I wanted to know what had become of Lucia and Benjamin and the rest of the staff. He’d given them all severance pay and had set them free to find new jobs. Lucia was only a town away from Thornfield Park, running an antique shop in Old Saybrook. “She comes into the city and visits me from time to time,” he told me. “Says she’ll come back to work for me if I say the word. She loves the antiques but can’t stand the customers.”
Sitting beside him, listening to him speak, it all came back to me: how comfortable we had always been together; how easy conversation between us was. Even so, I detected a sadness and anxiety in him that hadn’t been there before. The whole time we talked, he held my hand, as though worried I might decide to run away again. When he fell silent, I asked what he was thinking.
“I won’t be able to sleep tonight. What if you’re not here when I wake up?”
“I’ll be here, and I’ll bring you coffee just like this morning. I won’t always wait on you, though, so you’d better enjoy it while you can. Before long, you’ll be taking care of yourself, or you’ll have to hire some more servants to boss around. Like the old days.”
When evening approached, I told Louisa she could have the night off and asked her for directions to the nearest market. She gave me keys to the apartment and drew me a map. The store she sent me to turned out to be a mind-blowingly expensive gourmet emporium. I wandered the aisles as though I were in some kind of museum, gaping at the forty-dollar jars of truffles and the hundred different kinds of imported cheese. I bought fresh figs, plump raspberries, and the most expensive block of Parmesan I’d ever seen in my life, along with the more prosaic stuff — vegetables, milk, cereal, pasta. My time with the St. Johns had given me a small repertoire of decent meals to make, and I would surprise Nico with a home-cooked dinner. He sat beside me at the white granite island in the airy kitchen while I chopped garlic, basil, tomatoes, and mushrooms.
“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked when I started sautéing the garlic and mushrooms. “Is that what you’ve been doing with your time since you left me?”
I added basil and a handful of chopped tomatoes to the pan. “It’s one of the things I’ve been doing.”
“And were you cooking just for yourself or for others?”
“Others.” I paused for effect. “I shared an apartment with some people I happened to meet in New Haven.”
“Some people. Could you be more specific?”
“Some very nice people,” I said. “Smart, interesting, thoughtful people. They took me in when I was on the verge of being homeless.”
“Yalies, I suppose. Overprivileged Ivy Leaguers.” He wrinkled his nose.
I chose not to comment on the irony of a rock star calling others overprivileged. “Only one of them went to Yale, and they were far from rich. The apartment we lived in was pretty run-down.”
Nico said nothing for a while. “Were they all women?”
I couldn’t help myself; I laughed.
“Don’t tease me, Jane. Answer my question.” Now he was angry. His voice thundered the way it had on the day we’d met, when he’d almost run me over and had tried to blame me for walking beside the road.
“It’s good to see your fiery side again,” I said. “I’ll keep right on teasing you if that’s what it takes to bring the old Nico Rathburn back.”
“Don’t. Not on this subject. Anything else, but not this.”
I tossed some oregano into the pan and poured him a glass of sparkling water. “Here. If you must know, one was a man.”
And while the sauce simmered, I took a seat beside him at the table and launched into the tale of my travels, telling him how I had found myself in New Haven with hardly any cash and no job lined up. When I described my desperate search for a place to sleep, Nico flinched as though he’d been hit. “Jane, what if you hadn’t met those people? What if you’d had to sleep on a park bench in the middle of New Haven? You could have frozen or been kidnapped by some psycho.” He grabbed my hand. “Imagine how I felt when I knew you were out in the world with no money. I couldn’t stop wondering where you would go or what you would do. After a while, I was sure you must be dead. You know I’m not religious, not even remotely, but I prayed every night that you were safe.”
I slipped from his grasp to stir the sauce. “Who knows? Maybe your prayers helped.” I recounted how the St. John family had given me a place to stay and how River had helped me find work.
“I’m grateful to this River person for taking such good care of you when I couldn’t.” Nico pulled a bar stool over to the counter beside me. “But tell me… did you like him?”
“We became friends. He’s a very good man. Noble, even. I know that’s an old-fashioned word, but it’s the best one I can think of. He cares more about people in need than about himself.”
“Sounds like a riot. Is he smart?”
“Very,” I said. “One of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Certainly the most driven. He’s studying to be a minister.”
“A minister? One of those Bible thumpers who think it’s their mission to convert everybody else?”
“I never saw him try to convert anyone.”
Nico fumed a moment or two. “Is he good-looking?”
“He’s about six feet tall with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and chiseled features. Like a painting of Apollo. So yes, I’d say he’s good-looking.”
Nico looked down at his hands. “Did you really like this Mr. Perfect?”
I suppressed a smile. “You already asked me that.”
“After living with a noble Ivy League Greek god, what could you possibly want with self-centered, narcissistic me?” There was that note of self-pity in his voice again. “I’m such an idiot. Until this moment, I believed you still loved me even though you left me. And all this time you were living with somebody else. Why don’t you go back to him if he’s all you say?”
“You want me to leave?” I set the lid on the saucepan with more force than I’d intended. It clanged emphatically. “You really want me to go away?”
“Go find your boyfriend.” His voice was quiet, defeated, and I was suddenly sorry for teasing him.
“He’s not my boyfriend. I could never love him. I could never love anyone who isn’t you.”
“Is that the truth? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
“Have I ever told you anything but the truth? You have nothing to be jealous about. I wanted to rile you up a little, to see that spark I’ve missed so much.” I nestled into him. “I thought I could shake you out of feeling sorry for yourself.” His dark hair fell into his eyes, and I brushed it back, my fingers caressing the scar on his forehead. On impulse, I kissed it, but he turned away, and I saw now that the sadness of the past months had taken its toll. My heart swelled.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve lost my spark. I’m not sure I can ever get it back. It’s as if I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m just some guy who used to be Nico Rathburn.”
“You’re wrong.” I took his good hand in both of mine. “You’re still the guy who wrote all those wonderful songs so many people want to hear.”
Nico was quiet a long while. Then his mouth twitched. It was small and tentative, but it was a smile, and a mischievous one at that. “So… you do like my music after all?”
“I love your music. Your music is who you are.”
“Who I used to be.” Sadness crossed his face again. What could I do to lift his spirits and keep them that way for more than a few seconds at a time?
I thought a moment, and then it came to me. “You know, your fans are waiting for you to come out of hiding.”
“They’re going to be disappointed.”
“Louisa says if you’d only do your physical therapy you might get some of your mobility back. Maybe even most of it.”
“Most of it? What good is a guitarist with most of his mobility?”
“You can still sing, right? Then you can perform. And you can still write songs. You ca
n bring someone else into the band to play lead guitar.”
“What band? They’ve all got their own projects.” As contrary as he was being, there was fresh energy in his voice and expression. “They’ve moved on.”
“They didn’t want to.” I was only guessing, but as I spoke the words I knew they had to be true. “The Rathburn Band was the highlight of their lives. I’m sure they miss recording with you. And touring with you.”
“Dennis’s solo career hasn’t taken off like he hoped it would,” Nico conceded. “He might want to take over lead guitar.”
“He would do it if you asked him to,” I said. “I know they’d all come back. They’re your friends, Nico. I bet they’re just waiting for you to ask.”
“I see you’ve been thinking about this.” There it was — the sparkle in his eyes. “So tell me, Jane. What else do you have planned for me?”
He was right; I had been giving some thought to his future. I gestured toward the glass wall with its skyline view. “This apartment’s very glamorous and all. But don’t you miss Thornfield Park? Wouldn’t you like to rebuild it?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you need a place where the band can gather to rehearse. A real home with plenty of bedrooms, where we can entertain our family and friends on holidays.”
“Our family?” Nico looked bemused. “I thought you didn’t have any family.”
“The band,” I said. “Yvonne and Kitty. Lucia. And Diana and Maria, the women I lived with in New Haven. They’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to real family. Besides you and Maddy, that is.”
“Maddy.” I heard regret in his voice. “She keeps asking when she can come home to live with me.”
“Exactly.” I gave this latest idea a moment to sink in and took a deep breath to summon my courage. “And there’s one more thing I’ve been thinking.” I looked off at the distant, sparkling water, unable to meet his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s about time you got married?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m the marrying kind.”
He was teasing me, wasn’t he? Well, I deserved it after the hard time I’d given him about River. I dared a glance at him. There was that sly look I hadn’t seen in so long.
“I think you’re exactly the marrying kind… provided you choose the right bride.”
Now he was grinning. “I could marry Bianca Ingram. Or if she won’t have me, maybe a supermodel.”
I made my voice casual. “I think you’d be much better off marrying me.”
“Miss Moore, are you proposing to me?” He affected a shocked tone.
“Yes, Mr. Rathburn, and you’d better answer fast or I’ll rescind my offer.”
“Don’t do that.” His grip on my hand tightened. “Yes, Jane. My answer is yes.”
Then he was in my arms, kissing me, his hand in my hair, the length of his body warm against mine, the sauce forgotten on the stove.
After a minute or two, he pulled away from me. “One last question. What finally brought you back to me? No, let me guess. You heard about the accident. Or you heard about Bibi’s death and realized I was free. Or you heard the song I wrote for you, and it did what I hoped it would do — lure you back.”
“All of those,” I said, “and more. Something just snapped. I realized what an idiot I’d been, running away from the one person I value more than anyone else in the whole world.” I kissed him again. “That would be you… Mr. Rathburn.”
“Miss Moore,” he said fondly.
I tugged his hand, leading him to the staircase, then back up to the roof garden, where we sat out long after dinner, making plans. Side by side in our lounge chairs, we allowed our imaginations to run free, musing about the albums he would record, the tours he would take me on, the galleries I would show my art in, the fund-raisers he would play for the soup kitchens and shelters of New Haven, the little brother or sister we would someday give Maddy. Below us, streetlights flickered, and I thought of the strange turns my life had taken. How shy Jane Moore from the Philly suburbs never would have imagined herself atop a Tribeca penthouse, holding the hand of her rock-star fiancé, preparing to walk with him into the blinding flashbulbs of a curious world. The very idea would have terrified me once, but now I felt ready.
“You’re quiet.” Nico squeezed my hand.
“Just catching my breath,” I said. “I can’t believe how far I’ve come.”
“How far we’ve come. This has been a wild trip for me too.” He got to his feet and pulled me up with him. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.” I followed him over to the edge of the roof garden, where only a waist-high wall stood between us and a fifteen-story drop. “I love this view. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished you were with me so I could show it to you.”
I leaned out over the wall to see what he was pointing to, but a wave of vertigo stole my breath. “I can’t look down,” I told him, pulling back.
He gathered me to his chest. “Here. Hang on. I promise you won’t fall.”
Clutching Nico’s shoulders for support, I let myself enjoy the view: the sharp blue of twilight, the velvety river, the pulsing red and white lights of cars headed uptown — and the intoxicating feeling that together we were poised on the brink of something immense. When Nico bent to kiss me, I shut my eyes, absorbing all that was familiar about him — his taste, the softness of his lips, his arms holding me steady — and I could tell he was doing the same, drinking me in, committing my kiss to memory, as we found our way home to each other in the gathering dark.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, thanks to my agent, Amy Williams, who performed magic on my behalf, and to my editor, Julie Scheina, and the rest of the Poppy team, whose enthusiasm and expertise have been nothing short of amazing. Thanks for believing in Jane and in me.
I’m more grateful than I can say for the help of friends who read this story in earlier versions and provided crucial feedback. Big thanks to Tenaya Darlington, whose careful reading of an early draft helped shape the story, and whose generosity helped Jane find a home. Rich Fusco’s thorough and expert reading was invaluable, and his support over the years has been a real blessing. Thanks to Jo Alyson Parker, for her insight at a critical juncture. Also thanks to Melissa Goldthwaite, who provided much-needed encouragement at an early stage of the writing process, and who has always been a thoughtful and trusted reader.
Jane was eased into being by the calm support and selflessness of my husband, Andre St. Amant, who helped me come up with the idea in the first place, who sent me off to countless coffee shops and rock concerts, and who never made me feel like the crazy overgrown teenybopper that I am. Much love and gratitude to my sons, Eli St. Amant (leader of the hot new RaveRap band SplitGenetics) and Noah St. Amant, who knows how to hold his own in a mosh pit. Thanks to Chris Bamberger and Dorothee Heisenberg, for steadfast friendship, and to Eric Drogin, whose expertise in several fields has enriched these pages.
A shout-out to my friends at Greasy Lake, especially those with whom I’ve shared “the power, the glory, and the ministry of rock and roll.” There are more of you than I can name here, but special thanks to Sharon Concannon, Mike Fink, Eric Coulson, George Skladany, Sherry Clements, Mark Boufford, Magnus Lauglo, Marty Rynearson, Dawn Ehlinger, Jim Patricelli, and Killer Joe and Brenda O’Donald, and to Christian Weissner, in memorium. Thanks also to Linda Morkan, who took Jane on vacation and sent back much-needed encouragement. Extraspecial thanks to my road buddy and first-ever pit partner, Dan Medina, and to Diane Wilkes, Louise to my Louise (since neither of us is Thelma), and my mentor in all things tarot and rock and roll.
Finally, while Nico Rathburn is a figment of my imagination, I couldn’t let this moment go by without thanking the real-life rocker who has given me so much inspiration, solace, and joy, and who has served as a model of how an artist giving his all can truly work magic in the night. Without the soul-transporting music and electrifying stage presence of Bruce Spri
ngsteen and the legendary E Street Band, this book would not have been written. It’s that simple.
April Lindner, Jane
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