One Night With a Rock Star

by Chana Keefer

  “You gotta admit, it’s confusing.”

  “You don’t think I would actually let anyone call me that do you? Alistaire is the kid who has ‘Kick me’ signs stuck on his back and is called ‘Alice’ by bullies who steal his lunch money. James brilliantly begged Mum to shorten it to Lester, which is what she usually called me anyway, and that’s what went on my records. By the way, it’s fine with me if none of our children bear that name.”

  That was one of the happiest moments of my life as I sat in that library with droplets of rain running down the stained glass, casting watercolor shadows across his face while his words washed over me in waves of joy.

  He wanted to grow old with me, be the father of my children, share our lives together. If good feelings alone could heal a body, my toes would have mended instantly. It was the perfect drug. They still hurt, but I couldn’t have cared less.

  I forced myself out of the happy daze since Sky obviously had more on his mind. “I have three more weeks of this tour, then we can talk further.”

  “So I can assume I’ll see you again before another two years has passed?” I teased.

  He leaned forward, focusing all that charisma directly into my eyes. “I can assure you much more will take place before another two years pass.”

  I caught my breath with a sharp jolt of pain. “You’re making my toes curl. But you’re worth it.”

  Sky laughed as he carefully took my feet onto his lap and addressed them. “My sincere apologies.”

  The grandfather clock stationed at the entrance to the room sounded the hour and Sky sighed as he glanced at his watch. “Only fifteen minutes. I’ll take you to Gram and your parents, then I have to go.”

  Sky stood and bent to scoop me up. I put my arms around his neck for the trip, but he paused. “Hmmm… It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity.” He turned to sit once again on the cushions of the window-seat. “Perhaps we should say our goodbyes here.”

  I found myself lowered gently back to the cushions with Sky still holding me close. My eyes closed and I breathed in the sensation of being surrounded by him.

  Sky propped a finger under my chin, coaxing my eyes open. “Esther Collins, you have completely captured my heart.”

  I wanted to shout and scream and sing and dance at the same time. With a very un-dignified squeal I threw my arms around his neck and laughed.

  “Although you should be warned, now that you’re discovering ‘Alistaire,’ warts and all, we’ve only scratched the surface.”

  “So, any bodies stashed in closets or… habitual cruelty to animals I should know about?”

  “Let me think,” he muttered. “That one will never be found. Great barbeque; no evidence there… ”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Quite. Good for you to know. I did throw rocks at a sickly dingo when I was eight, but I imagined he was a baby werewolf so I was doing a good deed.”

  “Poor dingo… ”

  “Never took drugs. Gram said if I ever did she would kill me and remove me from her will.”

  “Good for her.”

  The humor left his eyes. “My best school mate died of an overdose. That was more than enough to keep me straight.”

  The clock ticked. Sky laced his fingers with mine but his eyes were far away. When he spoke again, the words poured out as if held back too long. “The world was robbed. Rich was an amazing songwriter… a true poet. I’ve tried to do him justice.”

  I recalled the dedication to “Richard” on Sky’s first CD.

  “Lost Mum one year later, same date, third of June, my birthday. It seemed someone was out to destroy me. I probably would have lost my mind as well without Gram, James, and music. She was my rock; James, my sanity; and music, my… chrysalis. I wrapped myself in it and hid for the better part of a year.

  “I couldn’t believe anyone would want to hear this collection of dark ponderings and angry questions I threw at the sky. They really weren’t written with mass distribution in mind. In fact, one producer tried to rewrite some of the lyrics, make them more commercially appealing. I yanked the songs from his clutches and found another producer. That was the first of many times I was labeled ‘difficult.’” He grinned. “Also good for you to know.”

  “So that’s supposed to be news?” I kissed his scarred hand.

  “I’m so sorry for that night after the concert. I truly thought you’d be frightened away for good, but there you were, cut and bruised and tough as nails while I was the one running away.”

  “But no more running, right?”

  “I’ve finally come home. Why would I run?”

  A familiar “whomp, whomp, whomp” broke into the edge of my hearing. For a moment, Sky didn’t react at all, just held me a bit tighter, resting his cheek against my hair.

  “Fantastic,” he spoke finally. “This would be the time I have an eager, early pilot.” He kissed me one last time saying, “To be continued,” then carried me to Helena’s suite where she and Kate presided over tea with my parents as if the sound of rotors was a common occurrence.

  Sky placed me on the couch facing the picture window with full view of the front lawn where the helicopter landed. He addressed my parents. “With your permission, I’ll be coming to Texas to visit you in approximately three weeks.”

  Mom and Dad nodded as Sky crossed to his Gram. “Thank you, you meddling old woman. Scarlett O’Hara could’ve learned a lot from you.” He grinned and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “And you,” Sky scooped me up from the couch into his arms once more, “are going to stay with me until the last possible moment.” He turned to address the others, “By your leave.” He bowed and carried me through the front door where we were hit by a rotor windstorm.

  Sky placed me in the wicker porch swing and knelt before me. As he gazed at me, the wind and noise disappeared, unable to penetrate our joy-filled bubble. Sky placed both hands on my face and kissed me long and slow. Finally, he pulled back. “How I wish I could take you with me.”

  “But I am with you.” I pulled up his pinky finger. “Wrapped around real tight, right here.”

  Sky put his pinky to mine. “A matched set.”

  With one last kiss, he braved the rotor-wind, running beneath the spinning blades to climb aboard. The helicopter lifted and the strengthening windstorm made my hair whip around my face, almost causing me to miss the last glimpse of Sky as he put his fingers to his lips and pressed them to the window.

  THE END

  P.S.

  Petra leans back with a sigh. “That’s so beautiful.”

  I nod and gaze out at the fields, still overwhelmed with memories.

  “But you can’t stop there,” she pleads. Her beautiful smile chases away melancholy.

  “Can’t the storyteller at least have some lunch?” I open my backpack to unload sandwiches, fruit, and drinks.

  “Well, you’d better eat quick,” Petra teases.

  She’s willing to savor the moment, however, when I pull out mom’s homemade brownies.

  For the next few minutes, we laugh in the late-morning sun’s warmth and drink in the peace of spring-scented breeze, lazily circling hawks and calves frolicking under the watchful eye of their grazing moms.

  I etch the perfect moment into my memory and hug it tight. With a sigh I slip it into that bottle.

  THE STORY BEHIND

  ONE NIGHT WITH A ROCK STAR

  One Night With A Rock Star will always hold a special place in my heart since it represents those heady days when I fell passionately in love with writing.

  In the summer of 2005, I woke from a dream involving a favorite singing star and a much younger me. It was a simple affair about a chance encounter that progressed no further than a flush-faced request for an autograph. But it lingered, much like a hypnotic melody with lyrics that demand exploration.

  Later that week, we took a family trek up the coast of California. My youngest kids were 2 and 4 years and by the third day of action-packed tra
vel, one was crying and the other needed a barf bag held to her mouth. I deposited myself between them in the back of our van. Finally, with a small head snoozing on each shoulder, I leaned back and reveled in hours of unexpected peace.

  As the miles ticked away, the dream expanded and a wonderful story unfolded in my mind.

  By the time we arrived back home, the first few pages were recorded on a legal pad. Every spare moment in the coming weeks found me tapping away at our kitchen computer. I have to laugh when I recall uttering the naïve words, “I wish I had three or four uninterrupted days so I could just get this out of my system.”

  For an entire month, I survived on three or four hours of sleep per night and, due to the fun I was having thinking like a giddy twenty-year-old, a round-the-clock infusion of pure adrenalin.

  By page 100, hubby and I realized this was more than just some little story so, bless his heart, he bought me a laptop. I still had no clue as to the scope of this journey. Even ten months later, when I completed the first draft of Rock Star, I was blissfully ignorant—but hooked. I’d never stop writing, with or without a publishing contract or loyal fans.

  However, I was also fully convinced Rock Star needed to be read. In a day when morals are a quaint artifact, this tale of a young woman sticking to what’s right even when her fantasy is presented on a silver platter struck at the heart of our society’s cancer of lives shredded by lack of a moral compass. Therefore, I purposed to do whatever it took to craft and polish a story with the power to woo jaded editors with piles of unread manuscripts—who might even disagree with my worldview.

  I took the advice of an author friend and polished my writing skills. A steep learning curve can be discouraging, but Rock Star was the perfect therapy, spurring me on through intensive rewrites and the wonderful new world of rejection letters.

  Through the highs and lows of the journey, my husband and kids provided constant encouragement. My oldest son, the first guinea pig, laughed at all the right moments and begged for more then told me, “Mom, this is just as good as Harry Potter—in its own way.” His loyal praise was my first taste of that sweet nectar—connecting with someone else’s heart through the written word.

  But my goal had become much more than just the head-trip of hearing a reader’s praise. I was beginning to have the audacity to think I could make a difference. More and more the a.m. prayer sessions were an overwhelming longing to reach out and stop someone from an unthinking leap off a cliff. But how? To have that effect, to reach as many as possible with a great story that also sparks a life course-correction, would demand even more of a stroll outside my comfort zone.

  But there was another roadblock. Now that I’d written this honest, edgy, but not gratuitous novel, what publisher would want it? I had unwittingly written myself into no-man’s land. Rock Star wasn’t as neat and tidy as most Christian publications. The characters, even the “bad guys,” were multi-faceted and none were inherently good or evil, yet from a non-religious point-of-view, the heroine’s reliance on pleasing God wasn’t believable. Therefore, from a strictly business viewpoint, I could understand the quandary. Too edgy for the Christian market + too moral for the non-religious market + an untried author = publishing risk.

  Since 2006, that code has changed somewhat, but at the time, the outlook for finding a publisher for Rock Star was decidedly bleak and I was getting the impression the publishing world would rather transform good writers into short-order cooks willing to pump out what’s “hot” at the moment.

  But I never stopped believing there was a market for Rock Star. If nothing else, people like me were the perfect target, those who have deep convictions, who want to make a difference in the “real world” rather than just protect themselves from it. Besides, even after delving into the novel day after day for years, Rock Star still got to me. Plus, I continued to get rave reviews from those few who read it in its Kinko’s-published form. Surely that said something.

  Every now and again, when frustration, chaos or disillusionment leaves me with a big, fat, “Why do I do this?” I pull out Rock Star to remind me of those first heady months of falling in love with writing.

  I told my oldest son he would always have a special place in my heart because he was my firstborn, the one who changed me into a mother. That’s what Rock Star will always be: my firstborn novel—the one that changed me.

  EXCERPT FROM THE SEQUEL TO

  ONE NIGHT WITH A ROCK STAR:

  The helicopter rose into the air. I struggled to my feet and limped to the porch railing to wave as long as there was any chance Sky might catch a glimpse of me. Finally, its shape faded into the gray mist.

  I hadn’t realized Dad stood beside me. “Happy?”

  I nodded, although “happy” failed to capture one percent of the emotional overload.

  “I won’t carry you, but lean on me and let’s get you back inside.”

  I hobbled with him a couple steps. Kate bustled out the door to assist me on the other side until I finally plopped gratefully onto the couch.

  “Well.” Helena sighed contentedly. “One of my most successful intrigues to date.”

  I turned to face the four smug, smiling faces.

  “Okay you con-artists, how long have you been planning this?”

  They were only too eager to boast of their plotting and deceptions.

  “I asked Wally for your parents’ phone number, let’s see, six weeks ago?” Helena turned to Mom and Dad who nodded in agreement.

  However, as they spoke of inter-continental phone calls and moments when they thought it would all fall through—only three days ago it had seemed Sky wouldn’t be able to break away from the tour—I felt a bit sad. Was such an elaborate ruse truly necessary for Sky to commit to me?

  “Don’t worry, Sweetie,” Helena read my thoughts. “He would have come ‘round eventually on his own, but I’m too old to wait. Besides, nothing makes me feel more alive than a little manipulation.”

  Light dawned as I recalled my first meeting with Helena. “That bit at the airport. You fake. And here I thought I was doing a good deed.”

  “I had already spotted you. Just consider it a little test you passed with flying colors. I knew the girl Lester was so taken with would never allow an old lady to miss her flight.” She winked. “Besides, I liked getting to know you on my terms, without being his grandmother. How dull would that be? This way we became friends in our own right.”

  “And you,” I turned on my dad, “You’d better be glad I’m too happy right now to hold a grudge. When I think of the torture I’ve gone through for two years… ”

  “Which will seem like no time at all when compared to the rest of your life,” my dad broke in. “It was my job to make sure my instincts about that boy were correct.”

  I had to call him on that. “You were trying to get rid of him.”

  He laughed and shrugged. “Have children of your own. You won’t blame me.” His face became serious. “But there has been a genuine change. If not, you can bet I’d still try to run him off.”

  Even my mysterious stalker that night in Stirling was none other than Quentin, following Helena’s orders. “Sky’s hired hand wasn’t equipped to follow you across the ocean and you decided to be independent so we had to make do.”

  Realization dawned once more. “So I was being followed for protection?”

  “Watched twenty-four-seven,” Helena added.

  “I thought the guy who hung around the ranch was a reporter, or that I was beginning to lose my mind.” I had to chuckle. “Yes, Quentin’s technique in Stirling was a bit less… discreet. He scared me to death!”

  “How could I have explained to Sky that I brought his girl halfway around the world and then lost her somewhere in the Highlands?” Helena said.

  “Poor Quentin. He felt such a fool when you gave him the slip,” Kate chimed in with a laugh.

  So it went for most of the morning. Each had their own contribution to reveal in the grand scheme and, for all
their deception, how could I remain angry?

  Even Kate was thrilled with the part she played. “Ya shoulda seen your face, Miss, when ya thought we was tryin’ to set ya up with the Master. You turned fairly green ya did!”

  Soon, Helena brought out many of the family portraits that had been stashed away to keep me from guessing Lester’s true identity. There was a lovely one of Sky as a baby in the arms of the beautiful, blonde, young Emma. Another family portrait included both parents, an adolescent James, and Sky at about the age of three, dapper in a velvet suit with wide collar. Even then, the smiles appeared a bit strained. Sky’s father was a handsome, but stern-looking man with the same piercing, gray-blue eyes he had passed on to his son.

  We talked about the party the night before which Helena proclaimed her favorite to date. “My relatives tend to be a lot nicer when they don’t know who they might be offending,” she declared.

  “By the way,” she added with a sly grin, “did you recognize anyone else of your acquaintance?”

  I searched my memory. “Wait a minute. Mr. Light-on-his-feet Captain Hook. That was Wally, wasn’t it?”

  Helena laughed and nodded. “And the young jester?”

  “That wasn’t Jeremiah. But he’s so tall.” I was astonished at how completely I had fallen for the disguises as further deductions revealed that Harpo had been none other than Adam, Sky’s keyboardist. “I at least should have guessed that one,” I said as I recalled a hint of gold in his smile. “He never would have gotten away with it if I’d heard him laugh.”

  “Well, the rest of them still don’t know,” Helena commented. “And I can’t wait to see their faces when I tell them.” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Wally and Chloe were, of course, aware since they needed to make sure Lester’s schedule remained clear. Just two days ago, Chloe had to put her foot down about a last-minute television appearance.

  “Marti’s never going to believe this,” I muttered as the happy discussion rolled on. Truth was, I still needed to pinch myself to believe I was going to become a part of Sky’s life. I would belong in this home and by his side. His friends would be my friends. His family and my family would become “our family.” Our lives would intertwine in every way. I looked toward a future bathed in a rosy glow. Only three weeks, then he would be with me and we would start making plans.