“No spice?” she’d asked.

I had buried my face in my borrowed bedspread. My bedroom had become Katie’s room, as the twins had reached puberty and couldn’t stand to share anymore. For the time being, I was bunked up with Melanie, who had kindly vacated the room to watch the annual reruns of The Jet-Setters with Mom while I had visitors. “It’s fine.” My voice was muffled in Melanie’s pumpkin-spice-scented sheets. “We have moments of glorious chemistry. But then other times . . .” I sat up and wiped my face heavily with the palms of my hands. “I just can’t get past the fact that he’s my friend.”

“You still think of him as a friend, after all this time?” She sounded incredulous. “That’s not a good sign.”

“You don’t understand.” I finally looked directly at her. “Jo, everyone knows me as ‘Sassy.’ The other girls, our manager, my friends. Alex is the only person in L.A. who knows me as me. He’s like my partner. I can’t jeopardize what we have together if I sometimes think he’s just a friend. We are so good together.”

“It’s not fair to him, though,” she said slowly. She flopped down on the sheets with me, belly-down, kicking her feet up behind her. “One day he’ll wake up and realize you don’t love him in that way.”

“Maybe. But I need him, Jo.”

“Needing someone isn’t the same as loving them. And when you finally know that you don’t need him and can be on your own, what are you going to do?”

MERRY BOUGHT A house in Malibu, close to the beach, where she could smell the ocean. Yumi finally decided on a Spanish-style colonial in Thousand Oaks, something with enough breathing room that she could sit outside and barely hear any traffic. Rose chose to do renovations on her Sunset Strip home before moving in, and I was still mulling over one of Yumi’s rejects in the Hollywood Hills, which hadn’t budged in the market.

We’d cut a new track last September and released it as a single—“Remember,” a ballad that coincided with the attacks on New York—and segued into an announcement of a worldwide tour for our second album. The Prime tour was kicking off in May, starting with European dates. We were still at work recording the tracks, but our afternoons were currently open while everyone was recovering from the holidays. I decided to reach out to Emma Jake for financial advice. She suggested meeting at an animal shelter. It was a strange request, but then again, it was Emma Jake.

“Oh, dear,” Emma Jake said when she saw me. She wore a head-to-toe metallic jumpsuit that looked like crushed foil and purple Prada pumps. Her hair was dyed lilac. “You needn’t wear a disguise here, Miss Holmes.”

Feeling sheepish, I removed the sunglasses and beanie I’d worn to conceal my identity. “Um, Miss Jake? Why are we here?”

Emma Jake gave a theatrical swivel of her head and waved her arms at the beige surroundings. “Why wouldn’t we be here?” She blinked owlishly in my direction, as if waiting for me to disagree. “I have an errand to run.”

“Oh?” We turned and started walking toward an inner door. A worker held the door open for us wordlessly and then followed us through.

“Yes. Every year I adopt a new dog.”

The noise inside the kennels was sharp and loud.

“How many years have you been doing this?”

She hesitated for just a moment, but it was that hesitation that told me everything. Her stillborn baby. Her backup dancer. Her two-year record delay. “Oh. I mean—”

“Well. I have quite a few dogs now. Most of my staff is made up of pet-carers, I daresay.” She continued to drift, brushing her hand against the bars of cages, looking at each animal’s face and paws.

“That must be noisy.”

“What?”

“Your house. With that many animals. It must be noisy.”

“I live for it, dear. The best part about having a big house is giving hope to creatures who may otherwise be unlucky.” She stopped to gaze at a copper-colored dog whose ropy tail banged rhythmically against the rear of the cage. I realized belatedly that Emma Jake hadn’t become a Sing It judge to reintroduce the newer generation to her music; she had joined because it was something that would give her a little bit of joy. She was a genuinely nice person who wanted to help shape the green artists of the new millennium. I cocked my head sideways at her as she stretched out a hand and let the dog gently sniff her.

“I wanted to ask your opinion about something.”

“Oh? Cassidy, pet this dog.” She reached over and grasped my hand. Her skin was dry and her knuckles felt knobby. She guided my outstretched fingers toward the cage. “Now this is a sweet dog.”

The volunteer, who had been chaperoning our little conversation a few respectful paces away, shuffled forward a little bit and said, “Pitbulls get such a bad rap. They can be bred to be vicious but with good people they are loyal as can be.”

“How old is he?”

“This is a she. Her name is Penny and she’s still young, only about a year old.”

I pet her a little more, as much as I could through the bars, then withdrew. “Miss Jake?”

“Mm?” We were walking again. Penny gave a burble of disappointment as we moved past her cage.

“I need help with real estate. I’m thinking of buying a place in the Hills.”

“Big?”

“Not too big. I mean, Rose is about to own a house with six times the number of bedrooms she’d need. This is bigger than I really need, though.”

“You can get some dogs.”

“Yes, but, uh. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of commitment.”

“If you already know it’s too big for you, why bother?” She stopped at another cage and petted an inky-black mix of indistinguishable origin.

“I might grow into it . . . Have a family . . .”

“My dear.” She straightened up. “We’re not the normal. I could give you sound financial advice such as Buy only what you can afford. Buy only the space you need. But I’m not going to. You like this house. You want this house?”

“Well, it’s beautiful on the inside, great light, a nice yard—not too ornate of a yard—actually, Yumi passed on it because she didn’t like the yard—”

“I’ve seen you on cola cans.” She kept petting the mix while looking at me. A pink tongue slithered out and lapped at Emma’s wrist, which she did not seem to notice. “Your commercials. Your name on everything. On the Billboard Number One for over two months.”

I waited, wondering what she was getting at.

“I’ve seen your world tour schedule. I know how much merchandise you’ll be selling. How many albums you’ve roughly sold since last July? Honey. Buy whatever you want.” She used her other hand to pat me on the shoulder. “I could tell, during Sing It, that you were a girl with a pretty good head on her shoulders. Self-critical, yes. Maybe too harsh on herself. But reasonable. Listen, Cassidy.” She grew serious. “No matter what you hear, fame and power usually don’t change a person. It amplifies who they are already. Some people grow more sinister with money. Some people grow greedier. And some people do good things. So, if you want this house, which sounds like a completely sensible purchase, buy it.” Speech over, she turned her head to the volunteer, who acted as though she hadn’t heard this sage advice. “Could I take a walk with this one, please?”

So Emma Jake left the shelter with the black dog, and as my driver took me to Alex’s dorm, I firmed up my resolve to put an offer on the Hollywood Hills house.

Joseph, his roommate, was out, which made the cozy cuddle on Alex’s narrow twin bed even more intimate. I lay flat on my back, sans pants, hair tousled over his pillow. Alex was in pajama pants and his head was nestled into the fleshy area between my breast and armpit. “So you’re buying a house,” he said while tiptoeing his fingers down the slope of my stomach. I reached down and pulled the covers up to my navel.

“I think so. Wild, right?”

“You’re going to live all alone?” He sounded worried.

“In a big house. With tall walls and a locking gate and the best surveillance video that money can buy.”

“Maybe you should get your own bodyguard,” he said softly, still speaking into my shirt. Silently we both remembered the man reaching out to grab me after our performance on The Sunrise Show. And Jerry, leaving that letter for me in the apartment . . .

“Oh!” I said with a start. “I have something for you.” I reached for my purse and pulled out his small mint-tin-size camera. “I’m returning this, finally. Merry left it when she moved out.” He made a motion to take it, but I stretched it out of reach. “Under one condition.”

“What’s that?” he said teasingly.

“Don’t give the photos willy-nilly to my parents—or even your parents. There might be sensitive information on here.” I plucked a second roll of film out of the bag as well. “Merry was kind enough to reload for you, but who knows how much of this is her and Grant doing X-rated things.”

His eyes shone in the dark room. “You’re kidding.”

“What, that excites you?” I giggled. “Promise me you’ll double-check with me before you share them.”