Chapter Four
Elizabeth followed a burst of raucous laughter into her sister’s terraced backyard, where the lingering scent of barbecued meat fraternized with the perfume of fall-blooming jasmine climbing the fence.
Dirty plates piled up at one end of the chic outdoor table and a circle of empty wine and beer bottles in the middle explained the rampant joviality. The three Winstons, with their various shades of red hair, were easy to distinguish from their spouses.
“Hi everyone. Sorry I missed dinner.”
She received a chorus of hellos, one from a stranger. Elizabeth frowned. Male.
The birthday girl came over. Each of the Winston sisters had a signature walk. Marti glided, Elizabeth strode and Belle bustled—or waddled if she was pregnant. “We saved you a piece of cake,” Marti said. She kissed Elizabeth on both cheeks, engulfing them both in Chanel No. 5.
It didn’t hide the smell of a rat. “Why is there a spare guy?”
Her sister’s hazel eyes widened innocently. “Don’t get all suspicious, he’s an old school friend of Luke’s.” Their baby brother.
“And at least ten years older! For heaven’s sake, Marti, we talked about this.”
“And we listened. Sheesh, are single men banned from our lives?” She regarded Elizabeth critically. “You look very earth mother with no makeup and your hair all curly… Did you know you have ink on your pants?” Marti didn’t wait for an answer. “Belle and Hayden won’t tell us where you’ve been. They got all furtive and nose-tapping about it. We plied them with alcohol, but except for ensuring you’ll be the one getting up with their kids at five-thirty a.m.—nothing. Is that my present?”
Elizabeth handed over the spa voucher Marti had requested. The Winston family operated from present lists so people always got what they wanted.
“What a lovely surprise,” said Marti.
Belle approached with her husband Hayden. “We’re a little tipsy,” she confided.
“So I see.” Smiling, Elizabeth straightened her sister’s purple party hat. “Better tell your designated driver what time the sitter is expecting us home.”
“Midnight,” Belle grinned. “Still ninety minutes before we turn into pumpkins.”
“Which is how your heads will feel in the morning.”
“Sorry about this, Elizabeth.” Hayden gave her the rubbery grin of the happily inebriated. “They worked us over good.”
“And you didn’t crack, I’m so proud of you.”
“I want all the details later,” Belle whispered. “What Zander said when you turned him down, how he moved, how he smelled…”
“Expensive,” Elizabeth said. Sexy as hell.
“Hey.” Hayden pulled his wife close. “You want to get lucky with me tonight or what?”
“Too much information.” Elizabeth put her hands over her ears. “But speaking of Zan—”
“Elizabeth.” Her brother’s new bride touched her arm, brown eyes apologetic. “I had nothing to do with Gareth being here tonight. The first I knew of it was when we picked him up on the way.”
“It’s okay, Rachel… I suspect Gareth doesn’t realize he’s been set up either.” The guy was too relaxed to be in on this, engrossed in a conversation with the guys. It was always amusing to see who her siblings thought she should pair up with. This one followed type, early-forties judging by his gray temples, and fastidiously groomed in corporate casual. Not handsome, but pleasantly featured. Much like herself in fact. She sighed. “Give Luke hell for me later.”
“I will,” her sister-in-law promised, but they both knew it was lip service. Rachel was constitutionally incapable of anything but gentle remonstrance.
Elizabeth walked over to the table and repeated the cheek kissing with Marti’s French husband Claude. Her bladed gaze sliced through her brother before she held out a hand to his “school friend” with a polite smile. “I’m Elizabeth, another sibling.”
His clasp was warm and friendly. “Gareth.”
“Here, take my seat.” Showing uncharacteristic solicitude, her brother vacated the chair beside his guest. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“Juice thanks, I’m driving.” She turned to Gareth. “How do you know Luke?”
“I’ve been his insurance broker for six months… Friendly guy though, inviting me to his sister’s birthday dinner.”
“I suspect Marti asked him to bring dessert.”
Across the table, Belle snorted into her wineglass.
Gareth looked puzzled. Definitely no idea. Elizabeth relaxed. “As part of your portfolio, do you sell travel insurance?”
Belle squealed. The silver heart on her pendant clunked the neck of an empty wine bottle as she leaned forward. “But you said you weren’t taking the job!”
“I also said, ‘Stop trying to fix me up.’” She swiped her finger through the chocolate frosting on her brother’s slice of birthday cake.
“Wait,” Gareth said. “Is that why I’m here?”
“What job?” Luke returned with Elizabeth’s juice and saw her licking frosting off her finger. “Hey, that’s my piece!”
“And revenge is sweet,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Claude reassured Gareth. “Ze Winstons ’ave a new focus. You are safe.”
“I have an announcement, people.” Elizabeth tapped her glass of juice with a fork and waited until she had everyone’s attention. “You’re looking at rocker Zander Freedman’s book mama.” Might as well start practicing the vernacular.
Seven faces looked at her blankly.
“Biographer,” she translated. “Assuming I can get leave, I’m spending five months helping Zander Freedman write his memoir.”
Her brother was the first to recover. “You’re shitting us,” he said slowly.
Belle held out her hand. “Swear jar.” Since her daughter had dropped a rude word after spending the day with Uncle Luke, she was trying to make him more conscious of his language.
Distracted, he handed over a buck. “How do you even know who he is?”
“I had several dentist visits recently.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“You’re not even interested in rock,” said Marti.
“That’s not true. I took the kids to hear the Wiggles last weekend.” The Aussie children’s band.
Gareth laughed.
“C’mon, Sis, be serious.” Luke poured himself another glass of wine. “The guy publicly admits to having beauty treatments.”
“You have to agree they work,” sighed Belle. Annoyed, her husband insisted no real man had manicures, facials or used moisturizer. There was an awkward moment when the Frenchman admitted to moisturizer, until Belle pointed out that Hayden used hair gel. Exceptions were made. Manicures, pedicures and facials were effeminate, the men decided, but massages passed the man-test under two conditions—as foreplay or in the treatment of a sports injury. Extra macho points if incurred through a contact sport.
“I think we’re getting a little off topic,” Elizabeth said dryly, “but did it ever cross your minds, guys, that someone whose masculinity doesn’t conform to narrow gender roles might be more secure in his sexuality?”
“Sorry, but in that area, Zander is an alpha-hole,” Marti said. “He only dates playmates and models. What was the last airhead called? Oh yes, Stormy.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean to sound snobbish, but these people are so clichéd.”
“I like his music,” Gareth said mildly. “The guy’s written some of my favorite songs.”
“Me also,” said Claude, “but what I cannot forgive is destroying the… Comment dit-on ‘l’héritage’?”
“Legacy,” supplied Elizabeth, rooting in her bag for a pen and notebook.
“Oui. ’e ’as destroyed one of rock’s greatest bands.”
Elizabeth glanced up from her notepad. “I thought his brother Devin initiated the band’s breakup?”
“To save his own life,” Marti said theatrically, snuggling up to her Frenchman. “Zander put touring before his brother’s health. What are you writing?”
“These are good questions.”
Her siblings howled with laughter. “Even you can’t ask him this stuff, Snoopy,” said her brother.
“Zander’s well aware of his reputation.” Elizabeth ignored her family nickname. “I found him both astute and highly intelligent.” She grinned. “He’s a big fan of my books.”
“It’s lip service, Sis,” Luke said impatiently. “He wants a writer outside the music industry because an insider couldn’t keep a straight face when he raves about how great he is. What that guy really needs is someone who’ll call him on his bullshit.”
Belle held out her hand again and he dug in his pocket for another coin.
“Well, you can all tell him what you think of him shortly,” Elizabeth said. “He’s coming here after the gig.”
Every head swung in her direction.
“What?” repeated Luke stupidly, coin in hand.
Marti leapt to her feet. “Claude, help me clean up.” She grabbed a stack of dirty plates.
Belle shoved back from the table. “Marti, I’m checking your wardrobe for something prettier to wear.”
“My God, you’re right.” Marti dumped the dirty dishes with a clatter. “Priorities.”
Luke rummaged in his jeans for car keys. “I’ll head to the liquor store and pick up some decent wine. No, I’ve been drinking. Honey, you’ll have to drive.”
“Forget that,” said Rachel. “I’m ransacking Marti’s wardrobe too.”
“I can’t believe it.” Claude remained seated, his expression stunned. “A legend coming to our ’ouse. Cherie, what shall we get him to sign?”
“I’m joking,” Elizabeth yelled amidst the chaos. “Of course Zander Freedman’s not coming here. He’s a rock star! I wanted to test how deep your convictions went.” Shallower than a kid’s paddling pool.
“That is so mean,” Marti gasped.
“What’s interesting is how opinionated you all are about someone you only know through the media.” Elizabeth made another note as everyone resettled, grumbling. “The cult of celebrity is fascinating.”
“Okay, you’ve had your joke, but you can’t really want the job,” Luke said. “It’s so not you.”
“And who is me?” she said, interested.
“Conservative, unadventurous. You hate bad language—I’m pretty sure the swear jar was your idea. And frankly Sis, you’re just not cool.”
Elizabeth raised a brow.
“What our tactless brother is trying to say,” Belle said, frowning at him, “is that you’re sensible. Normal in the best sense of the word.”
“You’ll hate it,” Marti agreed. “The consumption, the superficiality. I mean I can see why you’re tempted. A beautiful man says all the right things to someone used to academic geeks and nerds… No offense, Gareth.”
“Wait, how am I involved in this?”
Elizabeth patted his arm. “You’re not.”
“And what will you do through the wild parties?” Marti continued. “If someone’s snorting coke or downing shots off some stripper’s navel.”
“What I did when I was flatting with you. Ignore it and take a good book to bed.” She regarded her siblings with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Boring, sensible, unadventurous… I can’t wait to leave this person behind. What do you think I did when I lived overseas?”
“What you do here,” Belle said. “Spend most of your time in the university library or your study except when friends and family drag you out.”
“Maybe I had wild times but was smart enough to keep my exploits private.”
Luke snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“Okay, I’m starting to get interested,” Gareth interjected and Elizabeth smiled at him.
“What about Mum?” said Luke. “Will it rebound on her in any way?” Their widowed mother had waited until her youngest left home before seeking ordination and was ministering in the Philippines. None of Jane Winston’s kids were surprised. A clergyman’s wife shared her husband’s ministry.
“Only if she manages to convert Zander into a churchgoer.” Elizabeth’s own faith was more on the lines of “Lord, if you don’t want me to do this, you’d better find a way to stop me.” So far, God had proved very tolerant. But there was still a month before she joined Zander.
“Take the job,” said Hayden, raising his glass to her. “If only to get away from all of us.”
“I agree,” said the Frenchman. “And you have sangfroid. You can ’andle Zander Freedman with one ’and be’ind your back.”
“I hear he likes it that way,” muttered Marti and then sighed. “Ignore me, I’m jealous. Go. Have fun.”
“And to answer your earlier question,” said Gareth. “Not only can I offer you travel insurance, I sell life insurance.”
* * *
Skin prickling with dried sweat, Zander paced his hotel room at one a.m. chugging from a plastic water bottle. He needed a shower, but first he had to replenish the fluids lost through ninety minutes of high-octane performance.
Draining the bottle, he lobbed it into the trash bin by the bed. The temptation to phone room service and order liquor bit hard after a concert, when adulation left him feeling invincible.
Which was why he couldn’t risk going clubbing with his band.
Stripping naked, he stepped into the shower and alternated the temperature between hot and cold to distract himself from dark and forbidden longings. But it was thirty minutes before he felt centered enough to shut off the water and dress in casual pants.
Striding to the panoramic window, he hauled the gauzy curtain aside and looked over Auckland City’s lights to the dark expanse of harbor separating the mainland from Waiheke Island. He’d stayed there last night with his Kiwi mom and her new husband—a retired cop, for God’s sake. What was the family coming to?
In the cocoon of his mother’s cottage kitchen he’d nearly spilled. Mom, I’m scared. Because it turned out the Canadian MD had been right. Zander had a bigger problem than strained vocal cords.
But he’d kept his big mouth shut because Katherine was happy and he’d caused her enough worry over the years. Besides, she’d tell Devin because she and her younger son were so damn close these days, being neighbors and all. And then Dev would insist on a “serious talk” and damned if Zander was getting a lecture from his baby brother. The idea was enough to drive a man to drink.
His hand hovered over the bedside phone.
Nice try. With a curse, he opened a second water bottle and returned to staring at the view, switching off the bedside lamp so the city lights punched into sharp relief.
He hadn’t seen his brother this trip. Dev and his librarian wife were walking the Milford Track during the southern hemisphere leg of Rage’s tour. Escaping the media and the inevitable question: “How do you feel seeing another bass player in your place?”
Zander could answer that. Read Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief, dickheads—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. But leaving Rage permanently had been Devin’s choice. God knew, Zander had tried to talk him into returning. Tried and failed. Since rehab, all his brother wanted was a normal life—whatever the hell that was.
Zander sipped his water. Trampling over Mother Nature, apparently.
When he tried to look beyond Rage all he saw was a black hole.
Unconsciously he massaged his throat and could have sworn he felt the polyp on his vocal cords, though logic suggested that was impossible. It was fear scratching his throat. The specialist had said rest wouldn’t fix the problem.
“My advice is to cancel the tour and have surgery.”
“No surgery… Look what happened to Julie Andrews.”
“Techniques have improved. The danger of irreparably damaging your singing voice is greatly reduced.”
“But not eliminated.”
“There are no guarantees in any medical procedure.”
“Uh-huh. All care and no responsibility.” Except on Zander’s shoulders. “Where can I get a second opinion?”
Across the street a light snapped on in a dark apartment block. A pudgy guy wearing navy boxers entered a small kitchen carrying a baby. The baby was bawling, eyes scrunched in a red face and its tiny fists waving. The harassed daddy heated a bottle in the microwave. A woman in a shabby robe stumbled sleepy-eyed into the kitchen, her hair mussed, and the man gently pushed her out of the room. A few minutes later, carrying the baby and the bottle, he snapped on a light illuminating a living room and settled on the couch in front of a big-screen TV. It was a life Zander couldn’t imagine.
He jerked the drapes closed. And didn’t want to.
Making a call on his cell, he sat down to wait.
“Boldly they rode and well,” he muttered. “Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell.” Dr. Winston would get the Tennyson reference. She’d been exactly what he’d expected—sharp, smart and tart of tongue.
Dimity had ranted about what a crime the good doctor’s website photo was, and how much older it made her look. But she was old, only a few years younger than him. Academics with beautiful minds didn’t always pay attention to their appearance, but even Zander hadn’t anticipated a long-limbed Pippi Longstocking, makeup-free except for a bright lipstick that drew attention to a wide, generous mouth, and red hair that frizzed as it dried.
Elizabeth was attractive in a geeky, natural way, but her sexuality wasn’t the default in her toolbox, which differed from most women in his circle.
She’d seemed surprised by her susceptibility to what Dimity called the “Zee-factor” though she’d recovered quickly enough when he’d started shortening her name. Zander grinned. Dr. Winston tickled his funny bone. And he’d clearly tickled hers, though he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Zander was used to deference and noted its absence. Most bold stares he got from women had an element of sexual speculation. That had been absent too.
A murmur of voices outside the door roused him from his reverie; he identified Luther’s deep bass and a lighter feminine tone. At the knock, Zander stood. Thank God, protecting his voice didn’t require him giving up every vice.
He hadn’t lied when he’d told Dr. Winston he wanted her literary credibility. But what he really wanted—what he needed—was the quality that shone through everything she wrote. Her integrity. Something he’d cast off at sixteen when he’d realized he would never be half the man his father was.
So why try?
He opened the door. Two women stood with Luther when both Zander and his bodyguard been expecting one. Zander looked at Yvonne for an explanation. The Kiwi hairdresser flashed the same saucy smile she’d used when propositioning him preshow.
“My girlfriend also asked to meet you,” she said, loading “meet” with X-rated connotations. “If that’s a problem, I can send her away.”
He looked at her friend and saw the same erotic speculation in her eyes. Zander did so love a forward woman. He opened the door wide. “Come on in, ladies.”
Money might not buy love, but it didn’t need to. When you were a rock star, the chicks were free.
Zander thought of Elizabeth Winston and grinned. Money did, however, buy everything else.