Public Secrets

okay.”
“Of course it is.” She stepped out of the car, the same ’68 Chevelle that Lou had once driven to the rehearsal hall. She waited for Michael to unstrap her board from the roof, then started up the steps. “I’ll have to tell Da what happened. The guards will anyhow. I hope you don’t mind if I, well, make it sound minor. You know?”
“Sure.” He grinned at her again, making her young heart flutter. “Parents always overreact. I guess they can’t help it.”
He heard the music the moment she opened the door. A piano, a series of thunderous chords, then an experimental noodling of notes, and the chords again. Emma took her board from him to prop it against the wall.
“They’re back here.” After a moment’s hesitation, she took Michael’s hand and led him down the wide white hallway.
He’d never seen a house like it, though he was too embarrassed to say so. Arched doorways opened on room after room where abstract paintings were slashes of frantic color against white walls. Even the floors were white so that Michael was unable to shake the feeling he was walking through some kind of temple.

Then he saw the goddess, the portrait of the goddess above a fireplace of white stone. She was blond and sulky-mouthed, wearing a white sequined dress that skimmed dangerously over the globes of her lush breasts.
“Wow.”
“That’s Angie,” Emma told him. Her nose wrinkled quickly, automatically. “She’s married to P.M.”
“Yeah.” He had the oddest feeling that the portrait’s eyes were alive and fixed on him hungrily. “I, ah, saw her last movie.” He didn’t add that after he had, he’d experienced fascinating and uncomfortably erotic dreams. “Man, she’s something.”
“Yes, she is.” And even at not-quite thirteen, Emma was aware what that something was. She gave Michael’s hand an impatient tug, then continued on.
It was the only room Emma felt at ease in—the only room in the mausoleum of a house where she imagined P.M. had been given a chance to express his own taste. There was color here, a mix-match of blues and reds and sunny yellows. Music awards lined the mantel; gold records dotted the wails. There were a couple of thriving plants near the window. A pair of lemon trees that Emma knew P.M. had started from seed.
Her father was seated at a beautiful old baby grand that had been in a movie whose tide always escaped Emma. Johnno sat beside him, smoking his habitual French cigarettes. There was a litter of papers on the floor, a big pitcher of lemonade sprinkled with condensation on the coffee table. The glasses, ice melting lazily inside them, were already leaving a duo of rings on the wood.
“We’ll keep it moving through the bridge,” Brian was saying as he pounded out chords. “Keep it fast, overlap the strings and horns, but keep the guitar the dominant force.”
“Fine, but it’s still the wrong beat.” Johnno brushed Brian’s hands aside. His diamonds winked on each pinky as he moved them over the keys.
Brian took out a cigarette, flipping it through his fingers. “I hate you when you’re right.”
“Da.”
He looked up. The smile came first, then faded as he focused on Michael. “Emma. You were supposed to ring if you wanted to come back early.”

“I know, but I met Michael.” Her lips curved, charmingly, so that her dimple flashed. “I wiped out, and he helped me get my board.” Because she wanted to leave it at that, she hurried on. “And I thought you’d like to meet him again.”
There was something enormously disturbing about seeing his girl, his little girl, standing with her hand in the hand of a boy who was nearly a man. “Again?”
“Don’t you remember? His father brought him to a rehearsal. His father, the policeman.”
“Kesselring.” The muscles in Brian’s stomach clenched. “You’re Michael Kesselring?”
“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t sure if it was proper to extend his hand for a shake with a music giant, so stood, rubbing his palms on his sandy trunks. “I was like eleven when I met you before. It was great.”
He was too used to being onstage, under the lights, to let the ache show. He looked at Michael, tall, dark, sturdy, and saw not Lou Kesselring’s son, but the potential of his own lost little boy. But he smiled as he stood up from the piano.
“It’s nice to see you again. You remember Michael, Johnno?”
“Sure. Ever talk your old man into that electric guitar?”
“Yeah.” Michael grinned, flattered to be