Instead of those memories, all I had was an empty aching spot. I wanted to somehow make up for everything I’d missed out on even though I knew it was impossible.

After a couple hours of Kari singing and stopping and changing backup singers, and rewriting parts, and then resinging parts, she decided to call it a day. The tech guys weren't happy about this. Apparently she hadn't made any progress.

It didn’t matter. Kari took off her headphones and walked into the control room unapologetically. Even in jeans and T-shirt, she was all flash and confidence. She dismissed her staff, telling them she was going out with me, then nodded in my direction. "You ready to ditch this place?"

I glanced at the clock. I’d heard Maren tell Kari more than once that she needed to get this album done. She was supposed to debut some of her new songs at a mega concert in San Diego on May 6. "Won’t Maren be mad if you leave now?”

Kari rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse. "I’m not making this album for Maren. I’m making it for my fans, and they’ll be a lot madder if it's garbage.” She put on her sunglasses, then walked out of the door and motioned for me to follow. "You can’t beat a dead horse,” she said over her shoulder, "and I've not only beat this one, I've dragged it through eight octaves and a chorus. At this point, the dead horse could sing better.”

"That’s not true.” I hurried to catch up with her. "You have a great voice.”

I had thought a driver was taking us to her house, but there was no sign of one. She walked to a silver Porsche, took out her keys, and unlocked it. "I’ve got a good voice, but you can find good voices in every high school chorus and church choir. I want to be a good songwriter too. It takes real talent to write hits. Not many singers can do that.”

"You've done it before."

She opened the door and slid inside. "My dad helped me write the songs on my last CDs.”

"Oh.” I got into the passenger side, casually letting my hand run across the seat. I had to. I wanted to know what a Porsche felt like.

"I wrote most of my hit songs," she said, and started the car. "My dad would just come along and change a chord. Add a bridge or something. Redo a few lyrics.”

"Well, I’m sure he’d help you again if you asked."

"I'm not asking him.” She checked for traffic, then pulled out of the parking lot, going too fast. "I can do this by myself, and I'll prove that to him and everybody else. I don't want to live underneath his shadow anymore.” Her expression was terse for a few moments, looking ahead fiercely. Then she sighed and slid me a glance. "Sorry for snapping at you. It’s just . . . you have no idea what it’s like to grow up with a dad everybody loves and thinks is perfect."

Well, she was right about that.

“I can write hits," she said. "I just need some inspiration. Songs never come when you're under stress. They come when you’re having fun, when you’re in sync with life . . .” She paused for a moment considering her own words, then switched lanes. "Which is why I’ve decided that instead of going to my house so you can study me like some sort of science project, we should go do something fun.”

"Okay," I said, a little nervous about what that might mean. "But we can't go out in public together, or go skinny dipping, drive to Vegas, or buy Italian home decor. Maren's orders.”

Kari took her gaze from the road long enough to give me a conciliatory smile. "I bet it’s a ton of fun living with Maren. Does she give you a schedule and a whole list of rules to follow every day?"

I sat up straighter. "She said I had to because that's how you lived."

Kari snorted. "That’s how she wants me to live. The woman has no concept of what an artist's life is like.” She switched lanes again and slowed for a light. "Luckily she has the hots for my dad, so she never gets too mad about anything I do. She wants to stay on my good side.”

I'd been right. My stomach twisted. I'm not sure why. I knew Alex Kingsley had dated lots of women, but I didn't want him to ever date Maren. She was so cold and judgmental. How could he like her when he hadn’t been interested in my mother, who was warm, funny, caring, and whose beauty came not in the form of practiced poise, but was just there naturally?

I kept my voice even. "So are they an item?"

"Not yet. Dad doesn’t have a clue, and I'm not about to tell him. If she gets in good with him, then she’ll stop working for me altogether.”

My expression must have shown I wasn’t happy. Kari looked at me and said, "Sorry she’s such a downer. Now I bet you wish she had a crush on your dad.”

Unfortunately she already did. The light changed, and we moved forward. I asked, “So what did you want to do to have fun?"

She pursed her lips, thinking. "We could go find some drunk guys—just show up and start talking to them. They’d think they lost their minds seeing two Kari Kingsleys in front of them.”

I laughed, but shook my head. "No. We’re not going to torment drunks.”

She thought for another moment. "You speak Spanish. We could fly to a small South American country where no one knows who I am and be tourists.”

"Kari, you have a huge following in South America. You’ve sold a million CDs in Argentina alone.”

"Really?” She glanced over at me. "How do you know that?”

"Maren makes me memorize those kinds of facts because I’m supposed to know everything you know.”

"Oh. Then it’s ironic I didn’t know that.” She let out an amused laugh, but I didn’t join in. Long hours of being quizzed on Kari trivia will suck the humor right out of you. She tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel. "What do you usually do for fun?”

"I used to hang out at the mall or see a movie with my friends. Sometimes we'd go to a school game and then go to Dairy Queen." It sounded low class, but I’d been trapped in dance studios and fitness rooms for too long. I missed my old life more than I thought I would.

"I can't do any of that stuff," Kari said. "I’d be trampled by fans.” She said this wistfully, as though she’d like to be anonymous for a while.

I stopped being jealous of her right then—well, a little bit anyway. What must it be like to not be able to hang out in public places?

“Let's go horseback riding,” she said. "I've got some great horses, and the stable is really good about working with celebrities. I call them up and tell them I'm coming with a guest, and they get everything ready for me. No questions, no leaks to the paparazzi.”

I perked up in my seat. "Horseback riding sounds way better than hunting down drunk guys or fleeing from fans in South America.”

We drove to the stable where two of Kari’s horses were boarded. As we went through the private entrance, Kari told me that she actually had three horses. Her third, a gelding named Chance, lived at her dad's ranch in Hidden Valley. Chance had been a gift from him to Kari when she turned twelve years old. And—unbelievably—he was tawny brown.

When she told me this, I snapped right back into jealous mode and came close to doing something psychotic like kicking a random bale of hay and yelling, "I can't believe he gave you my horse! You got a dad at your birthday and a horse!" But I didn't. Chalk one up for self-control.

I climbed onto this huge black horse and hoped he was gentler than he looked. Kari gave me a crash course in riding and then we followed a trail into the nearby hills. Wearing helmets and sunglasses, and with our hair pulled back into ponytails, we weren’t recognizable. We might have been any two sisters out for a ride.