Jack likes to be silent in the car. It makes the drive and his presence excruciating. Four hours later, we are in a woodsy neighborhood in Santa Barbara. He parks the car in front of a single-story Spanish structure. Not very extravagant. This must be his home.
Jack climbs from the car and then reaches in the backseat for my bag. “You must be exhausted. I’ll show you to the pool house. It’s where you’ll be staying while here. I want you to just rest and sleep tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough for us to start talking through what you want to do with your future.”
I follow him around the side of the house. I don’t know why I’m still doing what Jack wants me to. I tell myself it’s so I won’t go to jail. But I know it’s more than that.
He opens the door to the small structure and motions me in. It’s surprisingly well appointed.
“There’s everything you need here. My housekeeper, Maria, will bring your dinner around eight.”
He pats me on the back again and smiles.
“It’s going to be OK, Alan,” he says confidently before shutting the door between us.
I sink down on the bed. Four more months of this. I should hop a flight to New York tomorrow. But that would violate my probation. Besides, everything is peaceful in Jack’s world and that’s not a bad thing.
I take the picture from my pocket. It’s absurd that I’ve kept it. There were times in detox that staring at her was the only thing that got me through. Times I wanted to bolt from the hospital but trying to work out the puzzle that is Chrissie kept me there. I don’t know how many times I’ve studied her face. Those eyes.
Fuck, I know why I came to Santa Barbara with Jack and why I’m still tolerating this. I want to meet Chrissie.
Chapter 2
2013
Miles hits the icon on the phone, shutting off the recorder. “Did it all really happen that way?”
His disbelieving voice startles me from my memories. “What? You think I could make up shit like that? Yes, it all happened exactly that way.”
He starts scribbling on his notepad and I wait for his next inarticulate inquiry. I refill my glass of scotch, though I’ve probably had too much as it is. I should try to stay sober until I’m away from Miles again.
Miles looks up. “Santa Barbara, 1989. Is that when you started your affair with Christian Parker?”
I have to keep myself from glaring at him. Really, you need to ask me that? Haven’t you ever read a tabloid?
“That would be inaccurate,” I reply pointedly.
“What part?”
“All of it.” I toss down my drink and refill the glass again. “I fell in love with Christian Parker Harris April 27, 1989. We have never had an affair. We’ve loved each other for nearly twenty-five years.”
“Can you be more specific? Jesse’s Harris’s notes are surprisingly vague.” He flips through the pages. “New York City, 1989: first romance. Asks Chrissie to marry him. Chrissie says no and goes home to Santa Barbara with her father. 1994-1998: Chrissie is married to Neil Stanton. Malibu 1998-2003: Chrissie divorces Neil and moves in with Alan. Chrissie walks out on him and marries me 3 months later.”
I fight not to visually flinch, but it’s hard to listen to someone state the milestones of your life as though they were not significant. It’s more complicated than that. It always had been more complicated than that with Chrissie.
“You can add,” I say through gritted teeth, “we were together 1991 to 1993.” I dramatically arch a brow, darkly amused. “She walked out on me, and that’s how she ended up married to Neil Stanton.”
Miles chokes on his drink. Ah, he didn’t know that part of the history. After a few seconds of coughing, he stares at me. “How can you claim to love her and be so glib about everything?”
Glib? What the fuck is this guy? A wannabe romance novelist? He’s a biographer. My biographer. I’ll be any way I want to be here.
“I’m not glib. I’m exact. And I don’t want you writing about me and Chrissie.”
He leans back in his seat. “That will leave a lot of holes in your life story. Especially since you’ve had a successful recording career with her.” More flipping through pages. “You’ve recorded together on five albums. You’ve recorded solo nine songs by her. Together you’ve won eleven Grammies.”
“Fine. Holes. Deal with it. Professional relationship you may write about. Person relationship: off-limits. Skip over it in the book. Isn’t that what celebrity biographers do? Dance around the parts their clients don’t want them to tell by writing a little fluff here and there?”
He takes a cigarette from the table, lights it, and then shakes his head. “That’s not how it works.”
I fix my burning black stare to bore into him. “That’s how it works with me.”
“Is Kaley Stanton your daughter?”
That question takes me by surprise. I can’t believe Miles actually asked it. No one ever dares to ask it, not even Len and Linda Rowan and they are my closest friends. I’m not exactly sure why everyone continues to wonder it. But that’s how people are when they look in on your life and see only partial truths. They invent the story they want to exist to fill in the blanks of what you won’t share with them, but if Kaley were my daughter, Chrissie would have told me long before this. Jesus Christ, the girl is almost eighteen. As much as I’ve always hated the fact, Kaley is Neil Stanton’s daughter.
Fucking Neil…
The tic in my cheek twitches. “No, she is not my daughter, but now I know you do read the tabloids. So stop being a fucking waste of my time by asking stupid questions. You have me until we land in New York, then I’m done with this project and whatever you don’t have you’re going to have to finish without me. I’ve already given you more of my time than I should have.”
“Are you really worth over five billion dollars?” Miles asks abruptly.
Shit, this weasel likes to jump around a lot. He probably thinks it will toss me off-balance and get from me things I don’t want to say.
“I don’t know the exact amount. But something like that.”
“Why did Christian Parker turn down your marriage proposal in 1989?”
I ignore the question and try to ignore my thoughts as I wait for Miles to figure out I’m not answering and move on. She was too young to marry me and knew it. Like an ass, I told Chrissie we were over if she left me. And the fragile heart she has believed me. First regret of many with Chrissie.
After a few moments of watching Miles clumsily turn pages looking for something to ignite inspiration, I pour myself another drink.
“Was Neil Stanton gay?”
I choke on my scotch. “What? Why are you asking me that? Neil’s sexual orientation has nothing to do with a biography about me. Or are you thinking I had sex with him?”
Miles’s face burns deep red. Good. He deserved that for being an impertinent little prick.
He turns his notepad toward me. “No, I don’t think you had sex with him. I’m reasonably confident after traveling with you on tour for two months that you are not gay. But it’s here. In the margin. A note by Jesse Harris. I’m wondering why it’s there.”
I pretend to be disinterested, but I’m fuming. Why would Jesse make a note of that? We all knew that Neil was gay and that was why Chrissie left him. It would be so much better to believe that Chrissie divorced him for me, but no, that is not the way things ended up being. And fuck, Jesse was Chrissie and Neil’s neighbor for five years. Even if Chrissie hadn’t told him the truth, he must have seen Neil fucking around with Andy. Jesse was that way. A watcher. He observed everything. Made him one hell of a writer. No, I have no doubt he was aware Neil was having an affair with Andy in Chrissie’s house, and I’m positive he watched everything the day Chrissie caught them in bed together.