by Karina Bliss
“Of course not.” Elizabeth had. At which point Zander had reminded her of the space-time continuum. So why he was having this talk was beyond him.
“Simone’s a professional and a friend,” Jared said. “No different from you and Elizabeth.”
Not really the best example. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking Simone’s not trying to get into your pants,” Zander warned. “She’s just employing different tactics. Has she made flattering comparisons to John Entwistle and Flea yet?”
Jared stepped off his treadmill. “I would never cheat on Kayla.”
“Then tell Frenchie that,” Zander said bluntly. “Your wife’s a smart woman. If Kayla sees Simone as a threat to your marriage, then you should too.”
As expected, Jared told him to butt out, so Zander said, “Fair enough,” and did. He wasn’t surprised that his bassist wasn’t ready to hear advice. The first hit of fame was insidious. You’re good at one thing—in Jared’s case, playing a mean bass—and suddenly everyone’s desperate to hear what you think about politics, lactose intolerance, and the color purple. It was impossible not to have your ego inflated.
Zander stopped off at his biographer’s floor before returning to his suite. If Elizabeth was working she’d boot him out, but if she wasn’t, he might convince her to share his shower. In the four days since he’d seduced her at the Manchester concert, she’d rigorously enforced a hands-off policy during their interviews, which only added spice to their lovemaking when they were off the clock.
And sneaking around was fun.
At first when he opened her door, he thought she was with someone, because she was softly singing Happy Birthday. But she sat alone in front of her laptop.
She yelped as he swooped to nuzzle her neck, one hand cupping a breast. “My birthday, I hope,” he said.
Her fingers grabbed his. “Company,” she gasped.
Zander stopped kissing her neck and glanced down to meet the amused gaze of an old man with eyes as blue as his own on the laptop screen. “Oops.”
“And who is this, muirnin?” he said in a lilting accent.
Cheeks aflame, Elizabeth folded her arms. “My…Zander.”
“Your Zander, I can see that.”
“I don’t mean mine, I mean Zander. Zander Freedman. And this is Pat.”
“Muirnin?” said Zander.
“Sweetheart, darling, dear.” Doc’s cheeks were as red as her hair. “It’s a Gaelic endearment.”
“Bend down again so I can get a good look at you,” Pat ordered.
Dropping a reassuring hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder, Zander crouched by her chair and presented himself for inspection.
“You’re the singer fella. Are you any good?” The old guy wasn’t asking about Zander’s voice.
“Elizabeth keeps me in line.”
“We’ve been keeping our aff—” Elizabeth coughed, “relationship a secret to avoid publicity.”
Pat’s caterpillar brows lowered. “And whose idea was that?” he demanded of Zander.
“Hers.”
“Huh. Well, you’re pretty enough to turn heads, I suppose. What else do you have going for you?”
Zander flashed his white smile. “My own teeth.”
Elizabeth kicked his foot, but the old man chuckled. “Ah, you don’t like being called pretty then. Elizabeth tells me you’re the best singer she’s ever heard.”
“Does she now?” Surprised and touched, he looked at her.
“You know you’re that good,” she muttered.
“Yeah, but you’re not a hard-core rock fan.”
“Zander, your voice transcends genre. You could sing anything.”
“Is that right?” Pat said skeptically. “D’ya know ‘Danny Boy’?”
“I’ve heard it once or twice.” Mostly in Irish-American bars.
“’Twas a great favorite of my late wife’s.” Wincing, he touched his heart.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Zander said. Curious about the neighbor Elizabeth was so fond of, he stayed a few more minutes and left with a couple of insights. Elizabeth had a soft spot for rascals.
And she had a surrogate father who’d kick Zander’s ass with one creaky foot if he hurt his muirnin. There was something moving about an old man’s protectiveness of a woman eminently capable of wielding her own foot. And he felt a sense of male solidarity with the old man as well. Elizabeth could be frustratingly independent.
Since becoming her lover, he’d noticed she wouldn’t accept anything without feeling obligated to return the favor. Even in bed, it couldn’t be all about her and if it was, then it had to be his turn next time. Not that it wasn’t appreciated, but…
Zander thought of a way to bypass her resistance—by giving to the people she cared about—and glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until he left for the stadium. After grabbing a quick shower, he powered up his laptop and printed the lyrics of “Danny Boy.”
And if there was a spin-off benefit in getting on the old guy’s good side… Hey, he couldn’t help being a multitasker.
* * *
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Pat said. “He’s good-looking sure, but too good-looking. An’ I read something on the Interweb—”
“Internet.”
“Whatever it’s called.” He played with the four-leaf clover lapel pin she’d sent from Dublin. “Has he got you onto drugs, is that it?”
Elizabeth started to laugh. “No, Pat, I like him.”
“He has a sense of humor, I’ll give him that, but sweetheart, is there more to him than what I read on the Interweb?”
“Internet. And why would you read up on him?”
“Because I care about you. You gave me a computer, I might as well learn how to use it. I’ve been going to SeniorNet where they teach us oldies how to use the bally things. Tell me, is it serious?”
“No,” she said firmly. “It’s for fun.”
Butterball jumped into his lap, and he stroked the cat until she purred. “And is he really so famous you’d be in the papers for being his girlfriend?’
“Yes.”
“Hmph, sounds like an excuse to me.”
“Zander doesn’t care about going public, I do.”
“I was talking about you,” he said. Even on the other side of the world, his gaze was piercing. “Are you ashamed of being involved with him?”
“What?” She blinked. “No, but it’s complicated mixing business with pleas…personal. And I like my privacy, so don’t tell my family.”
“I can keep secrets.” He touched his heart.
“No need to swear a pledge,” she joked, then saw he was rubbing his chest. “Are you feeling okay?”
“A few aches and pains.” He grimaced. “Old age.”
“When did you last see a—”
“Doc?” Zander tapped on the door.
“Oh Lordy,” she said, “Is it time to leave for the stadium already?” She was nowhere near ready.
“Not yet. I downloaded the song for Pat.” He waved a sheet of music.
“Did you now,” Pat said with a chuckle.
“The tune is the ‘Londonderry Air’ and the words were written in 1910 by an Englishman.” Elizabeth hid a smile when her Irishman frowned. “It’s traditional to Irish immigrants and their descendants,” Zander continued. “Northern Ireland plays it as an anthem for gold medalists in the Olympic and Commonwealth Games.”
“And you researched all this why?” Pat asked.
“A song’s history helps you to sing it.”
Pat settled into his armchair and stroked Butterball. “Go on, then. Let’s see if you can do it justice.”
Zander pulled up a chair and looked at the lyrics. His smile faded, replaced by the meditative focus Elizabeth had come to recognize before he went onstage.
It made something inside her ache, so she watched Pat instead—his skepticism fading away with the first note, his dawning awe. When the tears started rolling down his cheeks, she closed her eyes and let the song tak
e her. She’d heard it sung many times—as Pat had said, it was one of his favorites—and initially it evoked their friendship, a shared whiskey at dusk in his garden, the scent of turned earth and gardenias, and his longing for his homeland on the other side of the world.
And then Zander’s voice sucked her into the lyrics and released an upwelling of emotion, the bittersweet pain of loving someone she must lose. How could he do it? she thought, suffer like this? Because only by baring his soul could he strike such deep chords in his listeners. The last note faded, leaving her with tears prickling; she opened her eyes and looked at Pat mopping his face unashamedly. Impulsively she hugged Zander. “Thank you.”
Silly to feel he might need comfort, but his arms closed around her as tightly and he took a moment to answer. “Gotta go—but you stay. Your other boyfriend needs you.”
It didn’t occur to Elizabeth until he’d left, waving aside Pat’s effusive thanks, that he’d called himself her boyfriend.
And she hadn’t corrected him.
“You might have to keep him,” Pat said, blowing his nose. “Sweet Jesus, it makes me want to go to one of his concerts. Where can I buy a record?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Trust me, you won’t like his music, one or two of the ballads maybe.”
She got the giggles imagining him listening to some of Rage’s raunchy lyrics, and infected Pat with her mirth. The cat, disgruntled by the levity, jumped off his lap, which only made them laugh harder. Mid-chuckle, Pat stopped, clawed at his chest and toppled off his chair.
Elizabeth wiped her eyes. “Very funny, Irish. Quit fooling around.”
Nothing happened. She stared at the empty chair and the wall behind it. “Pat?”
At the edge of the screen, Butterball disappeared at a trot through the door. “Pat!” Elizabeth half-stood, knocking her chair over. “Pat, can you hear me?”
No response. Heart in her throat she pounced on her cell and phoned her home number, praying for her sister to pick up. It went to answer phone.
“Pat, hang on. I’m getting help.”
How did you dial emergency from the other side of the world? Her mind blanked with panic. Country code…city code… Shit. Trembling she phoned her brother, giving a sob of relief when he picked up. “Luke, call emergency and get an ambulance to Pat’s house. I think he’s had a heart attack.” She barely waited for an acknowledgment before cutting the connection.
“Pat, hang on. Help’s coming. You hear me? Hang on.”
For fifteen agonizing minutes she talked herself hoarse—comforting, cajoling, pleading until the ambulance guys broke in. One dropped out of sight to attend to Pat, the other listened to her garbled explanation of what happened.
She stared at the picture on the wall—racing greyhounds—as they worked on him and brought in a gurney. As they wheeled him out of the house she glimpsed his profile under an oxygen mask, one gnarled hand resting on the blanket. “I love you, Pat.” And then he was gone, and there was only the scream of the ambulance’s siren fading away to silence.
All the adrenaline drained from Elizabeth’s body, and she started to shake. “Pat,” she whispered. “Please don’t die.” Whimpering, she slid off her chair and curled up on the floor. The carpet itched her cheek and soaked up her tears. She’d never felt so helpless.
And so useless.
* * *
Zander grabbed his cell to phone Elizabeth as soon as the band was in the van returning to the hotel. It had been strange not having her around preshow, he’d missed her.
It hadn’t helped that his voice was off tonight in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. He’d hit every note cleanly but… He paused as he scrolled through his contact list.
“You guys notice any difference in our performance?”
“Yeah.” Jared knew not to bring his ill humor to work. “Inserting that ballad in the last quarter of the show calmed the crowd too much.” He glanced at Seth for a verifying nod. The bassist and drummer were the band’s beat meisters. “We had to work harder building to the finale.”
Zander had changed the set list to give his voice recovery time between the power numbers. “You’re right,” he said, relieved. Not my voice failing. His post-show hoarseness was persisting longer, but voice fatigue was inevitable at this stage of the tour. It might be worth booking another master class with the Italian vocal coach when the band was in Milan. “We’ll switch back next concert.”
Why hadn’t he factored in pace when he was reviewing the set list? Too busy daydreaming about your biographer. He looked at his contacts—Doc—and reluctantly switched off his cell.
He needed to recalibrate his work/play balance to its normal ratio of eighty/twenty. Elizabeth would understand. She’d been talking about slashing their time together anyway as she tackled the first draft.
It tickled Zander that his lover’s work ethic was as strong as his.
Still, it required some self-control as he stood in the elevator, to let her floor flash by. See, I can give her up any time I want to. She was becoming important to him and he wasn’t sure yet how he felt about that.
The message light was flashing on his room phone, but Zander took a shower and changed into sweats before listening. “Zee, it’s Stormy. I thought you should know Elizabeth’s really upset. Her old friend at home had a heart attack while she was Skyping him. If you get this message, maybe—”
He didn’t wait to hear the rest, taking the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator and using the key card she’d given him. “Elizabeth?”
Stormy lay on top of the biographer’s bed, half asleep. “She’s in the bathroom.” Sitting up yawning, she looked at the key card in his hand. “I figured she’d want you here.”
Zander wasn’t sure what to say. A denial would be stupid. An apology redundant; he and Stormy weren’t together. And yet he had the urge to make one. But now wasn’t the time. “Thanks for letting me know. When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I came by at seven to see if she wanted to go to dinner and found her in a mess. Apparently he collapsed right in front of her.” Stormy shuddered.
“How bad is it?”
She bit her lip. “She’s waiting to hear if he’s going to make it.”
“Jesus.” He struggled to process that the lively old Irishman he’d met a few hours earlier lay at death’s door.
Climbing off the bed, Stormy lifted the cover off a tray, revealing a plate of congealing chicken casserole. “I couldn’t get her to eat anything, but talked her into a shower. She took her cell with her and the bottle.”
“Bottle?”
“I suggested a whiskey might help with the shock and she suddenly got all weird and asked for a bottle of Jameson’s. But she hasn’t uncapped—”
The bathroom door clicked open and Elizabeth emerged, one of the sorriest sights Zander had ever seen. Her red hair hung in wet tendrils around a blotchy face and her brown eyes were puffy from crying. She wore the hotel’s robe, a white waffle-weave that was a couple of sizes too big for her, and clutched a gleaming green bottle of whiskey against her chest.
She saw him and her face crumpled. He strode forward two steps and gathered her into his arms. “Oh darlin’, I’m so sorry… No news?”
“Not yet.” Her voice sounded rusted with grief. “I’ve been waiting for hours and Stormy”—she stiffened and pushed free of his embrace—“has been sitting with me. She’s been so kind.” She glanced over to Stormy with a trembling smile.
“You were kind to me,” Stormy said. “Listen, Zander’s waiting with you for news. I’ve got the kids early, so I should get some sleep.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth passed him the whiskey bottle and hugged the other woman fiercely. “Thank you. I would have gone crazy alone.”
“I’ll phone first thing.”
“Let’s hope it’s good news.” Elizabeth blinked hard and fumbled in her robe for a tissue.
“I’ll walk you out,” Zander said to Stormy. He stepped into the hot
el corridor, partially closing the door behind him.
“It’s okay,” she reassured him. “I’ll keep your secret.”
“What gave us away?”
“You’re nicer,” she said. “I’m not sure how much is giving up partying and how much is Elizabeth’s influence, but I’ve noticed you trying to please her and well…” She shrugged.
“I never tried to please you.”
“Not outside of the bedroom, no.”
“I was an asshole when we were together,” he said.
“Not all the time.”
“It took a lot of guts to tell me how you felt and I couldn’t have handled it worse if I tried. I’m so sorry…Irene.”
“Truth is, I loved you, but I didn’t like you much.” She smiled. “I like you a lot better now.” And love you a lot less. She didn’t say it; she didn’t need to. “And while I appreciate you remembering my real name, I’d appreciate it even more if you forgot it again.”
“Done,” he said softly.
“Go inside, Elizabeth needs you.” She gave him a gentle push. “And Zee, don’t fuck it up. Whatever you feel, do the opposite. If you want to leave, stay. If you want to stay, leave. Tonight, you put her first.”
With a nod, he returned inside. Way to scare the crap out of me. I’m useless at this kind of thing. But when he saw Elizabeth, curled up on the bed, clutching the bottle of whiskey, nothing mattered but easing her pain.
Climbing beside her, Zander gathered her in his arms. With a sigh, she nestled against his chest. The bottle poked his ribs and he shifted slightly to accommodate it. “Tell me about the whiskey.”
“Pat and I used to have a tipple on Friday nights,” she said in a shaky voice. “Whiskey is how I got invited into his house. He’d rejected scones, he’d rejected firewood, but I showed up with a bottle one day and he let me in. He was in a bad way at the time; his wife had died six weeks earlier.”
“No other family?”
“He has a son who lives a half-day drive away but they’re not close.” She rubbed her face against his shirt and he realized she was weeping.
Zander tightened his hold. “You want to open it?”
“Not yet. I’ll have a drink,” she gasped, “when I hear something.” Choking back a sob, she rolled away from him and sat up, fists clenched. “I shouldn’t have taken this job. If I’d stayed home I might have noticed Pat wasn’t well. He’s probably been eating fast food every night because no one’s keeping a proper eye on him.”