I nod. “I’m fine. We talked. It’s good.”

Linda slams open the oven door and shakes her head. “I’ve never seen Manny like he was when he realized you’d left. At first I thought it was just ego. Girls just don’t walk out on Manny…” Linda lifts her brows with heavy meaning. “…And then I realized it was something more. He was frantic, he was going to bail right then in the middle of the party to go after you until Len stopped him. That’s when I knew he must have done something pretty fucked up with that temper of his.”

Frantic? Alan is many things, but he is never frantic. Surely, Linda is exaggerating.

She straightens up and leans back against the counter. “And then when the last of the party cleared out, the fireworks. Oh, Chrissie, you missed one hell of an explosion. Kenny made some stupid comment—nothing new for him, by the way—and then boom. I’ve never seen the five of them fight so badly. I thought, this is it. They are over.”

She starts to lift lids from pots to give each an aggressive stir—something that looks like rice and chorizo and cheese, Mexican style refried beans, some kind of spicy red sauce, and if I’m not mistaken, those are enchiladas I smell in the oven. I never expected to find traditional California Mexican cuisine cooking in the kitchen, and then I remember Linda is from LA.

She pushes a glass of wine into my hand. “Then the shitstorm of press started. That’s when things got really interesting.” She turns to pour herself another margarita. “I don’t have to tell you that this is a pretty paranoid group of guys. Every one of them just waiting for the day Manny walks out on the band. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I’ve heard out of them since he landed in New York with you.”

She shakes her head and takes a hefty sip of her Margarita. “Manny’s drama, exhausting, and then all the strangeness suddenly makes sense. Why he was so secretive and shit after he returned to New York. And so careful about keeping everyone away. You’re Jackson Parker’s daughter and Manny was delusional enough to think he could keep you out of the eye of the tabloid hurricane. Mr. Fucked Up British Superstar with the daughter of an American Icon. Yeah, right? Like that was ever going to happen.”

Oh shit. I’ve somehow managed not to think about this the last twenty-four hours. Do I have hours, days or weeks before I have my own shitstorm to face with Jack?

“How much print has there been? Is it awful?” I ask in dread.

“Nothing much yet, but its coming. There is no way to stop it. And it’s going to be a lot and it’s going to be ugly. Manny’s made a fortune kicking up black tar ink. The tabloids live for this shit. So now the paranoid lot out there in the living room doesn’t know what to be paranoid about, and the tabloids are picking out your wedding dress.”

Linda starts pulling out blue-edged plates from a glass front whitewashed cabinet.

“So was Manny really just in California with you the entire five months after Rehab?” she asks with a hint of irritation.

I sputter into my wine. Oh shit, he is lying to them and I don’t know what that means or what I should do here.

“Well?” she demands.

“He was in California the entire five months,” I reply with awkward, truthful diversion.

Her eyes narrow on me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Jack’s girl, and all this drama was just to keep the two of you hush-hush? It really hurts that you guys didn’t trust me.”

I sigh and stare off into space, that last question not even worth making an effort to construct a lie in response. I’ve got my own problems here and Linda, succinctly, with the speed of a machine gun, made sure I’m reminded of each one: a tabloid bloodletting en route to me; a pissed off Jack eventually en route to me; Alan’s confusing never-ending drama…oh, and the album, Chrissie, don’t forget the album…and all the things in me that I have to work through when I get home, within my perfectly fucked up life that I just fucked up even more.

Linda points to a drawer. “Can you start pulling the silverware out for me?”

I start to slam knives and forks on the wood block counter.

It’s funny how delusional you can be when you want to do something you know you shouldn’t. How could I have ever thought that Alan would be someone who just quietly passed through my life privately? There isn’t a single thing Alan does that is ever private. I’m delusional. How the heck did I get so deep into a hole so quickly?

“You don’t have to murder the flatware, Chrissie, just because everything is fucked. That’s pretty much SOP.”

Humor has returned to Linda’s voice. I wish I had her emotional dexterity, but then Linda has existed for a very long time in Alan’s epic universe.

Linda slams open the wood shutters above the splash counter and begins to lay out heat mats for the pans.

I stare out into the living room at Alan. He is relaxed in a chair, laughing, long limbs in front of him, disheveled dark hair, shimmering black eyes, an unrelenting centerpiece in any setting, almost too perfect to be real. I jumped into the hole willingly. I wanted to, and I want him.

But wanting him doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be nice if having him didn’t involve all the rest of the complicated shit, if it were something even slightly approaching normal and familiar. A month ago I didn’t even have a boyfriend. How quickly I’ve been swallowed up by Alan and his world. Why does it feel like I’ve jumped a track in my life, that I am speeding on a road where I can’t see where I’m going? Alan and I are just a temporary thing. Why doesn’t it feel temporary?

God, why did he bring me to The Farm? I stare at the wives, and something about how they cluster and cling to the circle makes me shudder inside.

“So, what do the girls do at The Farm?” I ask.

“We get fucked…” Linda lifts her glass. “…and we get fucked up. This is guy world, Chrissie. That’s all there is. Fucking and getting fucked up. There aren’t even phones here. Alan thinks it interferes with their focus. No phones. Not even TV. They have music, their bullshit stories, getting fucked and fucked up. But all we’ve got is getting fucked, fucked up and kitchen duty. Thank god there’s a cleaning girl who comes twice a week or we’d be mopping floors, Chrissie. The ERA hasn’t reached here yet.”

That comment makes me laugh even though it’s repulsive. Linda is funny, even when she is being coarse and vulgar.

“Dinner!” Linda shouts, in a voice the shakes the rafters.

By the time I’ve filled my plate and left the kitchen to join everyone sprawled in the living room eating, there isn’t an inch of empty space near Alan. I don’t really want to be near any of them, I don’t fit in and probably never will, and my anxious glance searches the room for somewhere to sit apart safely.

“Come here, little kitty. Come sit with me.”

My startled gaze shifts to find Len Rowan patting a floor cushion beside him and studying me in a very peculiar way. Oh yuck, I don’t really want to sit all cozy on the floor with him, but I can’t just ignore him and walk away.

I smile and let Len take the plate to set it on the low table in front of him. He puts his hand on my arm to guide me down beside him. I almost pull away, but I forcibly stop myself.

It’s just a friendly touch. Nothing more. Don’t be an idiot tonight, Chrissie. I grab my fork and start to cut into an enchilada.

“You OK?” Len whispers.

I look to find Len quietly probing with his gaze, as if trying to figure out something I must have let show on my face.

“I’m great.” I fill my mouth with a forkful of Mexican. He’s still staring, expectant. Shit, why is he doing that? “Linda is a great cook.”

Len smiles. “Linda’s a great girl. You need anything, you go to her. Linda won’t ever steer you wrong. The rest of them…” He doesn’t finish and reaches for his beer. “So, what is Jack thinking about all this?”