Public Secrets

I’m not a dealer, Emma.”
“Word games then,” she agreed with a nod. “Did you provide him with drugs?”
“I provided him with an opiate substitute—to help get him through the tour and keep him from going out to some alley and trying to score heroin.”
“To get him through the tour,” she repeated. “I thought Pete was bad, lying to the press, helping Stevie lie to himself.”
“Pete’s not at fault here.”
“Yes he is. You’re all at fault here.”
“Are we supposed to take out an ad in Billboard saying that Stevie’s a junkie?”

“It would be better than this. How is Stevie ever supposed to face up to this if he can’t admit what he is? And how is he supposed to stop being what he is if his friends, his very dear friends, keep handing him drugs so he can get through one more show, one more city.”
“It isn’t like that—”
“Isn’t it? Or are you deluding yourself into thinking you’re doing it out of friendship?”
Too weary for anger, he leaned against the car again. The breeze that ruffled his hair was brisk with autumn and smelled of rain. Peace, he thought as he studied his daughter’s furious face. He only wanted peace.
“You don’t know anything about it, Emma. And I don’t appreciate being lectured by my own daughter.”
“I won’t lecture you.” She turned and walked to her own car. With her hand on the door, she looked back at him. “You know, I never told you, but I went to see Jane a couple of years ago. She’s pathetic, wrapped up in her own needs and her own ego. Until now, I hadn’t realized how much you’re like her.”
She slammed the door, gunned the motor. If there was pain on his face, she didn’t look back to see it.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

E MMA MARRIED DREW in a quiet civil ceremony. There were no guests, no advance press. She had told no one, not even Marianne. After all, she was over twenty-one and needed no one’s permission or approval.
It wasn’t the wedding she had dreamed of. No misty tulle and glowing white silk. No flowers except the single pink rose Drew had given her. No music, and no tears.
She told herself it didn’t matter. She was doing exactly what she wanted. It was selfish, perhaps, but she felt justified in committing one purely selfish act. How could she have told Marianne or Bev without telling her father? She hadn’t wanted him there, standing beside her, giving her away.
She would give herself away.
She’d done her best to cheer the dull, mechanical ceremony by wearing a fussy silk dress, shades deeper than the rose she carried. Lacy at the bodice and at the drifting, tea-length hem.
She thought of her father’s wedding. The first wedding she had ever seen. Bev looking gloriously happy. Brian smiling. Stevie, all in white, singing like an angel. The memory brought tears to her eyes, but she held them back as Drew took her hand.
He was smiling at her. Smiling as he slipped the simple diamond band on her finger. His hand was so warm and steady. His voice was clear and lovely as he promised to love, honor, and cherish. She so desperately wanted to be cherished. When he kissed her, she believed it.

Then they were man and wife. She was no longer Emma McAvoy, but Emma McAvoy Latimer. A new person. And, in vowing her love and her life to Drew, she was beginning a new life.
It didn’t matter that he had to race off directly after the ceremony to the recording studio. She understood the demands and the need for premium session time better than anyone. It had been her idea to be married quickly, quietly, and in the middle of the making of his new album. It gave her time to prepare the hotel suite where they would spend their wedding night. She wanted it to be perfect.
There were flowers now, banks of hothouse roses, orchids, narcissus. For her own pleasure, she arranged them personally, setting tubs and vases throughout the rooms, down to a basket of flowering hibiscus she set in the bath.
A dozen candles waited to be lit, all white and scented with jasmine. Champagne chilled in a crystal bucket. The radio was on low, to enhance the mood.
She indulged in a long bath, fragrant with oils. She creamed and powdered her body, and enjoying the female ritual, dabbed more scent at every pulse point. Like the room, like the night, she wanted her body to be perfect for him. She brushed her hair until her arm went numb. Then slowly, drawing out the pleasure of it, dressed in the white silk and lace peignoir.
When she studied her reflection