“Talked? You didn’t just talk. I could feel the vibe in the plane.”

“No, we just talked,” I snap, hoping that will stop the questions. “He acts like we’re buddies.”

“Buddies?” Rene lets out a harsh, scoffing laugh. “God, you can’t be that dense. Did he kiss you last night?”

“Once.”

“What was it like?”

“It was nice.”

Rene’s laughs. “Nice?” She stares at me knowingly. “You like him, don’t you?”

I blush. “Yes.”

“Do you like him enough to ...?”

I’m suddenly reminded of his touch, the tenderness of his mouth and the feel of the sand.

I continue to stare out the window, but I can feel Rene studying me. “I’m glad you didn’t,” she says with heavy meaning. “He’s not the kind of guy you want your first time to be with, if you get my…”

Rene’s words die and are replaced by a sweetly contrived smile. “Speak of the devil.”

Alan drops down heavily into the seat beside me, the car door slams, and in a minute we are speeding from the tarmac.

He leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes. “Fucking Brian and his never ending publicity machine. I’m sorry about that.”

In spite of the performance he put on for the press, he’s exhausted. It shows in his voice and his posture, and it reminds me of how he’d looked last night: soulful, tired and twenty-six.

I smile at Alan. “It’s no big deal. Rene thought it was fun.”

Just when it looks like Alan has fallen sleep, he sits up, and everything about his demeanor has changed—he’s angry and edgy, energized and focused.

“No, Chrissie. It is a big deal. I nearly fuck up everything my first day back.”

Everything? How would the tabloids linking me with him fuck up everything? I’ve never seen Alan angry before and I find this new facet extremely intimidating and a little bit of a turn-on.

He grabs the mobile phone and angrily punches numbers into it. He lightly kicks the seat beside Rene. “I told you to keep silent. Fuck, you are a useless friend. Get me a water.” Alan hits the speaker button and drops the receiver into its rest. “Fuck you, Brian.”

A moment of dead air. “Ah, Lazarus has arrived in New York…” I recognize the voice. It is Uncle Brian, Brian Craig, my father’s manager and Alan’s it seems. “…if you’re pissed off and making phones calls again it means they’ve finally let you out of Rehab. And by the way, fuck you, Manny.”

“What the fuck was that scene at the airport about?” Alan growls. “That’s the last time you serve me up for publicity without asking.”

Alan opens his water bottle and downs half of it.

“Well pardon me for trying to save your fucking career. You needed the publicity. Don’t tell me how to manage the business end. Have you any idea what kind of mess you left for me? You wouldn’t have a career if not for me. You wouldn’t have the band and you sure as hell wouldn’t have the cash…”

“I think what Brian means to say is we all need to focus on business or there isn’t going to be a business,” interrupts another voice, male and less agitated. “About the tapes…”

“What Arnie is telling you is that the execs are going to shelve the tapes, Manny,” Brian warns anxiously. “You can’t do a solo release. Maybe next round, but not now. The band—they don’t have the fucking royalties. Now isn’t the time to cut them out…”

“I have creative control. I can read a contract, Brian.”

“Listen, Manny, you know me. I would never steer you wrong, and what I’m saying is that the tracks I’ve heard are genius, but they won’t sell. Cash register poison. It won’t sell, and last year wasn’t exactly the best year for you. The label has to shelve it. They’ve got to stop the bleeding. It won’t sell.”

Alan sighs heavily.

“You’ve got to mind the business!” Brian says emphatically. “You’ve got a lot of overhead. A lot of people depending on you.”

“It’s my publishing company,” Alan snaps. “My production company. Every fucking cent paid comes out of my pocket one way or another. No one is going to tell me what to produce, what to record. I own me.”

“No one is saying you don’t, but you need a strong dose of reality,” says Brian. “The only reason you still have a career is that you’re brilliant and you are a genius at self-promotion. But you’ve pushed it to the limit. You’ve got to behave for a while. And what I’m telling you is you can’t afford to piss off the fans, another year without any cash coming in, and for the critics to vomit up your next album. I’m asking you not to fuck it up again.”

“The tracks will be finished next week,” Alan says heavily, “and then I’m done. Do you hear me, Brian? I quit.”

Silence, dead silence through the phone and all around me. Quitting? Is he really quitting? Is he walking out on his career?

I stare up at him, my eyes round, unable to process any of this.

“You don’t mean that, Manny. It’s just post recovery emotionalism. I’ve seen this a hundred times,” Brian says sagely.

Alan clicks off the phone.

“Well, I think that went well,” Rene says, breaking the tense silence.

I look cautiously up at Alan. “Are you OK?”

He gives me a tired smile. “I wish I was back on the beach with you, Chrissie.”

I blush, not knowing what to make of that. He looks different, so strange, and it never occurred to me he would look different, strange, back in his life.

We are at Jack’s New York apartment and I wonder how Alan knew where to take us. The car stops and Alan lowers the privacy glass.

“Stay with her all the way to her door,” he says to the driver.

“Sure, Manny.”

Rene rolls forward in her seat. “Well, it’s been real, Manny.” She looks at me, and then she climbs from the car.

Now that we’re alone, I feel a strange nervousness claim me. I feel the pressure to say something. Anything. “It’s going to be all right. You do know that, don’t you?”

Alan laughs. “I’d walk you in, but it’s better I don’t.”

The driver has the luggage and is waiting. I stare at Alan, not knowing what to do. Shaking hands goodbye seems stupid. But should I kiss him? And where should I kiss him? A fast peck on the check? The lips? The thought that I probably won’t ever see him again enters my mind. I am prospectively depressed.

“Thank you for the lift,” I murmur, as I climb out of the car. I lean back in and laugh. “That sounds really lame considering you gave me a lift in a private plane.”

“I’d walk you up, but I can’t. It’s better for you that I don’t.”

Well, he certainly didn’t put anything in that statement to make me hope I’d see him again. I smile. “See ya, Mr. Whoever You Are.”

Alan laughs. “See ya. Good luck at your audition, Chrissie.”

“My audition.” I laugh. I’d forgotten why I came to New York.

I step back from the car and close the door. The doorman pulls open the door for me and I follow Rene into the elevator. I struggle to keep my expression blank as we go floor by floor to the penthouse.

A blast of music pulls me from my thoughts and I notice that the elevator doors are open. Rene is in the apartment, has switched on the sound system and Blondie is blasting. Deborah Harry’s voice bounces off the wood floors and high ceilings as Rene dances around in the center of the room singing One way Or Another.

The driver sets our bags in the foyer.

“Thank you for seeing us to the door.”

“You take care, Miss Parker.”

I frown. How does the driver know who I am?

He smiles. “You look just like Jack. I thought for sure those assholes in the press would notice and be on his story. They’d know where he’s been.”

Was that why Alan was afraid they’d see me? They’d be on his story; his months in California, whatever had gone on there with Jack. I realize with a start that I don’t even know what that was all about. How Jack was involved. Why Jack brought him home. And I don’t know completely what happened to Alan last year.