SOMEHOW I ENDURE the first hour of the party.
No. Not party. Wake.
Two hours ago I placed a blood-red rose atop my mother’s casket on this freezing February day. Now, I’m trapped in my parents’ house, choked by a tie, listening to stories about her while pretending everything is okay. It’s not fucking okay.
When I can’t take it anymore, I collapse onto the step at the foot of the stairs, looking at all the people milling around the family room. They are eating catered food off Mom’s good china. Swilling drinks from her favorite wine glasses. Photos of her are displayed everywhere, some in frames and others in the scrapbooks that she spent hours creating.
Reaching between the spindles of the banister, I pick up a frame off the closest table. It’s a photo of Mom and me at the Grammy Awards a couple of years ago. She’s beaming, clearly enjoying herself. I trace her beautiful smile with a calloused finger.
A bunch of Mom’s high school students surround me like yipping hyenas, giving me little choice but to put down the photo, stand up and join them. They’re on the cheerleading squad Mom coached. They all seem to be talking at once, making it impossible for me to follow their conversation, and a few of the girls seem star struck to be near me. Some even cast what they obviously think are flirty, seductive glances in my direction. Seriously?
One girl points her cell phone at me while the others titter. My hand flies to block my face in a gesture I’ve perfected after years of protecting myself from the paparazzi.
Rose Morgan, my ponytailed and bespectacled account rep with the Greta VonStein PR Agency, appears at my right. I take my first deep breath since being surrounded, knowing Rose will take care of the girls.
“Ladies, a word,” she says. She’s wearing what she always wears—a skirt and blazer—this time in black. Ushering the group deeper into the family room, Rose says something that I can’t hear and then takes the would-be photographer’s cell phone. After pushing a few buttons, she returns it to the girl, who mouths the word sorry to me. Quickly, the cheerleaders disperse. Rose to the rescue. Again.
Returning to my side, Rose places her hands on my cheeks. My breath catches at the contact.
In a low voice, she says, “It’s all taken care of, Cole.”
Behind her glasses, her blue eyes are filled with compassion and some other emotion I can’t identify. They seem like they belong to someone much older and wiser than me, not to a woman who’s a few years younger than my thirty-two.
I close my eyes to block out everything except the feeling of her hands on my skin and the comfort they’re pouring into me. The intensity of the sensation startles me back to the present, causing my eyes to pop open. Clearing my throat, I say, “Thanks for the save. It’s kinda weird being fangirled here.”
Rose drops her hands and I immediately crave her soft warmth. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she finally says. “Your mom is—was—a wonderful lady. I remember the first time I spoke with her, right after you’d signed with Greta. She couldn’t believe you had a publicist.” She shakes her head. “Her exact words were, ‘I can’t believe other people will really follow what my Cole does.’”
I laugh. It’s a rusty sound. “I can hear Mom saying that.”
Smiling, Rose says, “After you took her to your first Grammys, she sent me a lovely thank you note and gift basket. She was so proud of you.”
“Mom never got tired of talking about when she met Adam Baret there.” Mom’s teenage heartthrob sent a very nice arrangement to the funeral. I’m sure she’s looking down on us from above, blushing.
“Take some time and stay here with your father and brother.”
My gaze follows hers to the kitchen, where Jayson and Dad are hugging. It’s just us now. And Jayson’s boyfriend, Carl. “I plan to.”
“Family is so very important. Lean on each other.” Her tone leads me to believe she’s speaking from experience, although I wouldn’t know. Up until now, all of our conversations have been strictly business.
I nod. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I say, “Thanks for making the trip from Los Angeles, Rose. And I appreciate how much you’ve kept the paparazzi away from us.”
“I wanted to be here for you.” She reaches out like she’s going to touch me again, which sends a flicker of anticipation through me, but her hand stops and returns to her side. My disappointment shocks me.
She continues, “And don’t worry about all the cards and gifts your fans are sending to the office. We’ll make sure everything receives a response, and the stuffed animals and other presents will be distributed to children’s hospitals.”
I shake my head at her use of “we.” That idea has Rose’s signature, not Greta’s, all over it. “My fans are really sending stuff?”
“You mean a lot to them.” Her lips quirk into a small smile, and I feel my mouth move upward in response.
“I left a card from Josh with the others over there.” She motions toward the front hallway table. “I thought you’d want to see it.”
“Thanks.” I first met Josh four years ago at a meet-and-greet. His love of music reminded me of myself at his age, so passionate. His single mother was unable to pay for a violin coach, so I arranged for him to have private music lessons. He must be fourteen by now.
She nods, sending her ponytail swinging. For the second time today, I find myself ensnared by her blue eyes. They’re an icy blue, yet they’re bright with emotion behind the thick lenses of her glasses. How have I never noticed their remarkable color before?
After a beat, she says, “Let me know when you’re planning on returning to LA, and we’ll set up some appearances for you. In the meantime, Greta wants me to issue a release on your behalf, thanking your fans for their support and letting them know you’ll be spending some personal time with your family.” She gives me a quick hug and walks off in Dad’s direction.
Business never stops for long.
My agent, Russell Waldock, and his wife fill the void left by Rose. At fifty-five, he’s one of the most powerful men in LA, yet he’s also very down-to-earth, which drew me to him. “I appreciate your coming all the way to New Jersey for Mom’s”—my voice breaks—“funeral.”
Russell claps me on the back. “Julie was a great lady, Cole. Always looking out for you. And she was fierce. The way she scolded me about your music video for ‘Prowling’ made me feel like I got caught rifling through my father’s Playboy collection.” His wife smiles at him.
I chuckle. “She always called it my ‘racy’ video.”
“Well, she wasn’t wrong there,” Russell agrees. No, she wasn’t.
His wife picks up a photo of Mom and Dad holding hands on a beach in Hawaii and then returns it to the side table. She asks, “How’s your father holding up? This has to be hard on him.”
I glance over at Dad. “He’s okay. It’s been . . . rough.”
How is Dad going to handle this? Mom’s touch is everywhere in this house, in his life. They were married for so long they used to complete each other’s sentences. “I’m trying to do whatever I can. Of course, Jayson and Carl live nearby.”
“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” Russell says.
“Thanks. I’m grateful you arranged for the label to give me an extension on recording my next album.”
Russell nods. “Call me when you’re ready to go back to LA. No rush.”
They each give me a hug. “Thanks again for coming,” I say. “Will do.”
I circulate around the room, numbly making small talk with acquaintances I haven’t seen in years. I’m standing in the dining room with some family friends the next time Rose crosses my line of vision. She’s in the front hall, running her fingers over the framed photo of Mom holding me when I was a baby. She wipes a tear from her cheek and looks up.
Our eyes meet.
We both freeze.
After a long pause, she retrieves her coat and walks out the front door. I catch a breath as if my heart just restarted.
I continue circulating and reminiscing about Mom. Around nine, Jayson and Carl leave to take care of their new puppy. Just Aunt Doreen and her family remain. “How are you doing, Cole?”
“I’m okay,” I lie. Yanking off my tie, I ask, “How about you, Aunt Doreen?”
“About as well as I can be. I want you to know you can always count on me, whatever you need.”
“Thanks.”
We discuss mundane things, like how beautiful the funeral was and our amazement at how many people came to the wake. After a pause, she says, “You know, I swore to my sister that I would keep an eye out for you. She really wanted you to settle down.” She picks invisible lint off of my blazer.
Can’t she give this a rest? Even today? I sigh. “There’s no one in my life at the moment. Frankly, I’m not interested.”
“I understand. But getting through tough times is easier when you have someone by your side. And celebrating the good times is better, too. I intend to hold you to the promise that you made to your mother and me before your career took off.” She looks deep into my eyes. Her green gaze mirrors mine. And Mom’s.
Trying not to squirm, I say, “I’ve kept my promise, Aunt Doreen. I don’t have a bad boy reputation.”
“That’s true, thanks to your publicist, but we both know that running through women like tissues is not exactly living up to the spirit of your pledge.” I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “Just think about what I said. And let me know if I can help you in any way, honey. I love you.” She gives me a peck on the cheek, and after another rounds of goodbyes, leaves the house with her family.
Aunt Doreen’s comments remind me of my last conversation with Mom—how can it be that I won’t have another one with her? I try to swallow the lump in my throat. Mom made me promise that I would settle down. And I can’t deny that Aunt Doreen’s words have struck a chord. At the cemetery, everyone had a hand to hold. Even my younger brother. I had Dad’s, and he needed me. But it’s not the same.
Taking off my blazer, I walk into the kitchen and roll up my sleeves. Grateful for something productive to do, I join Dad in packaging up all the leftover food and arranging it in the refrigerator. It looks like casseroles mated in there.
I’m exhausted, but suspect neither one of us is quite ready to face going upstairs. As has become our nightly custom since I flew back home, he pours two fingers of scotch for each of us. Tonight, I bring the stack of sympathy cards from the hallway to the dining room table before sitting down.
“Want to look at these?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Sure.”
I hold up the first card and glance at the scribbled signature. “This one’s from Josh.”
Dad smiles at the card with the violin on the front. “You still paying for his private violin lessons?”
“Yeah.” I squint, trying to read his chicken scratch. “He sends his ‘condulances.’” We both smile at his attempt and clink our scotches.
Jessie Anderson’s distinctive handwriting catches my eye. “Jessie and Amanda sent a card.”
“Another one in the long line of ladies you’ve dated.” He uses air quotes around “dated.”
“Yeah, well that didn’t end up how I expected.” Jessie is gorgeous, and when Rose set us up on a publicity date, I thought we’d be in bed within hours. Shaking my head, I trace her girlfriend’s name on the card. The two of them are great together. Like Mom and Dad are. Were.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Jessie’s filming her TV show, so they couldn’t be here. They send their love.”
“Jules—Julie—your mother,” his voice catches. I reach over and pat him on the shoulder while he collects himself. “She never missed one episode of Jessie’s show. She had a group of friends over every Thursday night for a viewing party.” He smiles. “I made myself scarce those nights. To be honest, they scared me a little.”
We both laugh, then stop short as if we did something wrong. Maybe it’s too soon for laughter. Dad knocks back his scotch, then stares blankly into his empty glass.
I reach out for another card, but drop my hand. I can’t concentrate any longer. “Let’s call it a night, Dad.”
Sad brown eyes meet mine. He looks so tired. “I’ll put the glasses in the dishwasher and you get the lights.”
Our chores completed, he slowly leads the way upstairs. On the landing, Mom’s perfume lingers. Dad pulls me in for a long hug and whispers, “Goodnight, son. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Walking to the doorway farthest from my parents’ room, I enter my childhood bedroom. The room is as I left it ages ago, filled with all the stuff I once considered important. Posters of musicians—some of whom I’m privileged to call friends now. That makes me smile. Posters of models, generally glistening wet. Seems like my tastes haven’t changed much over the years. Just my access.
I sit down on my old twin bed, feeling horribly alone, wishing a woman were here to put her arms around me and tell me everything will be okay. I’m thirty-two fucking years old. Shouldn’t I have someone special in my life by now?
Images of Rose from today replay in my mind. The connection I felt when she touched me was . . . What am I thinking? She works for me. Besides, she’s all business, all the time.
Shit, I’m living the life most guys only dream about. I have money, fame, millions of fans across the globe, houses on both coasts, people to do my bidding at the snap of my fingers and a very steady diet of gorgeous women. There can be nothing wrong with my lifestyle if it’s the American dream. Right?
Looking up to the ceiling, lyrics start to form. Grabbing my trusty notebook, I scribble down the words that are tripping over themselves to come out.
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