T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (37 page)

“I thought you were sparing yourself your lifestyle.”

“I’m bone-cold sober, Bertie.” He paused. “You have to talk to her for me. She’s not going to listen to me till the hurt’s gone. That may be a while. Please talk to her.”

“And say?”

“Tell her I was stupid to bet. I’m a new man. I love her.” He brought his hands to his lips, blew into them, thought carefully. “I know what I’ll do. I had asked her if I could have Lyla’s song, market it, share it, make her an ungodly amount of money.”

“She didn’t allow that, did she?”

“No. It was bad form to ask.” He was still staring off to the gallery wall. “I’ll leave our version on the grand. It’s hers totally again.” He caught his tongue between his lips, wrinkled his brows. “One more thing.” He turned to Bertie. “We’re playing Dallas for two nights, December 30 and 31. I’ll send several hundred tickets up to you. Give them away, auction for charity, whatever. They will be the best seats. I’ll send three primary backstage passes, too. Lyla, Harrison, you. See if you can get her to come, okay? Maybe by then she’ll have forgiven me.”

Bertie reached up, stroked his hair. Her old eyes misted and he hoped she was looking past Eddie T to Sam, the man he was going to be for the rest of his life. “You’re a good boy at heart. Maybe I’ll just have to adopt you.”

He smiled at her. “Let me know when you want my social security number.”

She pulled him down to give him a hug. “Help me, Bertie. Please, please help me get her back.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

N
ew Year’s Eve and the arena rocked with fans. Why had they sold seats? Everyone was standing. The madness that had been the night before was nothing compared to this. The mental high that came with ending one year and beginning another had joined to the excitement of the new BCA—and the arena exploded!

Music, lights, screams, hands held overhead, artificial smoke, speakers bigger than cars, video screens that captured individual members of BCA, then scanned the audience for those more uninhibited fans all came together. Could anyone hear them? Was anyone interested in anything but the experience of being there when Bone Cold—Alive brought in the new year?

Eddie T was the last to emerge onto the stage. It was traditional for him to be the final one from the tunnel. He’d continued to keep his hair short, so there was no flinging of the yellow mane that he had been wont to do. Instead, he announced his presence with raised arms, a signal, he had told Abby Sander, vee-jay, on the eve of the Thanksgiving Rebirth Concert Tour, of his drug-free life. His arms were bare. No needle marks. He was reformed and proud for the world to see it.

He made his way around the stage, circled it, arms high. The sound was pandemonium. If the world had loved him on a high, they worshipped him sober. His eyes sought the faces of those sitting in the seats he had commandeered for his special thank yous. He thought he caught a glimpse of John from The Manorborne. The maitre d’ had better get back to work. T was playing the library bar in the wee hours of the New Year and he expected John to put the first money in the tip jar. He knew he spotted Mr. Goode of the shopping expedition. Around to Bertie’s tickets. None of the faces were familiar, but they were as enthusiastic as the next section.

His journey complete, he took his spot behind the keyboard, signaled Ron to tap the sticks. They were off!

An hour and a half later, they broke briefly. T fled to his dressing room. The backstage attendants said no one had contacted them with the special passes. There were no messages taped to the mirror. No sign of Fletch, either. He must be laying low and staying in the control booth. T had been banking on this for four months and the realization was slow in coming that Lyla might not be there. Still, he had the second half to do and then there was the hope again.

The stage was set up differently for the rest of the performance. During the break, a grand piano had been moved on, drawing excitement as the crowd sensed the prospect of something new.

The audience’s chanting before the second half was no quieter than before the first. It was their habit to emerge after their break as a line, five men abreast, coming out of the dry ice smoke. They strode in. The welcome vibrated.

Everyone settled into position and T took a hand-held mike and made his way to the front of the stage. He signaled for quiet. It took ten minutes to achieve it, but when it became obvious that the show was stopped until there was silence, it was complete.

He raised the mike to his mouth, started a speech he’d been rehearsing for three months. “You’ve all heard there’s a special lady in my life.” The media had had a field day confirming that the mystery man of the museum and The Manorborne had been a smitten T. All attempts to find out Lyla’s identity had fallen on T’s deaf ears. Somewhat miraculously, at least to T, Jinks had closed ranks and no one was talking. “Tonight, I’d like to play a song for her.” There were some catcalls now. “I didn’t write it, although she was its inspiration.” He looked toward the Jinks seats, hoped she was there. “For you, love.” He tossed the mike off-stage and sat at the grand piano.

He began Lyla’s song with the same restraint she had played it that night they first shared the piano bench. When it came time for the second set of hands, the band joined in. After getting through the entire piece once, he added his words. She’d not shared Wes’s.

He still couldn’t believe that his hand-written score had showed up in the Hollywood offices in early October. The note attached had been succinct, to the point. As Fletch wouldn’t accept a refund for the week not used, she’d sent something in return for his money. She’d trust him to send her a fair contract. After her lawyer approved it, she’d sign. It had taken until November to get the details worked out. Lyla and Harrison still owned the song and got three-quarters of the royalties, the other quarter going to fund the drug-rehab program in his grandmother’s Kentucky county. It was the lead-off cut of their new album that would be released in early February. Buzz in Hollywood had it as the title song of a new movie. Of course, he couldn’t call it what Wes had, so he had renamed it. If the audience’s reaction of rapt attention was any indication, “For You, Love” would threaten to stay at the top of the charts through summer. Four times through the song, and the audience was singing along, swaying with the rhythm.

The Rebirth Concert Tour lasted until one minute past midnight, encore and all. Even though C had labeled the idea pitifully corny, BCA led everyone in a rousing chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.” Then they took their leave. As T had spent the rest of the evening at the piano and not at the keyboard, he bowed as Harrison had instructed him to that night in August. The crowd became even wilder. He’d already decided the grand would stay as a permanent fixture on the stage. He needed the feel of it.

C elbowed him as they cleared the tunnel entrance. “Will you listen to them? We’re gods!”

“No, C.” T shook his head as his brother celebrated their success with the others. T was only too well acquainted with his humanness. C should be so lucky.

The backstage manager grabbed T’s arm as the tunnel widened out to lead to the dressing rooms. He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially and showed him the three passes. “Guess what got turned in?”

T’s heart lurched into his throat and caught at his breath. He had hoped and prayed and wished and now, now she was really just down the hall, just behind the dressing room door. God, but he smelled awful. Sweat poured off him. He formulated plans quickly as he strode toward C’s door: he’d shower in here, grab a set of clean clothes. He drew up abruptly. Then what would god C do? Invade Lyla’s space, no doubt. No, better to face her sweaty than face her after C had visited.

His hand stopped as it touched the knob. He found himself voluntarily praying for the first time in many years. But if she was here, weren’t his prayers already answered?

Taking courage in hand, T turned the knob and went in.

Two of the faces that greeted him were totally unexpected. Sure, Bertie sat on his make-up stool, studying the spilled contents of a suitcase, overturned make-up. Young women, twins, Arial and Andrea Palmer no doubt, paced the room like caged tigers waiting for the main meal. They stopped when he entered. One of them almost swooned. The other caught her.

He paid scant attention to them. “Where’s Lyla?” he asked as he closed the door behind him and turned his eyes to Bertie. “Bertie?”

The old woman rose to greet him, pecked him on the cheek, and gave him a slight hug. “Umm-um. You smell like a man, Sam.”

Twin One whimpered.

“Can we do something with my two chaperones and chauffeurs while you and I talk?”

T glanced over at them. The Palmer twins, at last they met. “Sure, no problem.” He went to the phone, picked it up, spoke, “Find yellow.” Code word for Fletcher.

“He’s on his way down,” was the reply.

“Be just a minute. Give you all the tour of a lifetime.” He reached behind Bertie, now perched once more on the stool, found a stack of programs. “Get copies signed for your friends.” The girls nodded in a dazed silence as he handed them over.

The door opened and Fletch came in, in mid-sentence. “T, you did it! My God, boy, that was a coup! You haven’t lost your touch! They were eating out of your hand just like the old days! Brilliant, I told C you’d—” he stopped abruptly as he took inventory of the room. “Bertie.” His manner became reserved. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Got a bone to pick with you, Fletcher.” She lowered her eyes on him.

“About what?” T interjected.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you, Sam, and Mr. Fletcher’s not been relaying my faxes nor my calls.”

“That true, Fletch?”

He waved it off. “We get so much junk on the lines, the girls probably thought it was just another fan.”

Twin Two spoke up from the corner. “I bet.” Her lower lip pooched out and her hands moved to her hips. Her attitude no longer said “adoring fan.” “Bertie’s been so upset with you and—”

“Arial, hush! I’ll discuss it with Sam.” T felt her scrutiny. “You were going to get the girls a tour.”

“Yes.” He eyed her warily. Beyond the obvious, all was not right. “Fletch, meet the Palmer twins. Good friends of Lyla’s. I want a deluxe tour from you. Don’t you dare leave them anywhere.
Anywhere
.” He measured the words. “Something tells me you owe me big time.”

Fletch looked askance at Bertie. “Come on, girls. You’ll have something to tell your grandchildren.” He ushered them out, letting the door click closed.

T strode over and locked it. “I want no interruptions.” He turned back to Bertie. “Give it to me short and sweet and then we’ll work out the details after I shower. I have to be at The Manorborne in less than an hour.”

“Shower first.”

“Bertie.” He stood with his hands on his hips, containing himself, barely. “Where’s Lyla?”

“At a rehearsal dinner.”

He drew a short breath. “Playing for a friend’s wedding?” There was unconcealed hope in the question, but he already knew the answer.

Bertie shook her white head, pursed her lips. “No. Noon tomorrow, she becomes Lyla Vinson Lee Wilson.”

*  *  *

T made the shower as hot as he could stand it, washing away the sweat and make-up, washing away the image of Lyla in another man’s arms. He might have handled any other man but Tib. He dried off hurriedly, wrapped an old robe about himself and came out to Bertie. He picked up the tux and took it behind the screen to dress.

“Start.”

“Well, y’all left and the place went to hell.” He glanced over the top of the screen at her. She was staring at the screen at the level of his shoulders. “Dub inflated the price of clean up at the Red-i-Lee and, of course, there wasn’t any damage at the Quik-Lee. Lyla caught him, but the bill had been sent, he said he’d refund the difference but she knew he wouldn’t. Anyway the upshot of that is, thank you for all the new playground equipment. It is first-class.”

“Bertie, get on with it.” He pulled on the pants, shrugged into the shirt, knew he was too nervous to properly button it, went out to her for help.

She started with the top buttons and studs. “About mid-October, Tib stops by the marina and Harrison is there and tells him he misses him, wants to know where he’s been. One thing led to another, and Tib stopped by the Quik-Lee for lunch, then breakfast, then by the first of December, I knew there was trouble as far as you were concerned. So I got that fax number she’d used for the contracts with her song and faxed you. Except I never got an answer.” Bertie was at his waist, pulled down slightly with her fingers on his waistband, revealing only the top of the snake. “You do have a snake tattoo!”

“Yes, Bertie.”

“Does it go—”

“All the way down.” He paused, knew she’d appreciate the rest. “And all the way up.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, then blushed slightly. “Fancy that.” She bit at her lip and quickly started on the cuff buttons.

“Finish the story.”

“I was trying to warn you, to get you there before it was too late. Short of taking out an ad in USA Today, there didn’t seem to be much way to get past Fletcher.” T smiled sardonically at the prospect of getting even with the man. “Then the passes arrived and the tickets—oh, but we had fun with the contests for those!—and I knew what I’d do.”

“Didn’t you ever make her believe the truth about the bet? Did you even tell her about the tickets and passes?” He put as much accusation as plea into his voice.

“I thought I had that bet business straightened out with her when she decided to send you her song. Well, I still do. She was just momentarily embarrassed by your brother, that’s all. As to the tickets, well, it was a little hard to ignore them. Everyone was talking.” She smoothed his sleeves and shirtfront. “Vest, cummerbund? What’s next?” He put the vest on and she adjusted the back of it for him. “You clean up real nice, Sam.” She admired him as he shrugged into the jacket. “I did tell her about the passes. But in all honesty, they’d already set the date. Wham-bam blow-out at the marina tonight, sort of the older generation’s version of this wing-ding, then the wedding at noon tomorrow at the church.”