“I’ll swing by and pick it up tomorrow. And Emily?”
“Yeah?”
Emily had known, probably; she was too well connected not to know. But she always kept secrets. Emily was an iron vault.
I cleared my throat. “I know why you want me to talk to the others. But . . .”
“Oh,” she said. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have pushed you. You can tell them when you’re ready.”
I knew Cassidy had been upset, but it was unacceptable that she’d left without a word of warning.
And now she’d left this world with the loudest goodbye.
Part II
Prime (2002)
19.
January 2002
Houston to L.A.
Cassidy
Christmas of 2001 felt like a funeral.
Everything I liked about the holiday had lost its luster. I baked cookies, as I usually did, though I couldn’t eat them. (I snuck one and couldn’t enjoy it; I just worried about its calorie content.) My time was divided between my family’s Christmas breakfast and the Hernandez’s holiday dinner. Although Alex’s parents opened their home to me like I was a member of their family—they’d even hung a stocking for me on their mantel—I was somehow miserable. We’d been so busy recording the second album that I had to get a personal shopper to pick out gifts, and my family squealed over their perfect presents that I’d had no hand in picking out. And even the flight had been a trial: I’d had to travel with three members of Peter’s security until I reached my airplane gate, because I had the poor sense to fly commercial.
During Christmas dinner with Alex’s family, off-kilter and sullen, I shifted turkey around my plate until it looked like I’d made enough of an effort. Then I found an excuse to sit on the back porch, brooding quietly to myself.
Alex found me trying to pet one of his neighbor’s dogs that had jumped the fence. “Are you okay?” he asked.
I avoided his gaze and continued to hold my fingers out to the dog, which wasn’t budging. “This dog is like a cat,” I muttered.
He slid closer to me and put an arm around my shoulder. I wanted to lean into him, but I was tired. It was both frustrating and a relief that my boyfriend could be so understanding—and that put me into an even worse mood, because were relationships supposed to be so middle-of-the-road? It was fine that there weren’t extreme highs or lows, but did this relationship always have to be so boring? Even the sex was humdrum.
When I saw Joanna after a long hiatus of being apart, she asked how things were with Alex. All I could do was shrug.
“No spice?” she’d asked.
I had buried my face in my borrowed bedspread. My bedroom had become Katie’s room, as the twins had reached puberty and couldn’t stand to share anymore. For the time being, I was bunked up with Melanie, who had kindly vacated the room to watch the annual reruns of The Jet-Setters with Mom while I had visitors. “It’s fine.” My voice was muffled in Melanie’s pumpkin-spice-scented sheets. “We have moments of glorious chemistry. But then other times . . .” I sat up and wiped my face heavily with the palms of my hands. “I just can’t get past the fact that he’s my friend.”
“You still think of him as a friend, after all this time?” She sounded incredulous. “That’s not a good sign.”
“You don’t understand.” I finally looked directly at her. “Jo, everyone knows me as ‘Sassy.’ The other girls, our manager, my friends. Alex is the only person in L.A. who knows me as me. He’s like my partner. I can’t jeopardize what we have together if I sometimes think he’s just a friend. We are so good together.”
“It’s not fair to him, though,” she said slowly. She flopped down on the sheets with me, belly-down, kicking her feet up behind her. “One day he’ll wake up and realize you don’t love him in that way.”
“Maybe. But I need him, Jo.”
“Needing someone isn’t the same as loving them. And when you finally know that you don’t need him and can be on your own, what are you going to do?”
MERRY BOUGHT A house in Malibu, close to the beach, where she could smell the ocean. Yumi finally decided on a Spanish-style colonial in Thousand Oaks, something with enough breathing room that she could sit outside and barely hear any traffic. Rose chose to do renovations on her Sunset Strip home before moving in, and I was still mulling over one of Yumi’s rejects in the Hollywood Hills, which hadn’t budged in the market.
We’d cut a new track last September and released it as a single—“Remember,” a ballad that coincided with the attacks on New York—and segued into an announcement of a worldwide tour for our second album. The Prime tour was kicking off in May, starting with European dates. We were still at work recording the tracks, but our afternoons were currently open while everyone was recovering from the holidays. I decided to reach out to Emma Jake for financial advice. She suggested meeting at an animal shelter. It was a strange request, but then again, it was Emma Jake.
“Oh, dear,” Emma Jake said when she saw me. She wore a head-to-toe metallic jumpsuit that looked like crushed foil and purple Prada pumps. Her hair was dyed lilac. “You needn’t wear a disguise here, Miss Holmes.”
Feeling sheepish, I removed the sunglasses and beanie I’d worn to conceal my identity. “Um, Miss Jake? Why are we here?”
Emma Jake gave a theatrical swivel of her head and waved her arms at the beige surroundings. “Why wouldn’t we be here?” She blinked owlishly in my direction, as if waiting for me to disagree. “I have an errand to run.”
“Oh?” We turned and started walking toward an inner door. A worker held the door open for us wordlessly and then followed us through.
“Yes. Every year I adopt a new dog.”
The noise inside the kennels was sharp and loud.
“How many years have you been doing this?”
She hesitated for just a moment, but it was that hesitation that told me everything. Her stillborn baby. Her backup dancer. Her two-year record delay. “Oh. I mean—”
“Well. I have quite a few dogs now. Most of my staff is made up of pet-carers, I daresay.” She continued to drift, brushing her hand against the bars of cages, looking at each animal’s face and paws.
“That must be noisy.”
“What?”
“Your house. With that many animals. It must be noisy.”
“I live for it, dear. The best part about having a big house is giving hope to creatures who may otherwise be unlucky.” She stopped to gaze at a copper-colored dog whose ropy tail banged rhythmically against the rear of the cage. I realized belatedly that Emma Jake hadn’t become a Sing It judge to reintroduce the newer generation to her music; she had joined because it was something that would give her a little bit of joy. She was a genuinely nice person who wanted to help shape the green artists of the new millennium. I cocked my head sideways at her as she stretched out a hand and let the dog gently sniff her.
“I wanted to ask your opinion about something.”
“Oh? Cassidy, pet this dog.” She reached over and grasped my hand. Her skin was dry and her knuckles felt knobby. She guided my outstretched fingers toward the cage. “Now this is a sweet dog.”