be handing her the biggest line since “I am not a crook,” but his words exhilarated her. Terrified her. Pleased her. “How do you think I can help?” The question tumbled out unplanned.
“With a sting. Bait Chris by feeding him a picture—one you, not I, took. If he gets it with the right message attached, I think he’ll pass it to the press. But I can’t have anything to do with it. Nobody would believe I didn’t send it to the papers myself and lie. It has to be you.”
“I absolutely will not!”
“Think about it, Abby. You wouldn’t have to say a word. Either nothing at all would happen, or the picture will appear and we’ll all know who sent it.”
The pall of intense disloyalty shrouded her like the hot, humid air. How could she possibly know whether Elliott was telling the truth? “I can’t decide something like this that quickly.”
“I don’t expect you to. Talk to Gray first; tell him the idea. If he’d go along, it would be even better. Whatever happens, I owe you one just for hearing me out.”
“You know what? Yes, you do.” She scowled at him, frustrated that he’d put her in such a position. She didn’t want to be part of a world like this.
“What are you taking pictures of?”
The change of subject threw off her thoughts. “I . . . don’t know. I never know until I see one to take.”
“Perfect answer. You’re not shooting digital. I’m impressed as hell. I miss film work.”
“Black-and-white.”
“Best of all. Having trouble with the weird light in the woods here?”
“I always do.”
Hi
s words were a trap. She hadn’t discussed photography with anyone for so long. Elliott was offering her mental flowers and chocolate. Wooing her. “That’s one of the things I’m experimenting with. I thought the shadows would give me a challenge.”
“Believe it or not, I do more than take celebrity pictures. Here, look at that patch of wild strawberry over there. See the crazy contrast? Why don’t you play with my camera a little?”
She followed him along the path without anywhere near enough caution. At least she hadn’t thought about Gucci in fifteen minutes, and for that alone she had to thank him. What harm could come from considering what he’d said? She hadn’t agreed to anything. She wouldn’t until Gray got home . . . uh, back. Got back. She shook her head to clear it.
Nine days and counting.
ONE NIGHT AND counting.
Abby turned off the car in her driveway and pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Only a week left of work and no new job. When she looked up again, slashes of sunlight streaked the horizon, but thick clouds filled the overhead sky and six o’clock looked like nine. Ed’s Farmer’s Almanac had accurately predicted the hot, stormy summer. She turned at the soft pat on her shoulder and smiled at her daughter.
“We’ll get through it, Mom.”
Her beautiful Kim—so naturally wise in the ways of caregiving. Abby grabbed her into a hug. “Have I told you how much I love you? For being my rock the past two weeks?”
Kim smiled. Outside the car, Abby drew a lungful of sweet, rain-laden air and tried to figure out why things didn’t feel quite right—aside from today’s lack of success. Two job interviews had yielded no promising results. She couldn’t afford to miss paychecks.
The world just felt . . . off. To start with, Gray hadn’t called for the first time since leaving. And her dog was not there to greet her. “Where’s Roscoe, do you suppose?”
Kim shrugged.
Whatever she’d expected upon entering the kitchen, it wasn’t the heavenly smell of garlic and roasting meat bubbling on the stove and live guitar music from the living room. And, at last, Roscoe raced into view, toenails clicking on the kitchen flooring. The music stopped. Five seconds later, the most beautiful man in the world stood in the archway.
The Rancher and the Rock Star Page 23