You Had Me At Christmas: A Holiday Anthology Page 2

  “And yet here you are, Betty.”

  “To have fun, Bob, not to bitch and moan.” Lightly said, yet he flinched. His words. There were so many he wished he could take back. Too many hurts now reliant on being forgiven.

  She looked at him over the rim of her glass. He saw a spark of anger, the ash of resignation. “Besides, you wouldn’t find it interesting.”

  “I would now,” he said quietly, and she assessed him. He kept himself still, kept himself open, channeled non-threatening Bob, not the guy she expected to see, her ego-driven husband.

  A ghost of a smile played at the corner of her mouth, suggesting she was onto him. God, he’d missed her. “How about I talk about what I’ve learned instead, Bob?”

  “Sure.” He braced himself.

  “I’ve learned how to say diaper in six different languages, including the Queen’s English—nappy, couche, windel, luier, pannolino, panal…” Putting down the glass mug, she smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  “I’ve learned that big league rock stars stay in exquisite hotels full of designer pieces that break easily under little hands, and that no hotel room is ever big enough for two pre-schoolers. Nor is a private plane.”

  Kayla had a habit of twisting her wedding ring when she was reflecting. She touched her ring finger now and glanced down.

  “I have it safe,” he said.

  “I’ve learned that little kids never overcome jetlag if they’re constantly traveling and that no tour nanny—however helpful—will be on call at four a.m. when they’re wide awake and ready to start their day.”

  Jared been out cold by then, finally released from the post-concert adrenaline of performing in front of fifty thousand screaming Rage fans. Kayla glanced over, checking his interest levels, and he nodded encouragement.

  “I’ve learned to travel with home-brand milk formula and cereals so that when they’re starving at four a.m. I have something they’ll actually eat, and that no matter how good a party is, it’s no substitute for getting two hours extra sleep.

  “I’ve learned that when it rains every day for two weeks, a hotel bathtub provides more hours of entertainment than any museum or coffee shop.”

  She picked up her mulled wine and sipped it, the words flowing easily now.

  “I’ve learned that London parks are full of dog poop and to carry extra kids’ shoes. I’ve learned that ten minutes of Daddy being fun—because that’s all he’s got to spare—will result in exactly two hours of follow-up whining.” She looked into her mug, frowning. “Which is weird, because an equal amount of Skype time at home while Daddy is away leaves them perfectly happy.”

  Jared had forgotten the endless wet weather in Great Britain because it hadn’t mattered. To him. The same way that it hadn’t mattered that he’d revved up the kids with wild play and sugar rushes to appease his guilt at not being able to spend much time with them.

  She seemed to realize who she was really talking to, because she smiled again, too brightly.

  “I’ve learned that little kids and rock tours don’t mix, no matter how much you want them to. And some people would say, ‘You’re crazy to have even tried,’ but what did I know? I’d never traveled out of the States before.”

  He put down his untouched beer. “You left out that you’ve learned not to count on your husband.”

  “He was there to be a rock star, not a family man.” She reached for her non-existent ring again. “In retrospect, I feel like all I did was complain. Neither of us knew how crazy the demands on his time would be.”

  “Maybe he did,” he said. “Maybe he wanted his family with him so badly, that he figured ten minutes here, thirty minutes there, a coffee or meal snatched together with the kids, was better than nothing—for him.”

  He’d wanted to wallow in glory and adulation, not return to his hotel room to see Kayla barely coping. After concerts, he’d wanted her waiting up for him, all starry-eyed at his awesomeness, not asleep and mumbling, “Okay but it’s a quickie. Our kids will be up in a few hours.”

  And when he did spend time with them? Damn, but they’d better be cheery and smiling and as delighted to see him as everyone else. “C’mon family, I’ve got five minutes, make it good.”

  He’d been a prick.

  “Even if he couldn’t give you any more time, he should have given you a lot more understanding.” He waited until she looked at him. “Maybe he’s desperately sorry for being such a selfish ass.”

  “And maybe she knows that. Anyway, enough about me.” She steered the conversation into safer waters. “What’s your story, Bob?”

  “I grew up in a small town, a nerd in an athletic family. Three sisters, all older. As a kid I spent most weekends at their sports meets, sitting in my parents’ car listening to music. One of our neighbors was a bass guitarist and something about the sound…dispossessed and dark…called to me. Bass has got shivers, layers, sediment. I have two passions in my life, and music is one of them.”

  She didn’t ask, “What’s the other?” Perhaps because she no longer believed his answer.

  “I wasn’t a loner at high school—with three sisters I couldn’t be—but I did live in my own world with music, and didn’t notice other people much. But I noticed her.”

  He leaned forward to pick up an olive, conscious of Kayla’s sharpened focus.

  “This girl was a dynamo, always cheerful and friendly. She must have been involved in half the clubs in high school.” The olive was salty and tart with a shot of sweetness from the pimento in its center. “She tried out for the school band but even playing the triangle, someone had to nod a cue or she’d miss the beat. She just laughed it off and moved on to something else.”

  He chewed thoughtfully. “She didn’t care about her image the way the other pretty girls did. What mattered to her was giving everything a try and encouraging other people to have a go.”

  Swallowing the olive, he washed it down with warm beer. “I don’t know why she decided to make me one of her pet projects, or even how she found out I wanted to become a professional musician.”

  He paused, waiting. He’d never thought to ask her that before.

  “Perhaps she didn’t, at first,” Kayla offered. “When you played she might have been blown away by how freaking good you were—despite her own lack of talent on the triangle—and figured it was your lane.”

  “She started dropping career pamphlets in my locker on how to develop a music career and pestered me into playing in the orchestra for our high school production. I messed with her a lot because I was cool and full of self-doubt. And one day she called me on my bullshit.”

  Absently, he looked at his hands, with light calluses on the left fingertips from the frets.

  “She said, ‘You have to believe to succeed’, which was the lamest cliché I ever heard, except that I did stop pretending and I believed. And when that belief wavered, when people told me how hard it was to break through, or suggested I give up and get a proper job, this girl believed for me.”

  He stopped, emotion thick in his throat. Took another sip of beer. “I lived with a houseful of women, I wasn’t going to tie myself down young, but she was irresistible, like trying to stay out of the sun.”

  He wanted that sun’s warmth again, wanted to bask in her love so badly.

  Chapter Three

  Kayla swallowed, unable to look away from those dark, liquid eyes. “Sounds like a fairytale.”

  “It is. I married her.”

  She finished her mulled wine. The dregs were bitter and gritty. “And yet here you are, Bob, on a secret assignation with another woman.”

  She was proud of how light and playful she kept her tone.

  “Kayla—”

  “Betty.”

  “Kayla,” he repeated. “I—”

  Laughing shrieks distracted him. Kayla looked up. Had one of the exotics gotten loose from their bamboo cage?

  Half a dozen women clattered through the bar, in clothes that paid no m
ind to the temperature outside—crop tops revealing honed bellies, legs bare under sexy minis. A brunette in a strapless dress straightened a lacy bridal veil over a riot of curly hair.

  Their whoops and raucous laughter suggested this wasn’t the bachelorette party’s first bar, confirmed by the slightly lurching gait of the bride-to-be. She steadied herself on the black quartz counter. “Five fireball shots, barkeep, my girls are paying, and a tomato juice for my sober driver.”

  As she hitched up her strapless dress she made eye contact with a guy waiting for service. “Look your fill, buddy, cause tomorrow I’m taken… No, not tomorrow. When am I getting married again, girls?”

  “Next weekend, Paula,” they chorused.

  “Holy shit, I gotta find someone to flirt with.” Swinging around, her gaze swept the room for prospects.

  Kayla grinned and said to Jared, “Look taken.”

  “I am taken.” He leaned forward and kissed her.

  It was a nip of a kiss, light but provocative, and so unexpected it flustered her.

  “Too soon, Betty?” he asked politely but she recognized that inflection in his voice. Husky and knowing, dirty and dark. He wasn’t sorry, not one bit.

  “Actually, Bob, I was thinking, is that the best you can do?”

  His eyes darkened. God, she loved it when she turned him on. “You think you’re safe because we’re in public?”

  She let her chuckle answer.

  He leaned forward again, and she waited, lips slightly parted. These days, he wore expensive cologne, but she could smell her man underneath the warm sandalwood. A scream split the air, making them start.

  “No fucking way,” yelled the bride-to-be. “It’s him… Y’know, him.”

  Jared tilted his head to glance over Kayla’s shoulder. “Brace yourself.”

  She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Make it fast, so we can return to the slow.” Collecting her bag, she stood. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “Are you kidding? We have kids. One of us has to get out alive.”

  Kayla nodded to the stampede as she passed but only the sober driver responded. The others were too intent on their prey. Poor Jared.

  Glancing over her shoulder she saw him still watching her, and did a va-voom hip swing, more in bravado than with any real confidence.

  For a long time, she hadn’t stressed about the women wanting to flirt and flatter and touch as they asked for autographs and selfies.

  Turn him on girls, and I’ll take it from there.

  It had even been funny seeing classmates who hadn’t looked twice at Jared in high school, breathless with excitement running into him in the market on their brief visits home. She and Jared had laughed about it. “Hey sex symbol, it’s your turn to change our baby’s poopy diaper.”

  On tour, it had stopped being funny. Every new country they traveled to seemed to be full of beautiful, slim, sexy women desperate to get into her husband’s pants. Women who didn’t care that he was married, or if Kayla was in the same room when they propositioned him. She’d watched him becoming enamored of the attention, though not of any particular female. It was in London that Kayla first overheard herself described as the starter wife.

  She took her time in the bathroom, partly to avoid the fan girls, partly because she had to wrestle off the stomach and thigh slimming pants she wore to smooth her silhouette in this too-tight dress. Briefly, she considered tucking them in her purse. But as long as she was in public—in this dress—she felt more confident having a garment remember to hold her tummy in.

  Besides, she and Jared were really smokin’ together for the first time in months. The shapewear would stop her giving it up too easy. She grinned at her reflection as she washed her hands. You are such a slut.

  After reapplying red lipstick, Kayla went to check her messages before remembering that Jared had her cell.

  And her wedding ring. Her hand felt bare without it.

  When she exited, the bachelorettes were lining up with their cells to take selfies with him. She checked her watch. Eight-thirty. The babysitter was booked until midnight. No later, she’d told Kayla, she had rehearsals next morning with her band of Christmas carolers.

  She waved to catch Jared’s eye. C’mon, babe, this is our night, remember?

  Over female heads, he returned an apologetic, “What can I do?” shrug.

  You could have found a secluded booth. You could have chosen a venue that wasn’t the hippest place in L.A. You could say, I’m on a date, please respect my frickin’ privacy.

  Kayla exhaled her irritation. The trouble with being a celebrity was that any unwillingness to engage could be blown up on social media. And with Rage’s reputation tarnished, Jared had to court goodwill. Usually, she could make allowances for that. But tonight was different. He’d raised her hopes when she’d been keeping them manageable, keeping them meek.

  Adjusting the neckline of her dress, she detoured to the bar and pulled up a stool while she waited for Jared to be done. From past experience, it could take a while.

  The bartender was busy serving other people and gave her an I-see-you nod. Hungry, Kayla took a handful of salted cashews from the bowl on the counter. The only thing she’d had to eat in hours was a couple of mouthfuls of pureed carrots left over from the kids’ dinner.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  The guy was in his late thirties, smoothly polite, wearing a suit and tie that suggested a career in law or dentistry. Not handsome but assured.

  “Go ahead. There seems to be a back-up with service.”

  They chatted about the weather and the Christmas traffic.

  The bartender arrived to take her order. “One mulled wine,” she said. “And a Guinness.” She’d seen Jared’s struggle with warm ale. This would have to be his last, he was driving her home. That was why he’d caught a cab from a jam session with his bandmates.

  “You’re here with someone?” her bar companion asked casually.

  “Bob and I are on a first date.” She gestured to Jared, the center of a throng of enthusiastic women.

  “He’s a lucky guy.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Bob?” On the other side of the counter, the bartender held a Guinness schooner glass up to the light. “You know who he really is, right? Why those women made a beeline for him?”

  Kayla affected surprise. “Well, Bob…” her brain scrambled for a surname “…Builder is very cute and they are very drunk.” Oh lord, she was hopeless at undercover.

  The bartender frowned as he angled the schooner under the spout and eased the beer tap open. “Is that really the name he gave you?” He was a thin, intense guy with expressive eyebrows.

  “There might have been a silent ‘the’ in there somewhere,” Kayla conceded, embracing the ridiculous.

  The guy beside her laughed. So he had kids, then. No wedding ring either, so probably divorced. That saddened her. She wanted—needed—to believe in happy endings. Wasn’t that why she was here? To reclaim hers.

  “He’s Jared Walker, the guy in that reality show last year,” the bartender said helpfully. “He was picked up as the bass player for Rage.” He placed the schooner on the counter and lifted the lid on what looked like a fancy crockpot. Steam rose fragrant with oranges and spices and sweetness.

  “I don’t watch much TV.” Weren’t bartenders supposed to be discreet like priests and hairdressers? She’d never get used to strangers discussing her life as though it was a soap opera.

  Expertly, he ladled mulled wine into a clean glass mug. “You’ve gotta know Rage, it’s a mega rock band.”

  “I prefer yodeling, myself.” Kayla accepted her drinks and handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

  He paused en route to the cash register. “Even on a Swiss mountaintop, you’d have heard about the lead singer, Zander Freedman. He’s been all over the news. Lip-syncing live concerts, everyone’s trying to get their money refunded.”

  “Tha
t’s bullshit…I mean, it sounds like a media beat-up.”

  “No,” he argued, making no further move to the till. If the bill had been less than a fifty, she would have told him to keep the change. “Freedman admitted to lip-syncing at a charity fundraiser.”

  “The fundraiser, not the concerts,” she corrected, unable to stop herself. “The charity would have lost a lot of money otherwise…I hear. Shouldn’t you have your Christmas decorations up?”

  “Hey, I’m a big fan,” the bartender finally went to the cash register. “I’ll be lining up to buy tickets when Freedman recovers from vocal surgery.”

  Kayla said nothing. It wasn’t public knowledge that Zander’s singing voice might not recover.

  “I never listen to entertainment gossip,” said the guy beside her and she rewarded him with a smile. “What interests me as a lawyer is Freedman’s tour insurers saying his vocal issues are pre-existing. If they don’t pay out tour cancellation insurance, he’s screwed financially.”

  “I really do think this place needs Christmas decorations.” Kayla held out her hand for the change.

  “Anyway, your hot date?” The bartender counted her change on her palm, lots of small bills for a tip. “It’s Jared Walker…no, don’t take the Guinness yet. Now the bubbles have settled I can pour the head.” Picking up the glass, he returned to the pump.

  Reluctantly Kayla climbed back onto her stool, wishing she’d ordered a Bud.

  A redheaded waitress put her tray on the counter. “Oh, I loved him on that reality show when he was auditioning for Rage. And his story was so moving. His wife entered him in the audition without his knowledge. And he wrote her that beautiful song. Soooo romantic.”

  “Oh, yeah, ‘Kayla’s Song.’” The bartender frowned at Kayla and she remembered he’d overheard her telling the lawyer that this was her first date with “Bob.” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the lawyer staring.

  Busted. “It’s okay, that’s me.” She held up her left hand and realized it was bare. “I took my wedding ring off to”—play sexy stranger games—“because I have, um…eczema.”