Abby Road (29 page)

“After it happened, Molly used to come over all the time, probably every day.” I adjusted the clock another half inch and wiped one finger across its face. It left a sweaty smear. “When I couldn’t function on my own.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “When I’d wake up screaming from another nightmare.”

As I turned around, Todd was standing by the open French doors, staring at me. He looked like he was holding his breath. I was holding mine, too, waiting for my subconscious to push the painful memory away. Sometimes it took a while. I dropped my chin, trying to forget that Todd was watching.

A minute later, I felt his hands on my shoulders.

“I’m okay. Really, it’s nothing. I’m totally fine.”

He eased me in, planting my head against his chest. His hands rubbed slow circles over my back. Exhaling, I felt like I was trying to release something stuck inside. but I couldn’t get it out.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Todd murmured, stroking my hair.

I closed my eyes, nodding, trusting.

“It’ll be all right,” he added under his breath. “I know it will.”

While Todd went to finish unpacking in his bedroom, I wandered into the kitchen. Like the living room, its western walls were floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors, displaying the same beautiful view. I stood for a moment, leaning against the island that divided the stove from the sink area.

During the previous three months in Florida, whenever I’d been at home, Lindsey had taken care of the family meal preparations. When I’d been with Todd, which was most hours of the day, he’d used his patio grill or we ordered from Modica.

I ran my palms over the smooth, cool countertops.
It’s my turn to cook
, I decided with a grin.

I didn’t know how Molly had done it, but the kitchen was fully stocked. Not only that, but all the shiny stainless-steel appliances appeared to be brand new. If I’d been any kind of cook, that kitchen would have been a culinary dream.

However . . .

“You okay in there?” Todd called out the second time the smoke alarm started shrieking.

“Just peachy,” I called back, fanning a potholder through the air under the alarm. “I
so
suck
at this,” I muttered, dumping the pan of whatever I’d just burned to a crisp into the sink. Dishes were piling up.

Twenty minutes had gone by and I had already exhausted my entire repertoire of menu ideas, burning and/or drowning everything I attempted. Beyond frustrated, I planted my hands on my hips, brushing the hair off my face with my elbow.

That’s when I noticed Todd leaning against the doorframe.

“We’re having cold cereal for dinner,” I stated. “Which would you prefer, Kashi or Cap’n Crunch with Crunch Berries? You have both.”

Todd exhaled loudly in pretend pity. “We’re much too young to die.” He made his way into the smoky kitchen, snatching the dishtowel off my shoulder and draping it over his own, a sort of passing of the torch.

“If you insist,” I agreed, more than happy to hand over the reins until I learned how to boil water without turning his beach house into a pile of ashes.

A second later, two petite steaks appeared on the counter. Todd was bent over, adjusting the flame of the range. “That’s the very last of this kind of food for me,” I reminded him as I headed for the living room to open more doors and windows, fanning the billowing smoke to follow me out. “You saw Max’s expression today. Diet starts tomorrow.”

“We’ll have to make the most of tonight, then.”

I heard something heavy drop on the kitchen counter.

“You know I love it when you eat like a pig.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I called, dragging from the hall closet a large portable fan to help the smoke along its way outside. “You haven’t told me yet. What did you think of today?” I searched the north wall for an electrical outlet. “At the studio.”

“It was . . . interesting.” Impeccably polite as usual.

I switched on the fan, and the room began clearing of smoke. “Oh, yes,” I said as I joined him in the kitchen, “we are a very
interesting
bunch.” I stood right behind him, watching him peel a potato. “The band, they act like thirteen year olds most of the time.” I snatched a baby carrot from an open bag on the counter. “But,” I said, crunching, “when they’re serious for two seconds, there’re no other musicians I’d rather work with.”

Todd stopped peeling and turned his chin toward me. “That’s quite a compliment coming from you. You should tell them.”

“Why would they care?” I reached for another carrot.

Todd flicked my hand and then returned to his work.

“Abby,” he began a moment later, “you’re so blind sometimes. There’s been no one like you in twenty years. Even your critics agree. You’re this generation’s Britney, Madonna, and the Beatles rolled up in one.”

“You don’t have to say that,” I joked. “I’ll give you my autograph if you ask me nicely.” I hopped onto the counter, taking a more comfortable seat to observe him cooking. He was looking intense and focused, making me feel all kinds of hungry.

“I’m being serious. Just because
you
choose not to read the trades doesn’t mean
I
don’t.”

My stomach dropped. “Don’t believe the hype,” I muttered, knocking my heels against the cabinet doors below me.

“It’s not hype.” The expression in his green eyes looked a little weary. “It’s statistics. You’re on the short list as one of the most influential people in the country.” He stared down at the pile of potato peels before him. “Higher even than the president.”

“I actually
did
hear about that.” I knocked my heels harder, rattling around whatever items were inside the cabinet.

“Pass me that spatula, would you?” He pointed his chin to a bunch of red-handled kitchen utensils nestled in a gray ceramic pot behind the toaster. I stretched out across the cold granite countertop, my fingers fumbling to grab the spatula without spilling the entire contents. I latched onto it with two fingers and lifted it out of the pot. When I sat up to hand the utensil to Todd, he wasn’t chopping anymore.

“Here.” I waved it under his nose.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it from me, but then he let it drop onto the cutting board. “You seem to have trustworthy people on your team.” With his eyes lowered, his dark lashes shielded whatever expression he wore.

“I do. They’re top notch. Best in the business, or so I’m told.”

Todd nodded, though probably not fooled by my ill-informed reply. “You have an accountant, a financial manager, someone who handles your money?” He still wasn’t looking at me, probably embarrassed by the subject.

“Yes,” I replied, sliding off the counter. “
And
a lawyer.” I scooted myself between his body and the cutting board, forcing him to look at me. “I own my house free and clear. An apartment on the Upper West Side, too. Six cars.” I bit my lip. “Seven, actually. And the band is sole owner of Studio Universe, including every piece of equipment.”

“Okay, okay.” Todd rolled his eyes. “I get it.” And with that, we let the subject drop. “So what’s on for tomorrow?” He washed his hands at the sink.

“Molly can sync the schedule to your cell’s calendar,” I suggested, swiping another carrot off the cutting board. “I never look at it. Might give me a coronary.” I froze my face into an open-mouthed gasp, hands at my throat.

“Drama queen.”

“I’m not due at the studio till eleven. That’s about all I know.”

Todd shut off the water. “Good. You can sleep late.”

“I wish,” I muttered. “Dirk the Drill Sergeant will be pounding on my door at eight, armed with his evil gym bag of free weights, tape measures, and other torturous devices. Then we’re running on the beach.”

“You? Running?” A smirk colored his voice. “This I have to see.”

I tried to ignore his dig and the dread of the upcoming workouts. “I
believe
, because of the red carpet next Sunday, we should have most of the nights off.” I scratched my chin. “That is, if tomorrow’s plans don’t change.”

Right on cue, a phone rang. “I didn’t realize I have a land line,” Todd said as he breezed by me, turning down the flame on the stove as he passed.

In the living room, a black cordless phone sat beside a table lamp. “Hello? Ah, yes. Sure. Hold on, please.” He spun around, the phone pointing in my direction. “It’s for you.”

I pressed my fingertips to my chest and squealed,
“Me?”
like I’d just won a prize.

“Is your cell dead again?” he whispered in a lecturing tone.

I shrugged, reaching for his phone.

It was Molly. Our conversation was very short. Tomorrow’s plans had changed.

Dirk would be on my doorstep at six in the morning. Yes, vacation was definitely over.

PRESS RELEASE

LOS ANGELES, CA—After being out of the spotlight for three months, singing sensation Abigail Kelly (of Mustang Sally fame) held a small press conference today. Neither Kelly nor Kelly’s publicist would offer any information about the alleged boyfriend, Todd Camford, that Kelly had been seen with all summer while vacationing in Florida and who has lately been spotted with her around town and at Hollywood’s Studio Universe. Kelly’s publicist issued the statement that Kelly and her band are now in the studio working on their fifth album, and that Kelly is surrounded by good friends.

{chapter 20}

“I’M LOOKING THROUGH YOU”

“W
hat did he do to your voice?” Todd asked.

We were hugging the Pacific Coast Highway just northwest of Santa Monica on our way back to Malibu. The Indian summer night air was still warm, even at midnight, and the convertible top was down.

“It didn’t sound like you when he finished with it.” Todd shifted gears. “He made you sound . . . synthesized.”

I laid my head back on the seat, looking up at the twinkling stars breaking through the thin layer of overcast. The smell of the briny, salty ocean air was pungent, and I could almost feel the tide twenty feet below, pulling us down.

“Too much reverb on the vocal,” I answered, tranquilly. “It’s just that style of track. Pretty funky, right?”

Todd didn’t answer, but stared straight ahead.

“Some songs are like that,” I added. “Max was just messing around, using pitch control.”

“Is that what it’s called? Moving your voice up and down like a computer?”

I nodded. “It was just a scratch vocal. We’ll do the master later on.”

Todd mumbled something I didn’t quite catch, but he sounded peeved.

“Want to try that Greek restaurant tomorrow night?” I asked, moving our conversation to something lighter. We’d been back in L.A. a full week. It was a grueling experience, getting used to everything again. And I was sure it had been extra tough on Todd, who was dealing with everything for the first time.

When he didn’t respond to my question, I went on. “It’s got to be better than the sushi we had at lunch today, right?”

Finally he turned to me with a grin.

“Seriously?” I paused for effect. “Japanese and Polish fusion?”

Todd cracked up. “That was the worst wasabi I have ever tasted, and I’ve been around.”

We laughed for a minute, talking about other things we’d done the past week. Of course it had been mostly work, but I was also trying to show Todd a good time. Los Angeles could be a magical place. Whenever I got a ten-minute respite in recording, he would grab me, and we would dash out to this tiny garden behind the studio. A manmade creek ran through the middle. We always kicked off our shoes first and stood on the shallow bank, but that was usually all we had time for. When we got around to splashing each other, my cell would be ringing.

“So,” he said after a few minutes, “I take it Max is producing this whole album?”

“He and Nate both this time. They want to get back to the roots of our first record, more straight pop.” I covered my mouth to yawn. “Or something like that.”