XO (53 page)

“I’m sorry, Bishop, I didn’t know. I thought you’d told her.”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Stuff happened today. Didn’t get around to it.” As Dance expected, Bishop’s eyes dipped to the stage and remained focused there. “Give us a minute, Artie.”

“Sure. I’m sorry.”

Kayleigh turned on her father. “How could you? I told Barry we weren’t talking to Global. I told him that!”

“KT,” he said in a soft rasp, “Barry’s part of the past. That world is gone now, record companies. It’s the past.”

“He was loyal. He was always there. He made me platinum.”

“And in a few years, there won’t be any platinum, not like there used to be. It’s going to be downloads and TV and concerts and deals with retailers and airlines and ad agencies. The Industry’s always been changing. That’s the way it works. We’re in a new era.”

“That’s a nice speech. Sounds like you’ve rehearsed it plenty.” Her eyes narrowed and Dance saw within them an anger and defiance that
had never been present when speaking with her father. She laughed coldly. “You think I don’t see what’s going on here? This isn’t about me. It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

“Me?”

“You fucked up your career. You let your voice go to hell and now you can’t sing or write your way out of a paper bag. So what do you do? You become the great impresario. What’s Global’s tagline going to be? ‘Now Appearing … Bishop Towne’s Daughter’?”

“KT, of course not. That’s—”

“What’s Barry going to do?”

“Barry?” As if Bishop hadn’t thought about it. “He’ll change with the times or he’ll get into a new line of work. Or we’ll have Art find a place for him at Global. We still need producers.”

“So that’s how you treat your friends. It’s sure how you treated me, isn’t it? You made me give up my …” She tailed off. Dance knew what was in her mind but the young woman wasn’t going there now. “You made me give up so much, just so you could stay in the Industry. It was the only way you could hang on.”

She wheeled around and walked away.

He shouted, “KT!”

She paused.

“You wait just a minute there.”

Kayleigh turned back defiantly and Bishop approached. He regarded her not as a child but as a peer. Oblivious to onlookers he muttered, “You’re acting like a spoiled little girl. All right, you want the truth? Yeah, I asked your sister and Congressman Davis here to discourage you from canceling. And, yeah, I cut the deal with Global. But, why I did that, it’s
not
about me. And it’s not about
you
either. You want to know what it’s about? Do you?”

“Yeah, tell me,” she snapped.

Bishop pointed to the filling seats. “It’s about
them,
KT. The audience. They are the only thing in the universe that matters.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re saying.”

“What you’ve got comes along once or twice in a generation. Your voice, your music, your stage presence, your writing … Do you know how rare that is? You know how important?”

His voice softened. “Music’s the truth nowadays, KT. We don’t get
answers from religion or politicians; we sure as hell don’t get ’em from TV news. We get answers from
music.
The whole world walks around with those little earplugs feeding songs into their brains. Why? So they can learn the truth! They need people who can put into words and music the answers they need. People who take away their sadness, make ’em understand everybody goes through lousy times too, show ’em there’s hope, make ’em laugh.

“And for you, doing that’s easy as fallin’ off a log. It wasn’t for me. But it is for you. Tell me, KT, how many songs you think up in the last coupla days? Without even trying? How many? A dozen, I’ll bet.”

Kayleigh blinked and Dance saw that he was right.

“That’s a gift, honey.” A mournful smile. “Pushing you was never about me. It was ’cause I knew you had that gift…. I knew you’d be everybody’s shadow, KT. I’m sorry you don’t like it but that’s the hand you got dealt. You gotta play it.” He pointed out to the audience. “They need you.”

“Then they’re gonna be pretty disappointed tonight. Because this concert’s going on without me.”

With that, she was gone.

The two dozen people backstage were now all staring silently at the old man. He’d screwed up, probably intentionally not telling her about the Global deal so she’d go ahead with the concert. But Dance’s heart went out to him. He looked shattered.

But Dance’s meditations on the Towne family vanished at that moment.

She heard a familiar voice behind her. “Hey there.”

She turned.

Well …

Jon Boling’s common greeting, just like his personality, was easy, friendly. And more than a little sexy, Dance had always felt.

Until now.

She stared blankly. He gave a surprised laugh, apparently assuming she was caught up in whatever drama was going on backstage at the moment—all the somber faces. And he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her.

She returned the pressure anemically, feeling the weight of the blunt
realization that he’d come all the way here—three hours—to tell her he was leaving her and moving to San Diego.

At least he’s got the balls to tell me face-to-face….

A line, Dance reflected wryly, that had a good country beat to it, though she guessed it wasn’t the sort of phrase that would ever appear in a Kayleigh Towne song.

“YOU LOOK MORE
surprised than I thought you would,” Boling said, stepping back from the embrace.

He looked around, an exaggerated frown on his face. “Your secret lover must be here somewhere. And, dammit, I
bought
a ticket. You probably got him comped.”

Dance laughed, though the sound only made her feel worse, a reminder of the many good times they’d shared. They walked to a deserted part of the backstage area.

Boling looked around. “What’s going on? Everybody okay?”

“Hard to say.” She couldn’t avoid the cryptic response.

He looked her over. “We’ve had the worst phone luck. I’ve been doing ten-hour days. And you, your mom said you were working on that kidnapping case. Some vacation you had, hm?”

My mother, my spy.

“And Lincoln and Amelia were here?”

“Couldn’t’ve done it without them.” She told Boling about the minute bits of trace that gave her the idea that Edwin had taken Kayleigh’s song to heart, the one about growing up near a silver mine. “That’s how we traced him.”

Boling leaned forward and kissed her quickly, his lips firmly against hers.

Her phone vibrated. A glance downward. It was Michael O’Neil.

Well, how’s that for some irony?

“You have to get that?”

“I’ll let it go,” Dance said.

“Good turnout,” he said. “I listened to one of Kayleigh’s CDs on the way here. I can’t wait for the show.”

“About that … there may be a rain check situation.”

And she told him about the blowup between father and daughter.

“No! You mean cancel the whole show?”

“Looks like it.”

The crew, Kayleigh’s band, the local backup musicians, a children’s choir … everybody was standing around awkwardly, heads and eyes pivoting, engaged in a radar search for the centerpiece of the evening. The sense of dread was evident. Kayleigh was the least temperamental performer on earth. If she stormed out it was not diva drama, with her in the trailer waiting to be coaxed back. Her absence probably reflected the sentiment in one of her early hits: “Gone for Good (and It’s Good to Be Gone).”

Bishop Towne, alone, wiped his hands on his slacks. It was five minutes past showtime. The audience wasn’t restless yet but they soon would be.

Dance found her shoulders in a terrible knot. She glanced back at Boling’s handsome face, his thinning brown hair, his perfect lips.

But, she told herself, feeling the spring steel of her soul flex within her, she’d lost one man to tragedy and she would far rather lose one this way—everyone going forward in life, healthy and with some vestige of affection. Something might work out in the future. At least there wasn’t—she assumed—somebody else in his life. She would make sure that Boling and the children stayed in touch. Thank God they hadn’t actually moved in together.

“Here. Snuck this in.”

He handed her a Starbucks cup and she smelled immediately that it contained red wine, and since Boling was the barista it would be a good one. Yes, a nice Malbec, she deduced from a sip—one of the varieties they’d been exploring lately at wine tastings in Monterey and Carmel. They’d had so much fun on those nights….

Kathryn Dance told herself: No tears.

That was nonnegotiable.

“Everything okay?”

She explained, “Tough case.”

“I was worried about you when we kept missing calls.”

Quit doing that! she silently raged. Make me hate you.

He sensed her tension and backed off, let go of her hand, gave her space.

And that conscientiousness irritated her even more.

But then he decided it was time. She could easily tell from his stance.
Yes, he probably wanted to wait before delivering the bad news but preferred to get it over with. Men did that. Either they never said anything personal and serious, or they blurted it all out at the wrong moment.

Boling said, “Hey, wanted to talk to you about something.”

Oh, that tone.

God, how she hated that tone.

She shrugged, sipping some of the wine. A big sip.

“Okay, I know this is going to seem a little odd but …”

For God’s sake, Jon, get on with it. I’ve got my children to get back to, my dogs, my guests from New York … and a friend here who’s about to become the nemesis of 35,000 people.

“Sorry, I’m a little nervous about this.”

“Jon, it’s okay,” she said, finding her voice surprisingly warm. “Go on.”

“I know we’ve had a, well, sort of policy of not traveling with the kids, not overnight. Well …” He seemed to realize he was stammering and now just blurted, “I’m thinking I’d like all of us to take a trip.” He looked away. “For this consulting gig, they need me down in San Diego for two weeks—La Jolla. The company rented me a place near the beach. It’s a month rental and they said I could keep it for a week or two after the job’s done. So I was thinking we could all drive down, see Hearst’s Castle, then go to Lego Land and Disneyland for the kids. Well, actually,
I
want to go there too. Not Lego Land particularly. But Disneyland. So, what do you think? A week in San Diego, all four of us?”

“A week?”

He grimaced. “Okay, I know it’s hard for you to get off, especially after you took some time now. But if there’s any way you could … See, it’s a four-bedroom place. We’d have separate rooms, all of us. You and me too. But still, it’s a good step forward, with the kids, I was thinking. Traveling together but not
together
together, you know what I mean?”

“A week?” Dance was stammering herself too.

He’d be thinking: I said that, didn’t I?

Oh, God—the move was temporary. Her mother hadn’t gotten all the information.

He sensed her hesitation. And said stoically, “No problem. If that’s too much time, maybe you and the kids could fly down and we could spend a few days together. I mean, you could always come down alone but, I don’t know, I thought it might be nice to take a family vacation.”

Those last two words were like lace trim: flimsy yet hopeful.

“I … hey.” He stumbled back as she threw her arms around him, both euphoric and utterly ashamed of her assumption, which was based on the worst thing a law enforcer can be swayed by—faulty information.

She kissed him energetically. “Yes, yes, yes! We’ll work it out. I’d love to.” Then she frowned. “But a favor?”

“Sure, of course.”

She whispered, “Can you and I get adjoining rooms? Sometimes the kids go to sleep early.”

“That can be arranged.”

She kissed him once more.

Just as her phone chirped. This time, O’Neil had sent a text:
Signed the divorce papers. Enjoy the concert. See you soon … I hope.

Oh, brother, she thought.

Oh, brother.

Another
ding.
She looked down:
XO, Michael.

She slipped the phone away and took Boling’s hand.

“A problem?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “No problems at all.”

Then the hulking form of Bishop Towne was approaching. He paused and, ignoring Boling, grunted to Dance, “Guess this is it.” He took a deep breath. “Times like these’re when I really miss a drink. Guess I better go make a slew of people real unhappy.”

He ambled out onstage.