Deeper Than Dreams (10 page)

“Ah, there she is!”

Turning, I found two gentlemen, one older and distinguished, the other younger and obviously drunk as he opened his arms wide and began spouting poetry in my general direction.

“
Strutting 'cross the heavenly blue, piercing backs of stars in her
 . . . what kind of shoes are you wearing, lass?”

“Um . . . I don't know,” I admitted. My shoes had appeared with my dress. The whole ensemble couldn't have come together any more magically and mysteriously, even if woodland creatures themselves had delivered each item through the window, transforming me into their Central Park Cinderella.

“She doesn't know!” The younger man's accent was melodically Irish, even when doused with drink. “A woman who doesn't know her own brand of shoe? How utterly rare and refreshing!”

“If I told you I found them in my boyfriend's closet, would you believe me?”

This delighted him. He turned to the older man. “I think I love her. Can I love her?”

“Easy, Roddy.” Under curly locks of salt and pepper hair, the Irishman's companion directed a wink my way. “There's a formidable contender already composing poetry about her.”

“Bugger, shit, and piss! You've broken my heart, lassie.”

The Irishman grabbed my hand to kiss it, before turning on his heel and calling after another women, “
Strutting 'cross the heavenly blue, piercing backs of stars in her . . .”

“Wait . . . poetry . . . that wasn't Roddy—?”

“Finnegan? Yes.”

“The poet laureate?”

“The same. Don't worry. Dinner will sober him up and he'll be composing better prose by night's end. One of his
esteemed colleagues, who's up for one of the creative medals of achievement tonight, challenged him to compose a Horatian ode in the style of an epinician
,
with a fetish thrown in for good measure. Or perhaps I should say, good
meter
.”

We both chuckled at his joke. Suddenly remembering social grace, I stuck out my hand.

“Hi, I'm Katrina Lewis.”

“I know. I had to come over to meet you. I'm Alexander Floyd. And you're currently every rock journalist's wet dream.”

***

“I am?” I asked, astonished. “I mean, eww, really?”

Alexander Floyd—it was hard not to automatically attach his last name to his first name, since I had always seen it that way, in every byline I had encountered—smiled.

“Sorry, that was a crude way of saying you broke not only the one story every music writer hopes to in a lifetime, but then you went and blew our minds by breaking another. Finding both Digger Graves and Riff Rotten,
and
getting them to speak to each other after fifteen years of stubborn silence?” He just shook his head in awe.

“It wasn't so hard,” I said. “I just went and looked for them in the least likely of places.” My own words prompted me to crane my neck, on the lookout for my impeccably dressed, rough-and-tumble rocker to come ambling through one of the archways within the marbled foyer of the library.

“So I heard.” His smirk was a friendly one.

“Speaking of which, is that why you're here tonight?”

“Me? No.” He shook the ice in his glass and laughed. “I don't just write for the rock rags, Katrina. I came to watch all the muckety-mucks being honored with major literary awards. Seeing the guys here . . . just a happy coincidence.”

“When was the last time you saw them? I mean, besides last night. That was a nice write-up in the
Muse
, by the way.”

“Thanks. The last time I saw them? Well, the last time I saw Digger was . . .” He trailed off, pushing the curls off his forehead to reveal a shiny, jagged scar.

“You . . . oh my God, you were there the night of his arrest?”

It had taken a lot for Adrian to share the details of that painful memory with me. Of Simone, crying in the all-night diner as the paparazzi descended. And his feelings of anger, of helplessness, and finally, his lashing out.

“I was in the midst of writing their biography. When a photographer friend tipped me off to his whereabouts, I couldn't resist checking it out.” He gave a grim smile at my expression. “Not proud to have contributed to the melee. We were all a bit crazy in the eighties, I suppose.”

“But you weren't breaking plates over people's heads,” I pointed out.

“True,” he admitted with a laugh. “It never changed how I felt about the band, though. Their music, well . . . it awakened something in me, long ago. I've never been religious so I have no clue what it's like to feel born again, but the fervor, the zeal? I get it. So thank you. On behalf of Corpse fans everywhere.”

“I'm . . . I'm not so sure I did the right thing,” I stammered. “What if— What if it all blows up again?” There were words I couldn't even voice, not to this almost-stranger, not to my close friends, and not even to myself.
What if I lose him?

“People change. Take me: older, wiser . . . a little grayer.” He chuckled. “We move on. Grow up. Grow out of things. There might still be that tiny spark in there,” he clutched a fist to the middle of his chest. “That fervor, that zeal. It never dies. But so many things happen to us, to change us, in the meantime. You're never going to look at it, or act on it, in exactly the same way. So why not embrace it again, and come what may?”

The truth of what he said hit me. We all live with our scars, whether hidden under our shirts or curls, or etched deep into our hearts and minds. We may share them; they're a part of who we are. But moving past them? That's the real badge of honor. Adrian and I had already been through so much, together and apart. There was no way not to embrace the unknown. Whatever was to be, with the band or our future, we were strong enough to face it together.

“I won't keep you. Enjoy the evening, Katrina.” He pressed his palm warmly against mine. Then—his voice suddenly turning shy and unsure, like a teen come to call at his date's front door—he stammered, “Do you think I could . . . would it be okay if I stopped by your table after dinner to visit you?”

The “you” he was implying was a collective one, his query an unspoken request that was light-years more respectful than those reporters outside, flinging their questions in our faces. And, like the recent words of Roddy Finnegan, utterly rare and refreshing. Ironically, I kept thinking of all the questions I could be asking him. Alexander Floyd was an oracle, the leading authority on the band, outside of the band itself. And yet he was considering me a gatekeeper.

“I think that would be just fine.” We smiled and slipped past each other.

I reached Adrian just as trumpeters heralded the start of dinner, and hundreds of highbrow guests began to herd themselves like cattle into the next room.

“Ah, there you are.” Adrian reached for my hand. “I thought perhaps Rick absconded with you, and our drinks, onto a slow boat bound for China.”

“He's still not back yet?”

I caught sight of Rick by the bar, just as a strikingly glamorous woman sidled up to him. Her dress poured over her as if it were molten lava, blue-black in its color, like the deepest center of a flame. And like moths in their well-dressed woolens, every man within a ten-foot radius was drawn to her. Legs that had no intention of quitting, stacked on expensive looking stilettos, peeked through the side-slit in her skirt as she leaned to commune with Rick's ear. She tilted her complicated, highlighted blonde updo toward him in consultation.

Rick's face remained impassive as he listened to whatever she was dictating. Then a frown and a shake of his head sent her strutting off importantly in the other direction. I swear I saw the gala's ice sculpture shiver as she passed it.

Adrian stiffened at my side. The grip on my hand was so tight, his Shakespeare ring I wore bit into my fingers. I imagined its scrolling design leaving an imprint of its words on my skin: WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE.

“Isabelle.” The name blew from his lips like a curse.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“She's a lot of things,” he said slowly. “But mostly, she was a bad habit.”

***

“Remember when I told you Wren hired me a personal assistant?”

I nodded, remembering exactly what he had said: basically, someone to help him shoot up so he wouldn't die. My imagination had instantly assigned some nameless, faceless “bad guy,” a shady shadow in Adrian's life. Not female. And certainly not one who looked like she had just stepped off one of the sports car posters keeping all the rockers company on my brother's teenage fantasy wall.

“Her?”

Adrian's chin dropped, then jutted in the affirmative. “He had her doing our U.S. publicity, too, so I suppose Isabelle had a vested interest in keeping me alive.”

Rick approached us with drinks in hand, threading through the steady current of gala guests flooding toward the South-North Gallery.

“Egotistic, self-serving—she even makes a big league control freak like Rick look like a rookie.”

“Do you think he's . . .
with
her? Now?”

Their interchange had looked . . . intimate, to say the least. Perhaps she was the source of the industry rumors. Perhaps Rick had been an unwitting supplier of gossip . . . maybe he talked in his sleep.

“Never.” Adrian practically spat. “She was Simone's best friend. I trust that even he has limits.”

I had no time to digest that.

“Here we are then.” Rick held two squat whiskey glasses in one strong hand, and my martini in the other. “Dry and dirty, just how the lady likes it. And weak and watered down, for the gentleman. I believe that bombastic blast of the trumpet means dinner is to be served.”

“You invited Isabelle?” Adrian was halfway through his drink by the time we neared the Celeste Bartos Forum.

“I didn't have to. She's on the board of Simone's charity foundation.”

Adrian shot daggers across the doorway. “And I suppose she is sitting at our table, too?”

“She chairs various other nonprofit efforts for my in-laws,” Rick explained.

In other words, yes.

Adrian looked like he wanted to pull the chair right out from under the woman as she settled at a table in the corner.

“Ten ruddy years on this island, I've managed to avoid her. Fifteen years since I purged her from my life, and tonight? Of all nights?” His eyes sparked their blue embers. “And why are you pledging allegiance to her, when you should be burning the flag in protest?”

“Any more questions?” Rick wisecracked.

“No. I now have no doubts as to who tipped off the press.”

“And I had no idea she'd have such an effect on you.” Rick said blithely.

“She doesn't. She
reminds
me. Of what a monster I was.” Adrian jammed his hands into his pockets. “I need a moment. Some air. A smoke.”

“Adrian . . .” I began, but my lover had already turned, his dress shoes echoing down the polished corridor.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Rick sputtered. “There he goes again, from hero to victim. Isn't that what I told you, Kat? Everything's so black-and-white with him. Why can't he just muck about in the gray matter for a while?”

“
Strutting 'cross the heavenly blue!
” Roddy was back, but he had found a new muse, apparently. Isabelle. We witnessed him, intervening her approach.
“Piercing backs of stars in her
 . . . are those Jimmy Choos you're wearing, by any chance?”

Rick's companion may have had a face like an angel, but her mouth was like the Fresh Kills landfill.

“Fuck off, Finnegan.” Her accent was brusque and full of all five boroughs. “I don't have time for your shit.” Laughing, the poet laureate stumbled away just as smoothly as he had sidled up to her.

“Riff! I've been looking for you
for ages
.”

The stare she fixed on me as she finished her sentence gave me the feeling she didn't just mean tonight, and that she resented the hell out of me for beating her to it.

Rick may have spent the last two decades hiding out in Hawaii, but he hadn't forgotten his manners. “Katrina Lewis, Isabelle Garmin . . . Iz, this is Kat.”

I watched her with a mix of fascination and trepidation. The big flat rocks at the lake came to mind, the ones Kev and I would lift as children, never knowing what we would find under them. The treasure trove of glittering beetles and fat, squirming grubs would send us running, flinging the rocks back down in delighted horror.

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I figured.”

Before I had a chance to comment, a petite woman crossed our path. Her sleek chignon and searching look instantly alerted me to press. It was getting easier to tell as the night wore on. “Maya Patel, Mr. Rotten.
Vogue
magazine. May I ask who you're wearing tonight?”

“Burberry.” The brand trickled off his tongue, and the writer gave an approving nod.

“I thought so. The cut, the virgin wool . . .”

“It's the
only
virgin he wears these days.” Isabelle claimed Rick's arm.

“Hello, Isabelle . . . in Versace?” Maya asked, and I thought I caught a hint of predictability in her voice.

“Always.” She clung to Rick's arm and smiled for cameras that weren't there.

“This is pretty.” The reporter gestured at my dress. “Which house is it from?”

I knew she meant fashion house, but I almost laughed, picturing their faces if I said it was from the house of Digger Graves. “A friend made it for me.”

“Homemade?” Isabelle's expertly made up eyes surveyed me with a cool glance, making me feel as if I were the one
living under the rock. Writhing and grubby.

“Excuse me.” A woman in stunning attire of gold and black touched my arm. “My husband and I saw you earlier, and I just had to come over to say how exquisite you look.” She beamed and shook her head, gazing at my silhouette. “Easily the most interesting gown in the room, don't you agree, ladies?”