Ghost

Riley

Watching two del Marco's spar is a thing of great entertainment. I carry another half empty bottle of wine to the show as I shuffle out onto the patio with my walker and ease down into a plush chair.

Row stops her yelling to watch me. "Are you okay, baby? Do you need some ice?"

We've taken to icing my back after long guitar sessions. It helps as well as anything. Well, except booze.

I drink from the wine bottle. "No, no, I'm good. Carry on..."

She looks like a savage as she nods fiercely at me and rounds on her father. Apparently she starts from the top. "You know what, Dad. You've really got some kind of god complex or something. I know your cougar fangirls think the way you act—like you own the world—is all hot and amazing, but news flash—you don't actually own the world! What the hell is wrong in your brain that you think it's okay to walk into our house, then walk into our bedroom like that? Explain yourself."

He rolls his eyes at her. Matt is not used to be harangued by a female. By any female. Marianne doesn't nag Matt or bicker with him. She doesn't have to. She's the kind of woman does what she pleases, hires done what she doesn't want to do, and only thinks its fair to ask the same of her man. Apparently she "fights" by putting him out of the house until he what he wants is her, more than whatever it is they may be disagreeing about.

She pulls her robe tighter around her and crosses her arms. "I'm serious. Explain yourself."

He rubs his face with flat hands. "What was I thinking? I was thinking you were going to burn the house down with those damn candles. I was thinking the bedrooms were on the other side of the house and you had a studio down there. I was thinking you were practicing with a voice track, because who the hell knew he could sing?" Then he turns his attention to me. "And I was thinking you were an invalid that needed my daughter's care to move around."

"Oh, I've got plenty of moves back now, thanks to Row's tender loving care," I tip the bottle of wine at him.

Matt looks disgusted and Row looks a little scandalized, but her disapproving looks turns to a smile as I wink at her. "You do, but...behave. I'm trying to punish him," she points a finger at her father.

"Darling, you don't have to scold him as punishment. I think natural consequences have taught him a lesson," I grin at him, drinking more wine.

Row is on board with my teasing now. She looks at him speculatively. "You might be right. I'm surprised he's not blind at this moment. How many fingers am I holding up?" She gives him the middle finger.

Matt is flashing between naughty dog and wolf in full attack as he stares between us.

"I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Row yells. "That was completely embarrassing and mortifying and—"

"Don't forget incredibly frustrating—" I add helpfully.

She puts a hand to her face and flaps a hand to me, giving me a mildly scolding side eye. "Shut up, Riley."

"Yes, Mistress—"

"Okay, I'm glad you two are having so much fun with this—" Matt says grimly. He pulls something from his jacket and I hear foil tearing. He paces and chews. I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard. Nicotine in the form of gum is the only substance coping mechanism left to him.

"What do you want, Dad?" Row sighs.

"I want to know what the hell, Row. Why you don't return our texts, our calls. I came to make sure you're okay. Is that what you've been doing these past few weeks? Drinking and messing around with music?"

"Well, and messing around with each other," I add. "Ah, but you saw that part, didn't you?"

Matt looks me up and down. "Stand up and say your smart-ass bullshit, Riley. You might find yourself knocked on your ass."

That's fair, I suppose. I reach for my walker, wondering if I can somehow maneuver to push him into the pool-he really does deserve it—but Row is suddenly in motion herself. She reaches for my hand, helping me to my feet, then deftly maneuvering to put her back to my front and my arms around her waist. In essence she becomes the stabilty that the walker would have provided.

"Why don't you leave now, Daddy? Because you aren't welcome in our house when you come uninvited, violate every boundary of common sense and privacy, mortify me, ruin my evening and then threaten my husband."

"He's not your husband."

He says it automatically, but he winces, as if for once his hypocrisy registers.

"Does it matter?" she hisses back.

Matt is not the kind of guy to back down. His jaw flexes, as he puts his hands in his jeans pockets. "In your case, it matters. This is not about me and your mom. We're solid." Matt looks past Row to me. "You and Riley are not me and your mom. He tried his best to break you, Row. Now, he's broken and he's scared and I get why this is starting back up, but you two aren't solid. "

"You're a fucking hypocrite," Row snarls at him, taking an aggressive step forward.

My arms tighten protectively around Row. The last thing I really want is for her to have a row with her father on my account. I think she's a little bruised by learning her parents aren't married, and estrangement from either of them is not what she needs.

"I don't think you're at a fair vantage point to assess that Matt," I say with less smarm and more sincerity. "You don't know how much work we're putting in, to...everything, between us."

"You don't have to justify anything to him," Rowan hisses, wrapping her arms in mine. "He wants to talk about people breaking people? Well, he broke our family. Over and over. The bottle was his mistress and he left my mom over and over for her. She writes letters and makes it sound all romantic, that you two aren't married but you know what I think? I think she loves you but she doesn't trust you enough to ever remarry you. I think you are always one step from breaking us all over again."

Matt looks sad and angry at the same time. "You don't get to turn this around, Doodle. I'm not a perfect man and I'll be the first to admit I've got my demons, but I love your mother and all of you kids more than my own life. You don't get to judge the way your mom and I make it work."

"More than your own life, just not more than the bottle," she snaps back.

"You wanna go there, Row?" he says evenly. "You want to judge my addiction, when the same blood runs in your veins? When I've seen you drink more than eat in the last year? When the man you're standing drinks as much if not more that? You're just twenty-four and you've already had a pill problem and an extremely near overdose miss. The only reason I haven't thrown your ass in rehab is because I know forced sobriety doesn't work. The only reason I put up with Riley's controlling shit as long as I did was because he seemed to be able to at least keep you from poisioning yourself. Until he couldn't." Matt says grimly. "Until he became the reason you were turning to the drugs and booze, instead of the reason you were trying to moderate. Now I come over here and find you in some kind of...dysfunctional fantasy thing? You two can't stay drunk and locked up in a bedroom pretending to be rock stars, no matter how good it feels. Or sounds. That's not your real life. You both have obligations. Commitments to other things."

"That's not exactly fair," I say. "We're not on some kind of weeks-long bender. I go to PT everyday. Row's eating and exercising every day. You're jumping to conclusions."

"You're not yourself, man," Matt points a finger at me. "Look, I'm sorry your not physically back all the way, and you're trying to deal with that however you can, but I can't let your problems destroy her reputation. I got her producers calling me, because you're ignoring her career. She can't just pretend like she doesn't have obligations. They're freaking out. They say it was obvious she wasn't happy last season and they're threatening suit if she's gonna bail on her contract. You can't just ignore her contractual obligations."

Fuck.I bristle immediately, mostly because he's too right. We have been avoiding dealing with that issue. Something has to be done, and I've dropped the ball.

"Her business matters are my concern. By her choice. " I say brusquely. "She's considering her options. I will deal with her obligations."

"You're not dealing with it. You're playing bedroom rock star with her, and that ain't your job, is it?" He turns to Row. "Doodle, you can't just blow up your career like this. I know you're not happy on the show, but you can't avoid your producers or your contractual commitments."

"Oh, you're worried about my career now, Dad?" Row hisses. "Where were you when the career I loved evaporated? Where were you when I was lying in the hospital, after being, kidnapped, terrorized, and stabbed? When I couldn't feel my hand at all? Riley was the one holding it, trying to convince me I would recover. You were in a bar fucking a fifth of Jack."

All the anger drains from Matt. He stares at his daughter a long moment. His eyes close and he nods his head in shame.

She wraps her hands in mine, squeezing. "That's how I knew, you know. That the doctors were giving me false hope for recovery. That everyone was clinging to that but it was just a delusion. Even Riley wanted to believe, so he did. But you? You wouldn't lie to me. You wouldn't tell me it would be okay when it wouldn't, but you couldn't take the hard truth yourself. So you bailed. On me. On mom. Then you went to six weeks of rehab to keep avoiding me. Until I accepted the truth on my own, and you wouldn't have to be the one to tell me."

He raises his head, utterly shocked. "You really think that?"

"I know that."

His lined, handsome face pinches in pain, but the Old Man is a rock star through and through. He masters himself.

"I hit the bottle that day because I am an alcoholic and I was already stumbling down the slope to rock bottom, for more than a year. I would think you would have figured out by living with me your whole life that when I'm off the wagon— anything that hurts is an excuse to drink.

"I went to rehab so I could get my shit together, for you. To help you heal and recover. To help you through therapy, more surgeries, whatever it was going to take to heal. When I came home, you'd run off and married him and had a whole new plan to be an actress. I wasn't gonna try to change your mind, to bring you back around to your pain if you had found a better way than to cope with it than your old man. But it wasn't a better way, was it? He ran you in the ground."

"I ran myself in the ground!" she screams. "Because all I ever wanted to do was follow in your footsteps, and I couldn't do it! One bad man and one sharp knife ended it all, and I was never ever again going to be what I always wanted to be! I was never ever again going to be you! But it was all good, right? It was okay. You had a replacement legacy anyway."

Trace, she means. For as much as she admires him, respects his talent, loves him even, for the way he's waded in and fought her tooth and nail to make his place with her, to help her like he thinks a older brother should—the jealous child in her will always hate him a bit, too.

She turns in my arms and bursts into tears. I wrap her up tight. I never have to worry about my balance when I am holding her like this. Matt is wrong. We are standing solid together now. Solid enough that I can be strong for her in this moment.

"You never needed to be a rock star just like him, darling," I tell her. "You are something special all your own."

She looks up into my eyes. Hers fire like flint on carbon. "We are something special. We, not me."

In that moment I see the thing come alive in her eyes that I haven't seen in years. I see her waking from a dream. "Maybe it's time for us both to wake up."

Christ. She is thinking our little duet could be something more than the way me make love to one another? I feel my lips thin. I'm not an artist. She's the artist. It's my job to see her a star.

Isn't it?

One thing I can't deny. "We are pretty damn good together," I confess to her.

She stands on her toes to kiss me. I kiss her back, but I cut if off before she intended, because I can feel her father glowering in disapproval.

She can, too. She turns in my arms again, toward him. "Did you hear us? Singing?" she challenges.

"It was..." Matt seems like he can't find the words. "Hard to miss," he finally says with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Authentic. Incredibly tight. Hypnotic. I don't think anyone that heard that wouldn't do just what I did...seek the source." He breaks off, giving me a look of disbelief. "I didn't know you could sing like that, man."

"I had a band. We got gigs. We made money. I can sing. And play. Rather well, for a hobby," I say defensively.

"That was you playing, then."

"It was me," Row says without emotion.

I feel sick with grief at how this is playing out. She should be joyously telling her father she can play. Instead, all the long unspoken hurts are destroying their moment.

Matt's face flickers in smile. "It was you?"

"It was me."

He takes a step toward us but she twists in my arms again, hiding her face from him. "Go home, Daddy. I've had enough of your rock star drama for one night. I just want my bed. And my husband."

He stops in his tracks. He glares at me. Ironically, I feel a bit sorry for him.

She's a daddy's girl, and she is accustomed to seek her best comfort from him, just as she is accustomed to placating his tyrannical nature. This? Her anger at him? Her honesty? Her rejection? Completely unfamiliar to him. In the past whenever they've fought—which was quite a bit—she would always concede the argument, accept his advice, seek his forgiveness.

It seems that Row is growing up, truly. These days, she's addressing her anger with me and with her father as well.

I give him a shrug. He looks away, into the distance, down the dark natural canyon, trying to master his hurt at her rejection.

When he looks back to me he says, "Do you know about her doctor's appointment in London next week?"

"Of course," I say. "Her travel arrangements are made."

"She hasn't confirmed. They are missing her questionnaires she's supposed to fill out between appointments."

"That's not true, I confirmed two days ago," she says to me. "I did the forms online yesterday. I'm not supposed to fill them out until a week before the appointment. They were only a day late."

"Of course. I remember, darling," I say mildly.

She did, and I do.

"They called me yesterday morning," Matt says.

"Crossed wires, obviously. Nothing to worry about. I'll call and make sure the appointment is indeed confirmed."

He gives me a terse nod.

"Thank you," she says. "Let's go to bed."

She pulls my walker to within reach and turns to do inside.

"Row," her dad says.

Just her name, I note. He's still expecting her to give over, apologize to him, make it up.

She stops. She turns. "Good-night Daddy."

She walks inside and blows out the candles.

"I doubt she meant everything she said," I say softly.

He snorts. It is rather odd, that after all this time of always being on some level of antagonism with Matt, that I'm feeling sympathy for him. It's not so much for him I guess, as for her. I don't have much family; I know how important Row's is to her. It's in my nature to smooth things over for Row when something's amiss. It's part of my job as her manager and part of the way I love her, too.

"I don't know. She made some damn good points," he says, walking slowly toward the front-leading path.

He stops, but he doesn't turn. "Don't let her ruin her rep as a professional over that show, and don't ruin yours either. No one gets a big break in the indie genre. It won't be anything like she experienced with Strut, and it won't be anything like you fell into with Soundcrush. No one will give a shit that she's my daughter. In fact, it will probably work against her. There will be no automatic record deals, no big tours, no breaks. Indie is about artistic integrity. It's about authenticity. It's about paying your dues. You'll have to bust your ass for any recognition at all. You'll need every little favor you can call in just to get a meeting or a gig."

"You are way ahead of yourself, Mate," I say.

"Maybe she's way ahead of you," he replies. "If you think what's going on in your bedroom is just about making love to my daughter, you're not half as smart as I thought you were."

He walks a few more paces, but I call him back. "Matt. I've no doubt that what Row and I are doing is...special. To us. But my opinion is completely biased, as is her. Don't think you think perhaps yours is, as well?"

"I wasn't biased when I let Street quit music as a kid. I knew he'd never make the big time. It wasn't just because he didn't want it bad enough. He was thirteen, what did he really know about what he wanted? He didn't have it. The thing no one can define but that makes everyone's head turn? Street didn't have it. If he'd had it, I would have kept him going. If he'd had it, I would have told him to push through his doubts."

"Riley? Push through your doubts, son."

I snort and lean heavily on the walker, staring at Matt's back. He's daft. Row is a star. I'm the guy at sidestage helping her shine. That's always what I've been.

Not always, a quiet cockney voice corrects. You loved a stage, Rye. You know you did.

I'm quite creeped out, but I manage to resist the urge to look behind me. That's a voice I haven't heard inside my head in a good decade, although its owner has been gone a few years past that.

Be quiet, love. You forfeited your opinions about what I do in this life when you left me alone in it.

Priscilla obliges. She is silent.

I know she's not really there. I'm neither extremely drunk nor mentally confused, and I don't believe in ghosts.

It's not the first time my brain has invented a conversation with lost love. It was a coping mechanisms once, but talking with Priscilla faded from my habits a long time ago. I didn't think my brain could still slip into that voice I once missed desperately.

I check around my feelings and note that even though I still remember the sound of her voice fondly it doesn't fill me with the longing I once experienced during these little conversations. Right now, I mostly feel annoyed that my brain has decided to make her an opposition voice in my head.

She's right, I did once love the stage. But that was youthful vanity.

This music I'm making with Row has nothing to do with a need to show it off to other people. Her joy in the making of it is the only thing I truly need from our little project. I see it as a starting point, for Row reclaiming her gift and her stage.

"I don't have any doubts," I tell Matt. "I know what this is about. This is about Row, doing what she was meant to do."

He does turn around to me then, looking me up and down, taking my measure.

"Then don't disappoint her. But also don't mistake what you think you know about my marriage or my flaws as any kind of tolerance for your tendency to control and manipulate my daughter. If you hurt her again, I will end you. I won't give a shit what kind of protest my son puts up this time. Great bands can always find great managers, and despite what Row thinks, Trace is not more important to me than she is."

He leaves.

When I make my way to the bedroom, Row has changed out of her sexy lingerie into more modest pajamas. She's cleared away the guitars, pens, paper, and wine bottles. She's blown out all candles but one. She's in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and crying.

I watch her in the mirror. She spits, rinses her toothbrush, smiles at me, sobs a little more, growls, shakes her head, and goes to repeatedly splashing her face.

"I'm fine. Really," she's saying. "I know I seemed...all emotional and crazy on my dad...but really I was just pissed. I'm fine. All that is in the past, and it's time for us to focus on the future. On our future."

I'm not sure if she's talking to her reflection or me. She splashes more water on her face. She pats it dry. She's no longer crying. As she loops her arm through mine and puts her head against my shoulder and I steer my walker to the bed, she begins to sing the song we sang earlier.

Now she's got it, Priscilla's voice says.

She does, I reply.

You love her more than me.

I can't tell if Priscilla's words are a question or a statement.

I do. I'm sorry, Sil, but I do. For a very long time now.

Well if you love her that much, you can't let me trip you up. You know what I mean, don't you? I won't hold you to all those things said at my grave, Rye.

I didn't say them. I swore them, I remind her. And you aren't real, you're just a voice in my head. The real Priscilla is somewhere, maybe. I have to think she is somewhere. She is not you, but she might still be. She might even have been listening when I swore those things. I did love her once, and I did swear things upon her grave. How can I go back upon them?

Row is giving me a strange look as we reach the bed. "Are you okay? You didn't sing your line just now...you can't miss your mark like that if we get serious about this."

See? The Old Man was right. She's dreaming a dream for the two of you. You can't let her down again.

I will simply ignore the voice in my head.

"Right, sorry," I say with a half-grin as I sit upon the bed. "I'm just tired, and thinking about what your dad said..."

"Which part?" she huffs.

"The part he was right about," I say grimly. It's a bit of lie, I wasn't really thinking of that, I was talking to my dead lover, but I am thinking of it now. "Row, I'm sorry, darling, but you need to decide by morning if I'm calling the promotions department manager to confirm you're going to promote the new season, or the lawyers to begin working on a settlement for your contract dispute."

She nods, adjusts the bed, and brings over the osteopathic wedges that Blake recommended to support my back and allow sleeping with her to be more tolerable. Once I'm comfortable she blows out the candle and joins me in the dark, folding into my arms.

"If I do the promotional tour, do you think you will be able to come with me?" she asks.

I consider. It won't be easy physically or fun. But I want to be with her. Doubly so if she wants me there.

"Of course," I say.

"And if we negotiate an early release and I only have to do a partial season to fulfill my contract, will you come with me to New Zealand?"

I sigh. "Pre-production is slated to begin in December, yes?"

"Yes but maybe we'd only have to be there...three months? Hopefully, if I get written out? I don't want to be apart from you," she whispers.

"I don't want to be apart from you, either," I confess. I stroke her back. "And there will be business for me there, though it will be of a personal nature."

"I was thinking that too. You mean selling our—my, whatever—house there..."

"Mmmmph," I agree Like this one, it was once our house but Row got that one in the divorce settlement. It's a bit bigger deal than this one. An old Australian movie star's summer retreat. Quite large, never updated. We bought it for a steal. We were going to fix it up, but like our marriage it only fell into further disrepair. Row lived a rather bohemian existence there, throwing parties and never bothering about the damage. "If I spent the season having it renovated, it could turn you a nice profit, perhaps..."

"Us," she says.

"Not really. We may be back together but our finances are still separated, thank God," I tease her.

She pinches my lightly. "Ha-ha. So what do you think? I mean, I know you don't really want to, but I don't want to be there either." After a moment, she adds, "You could come to the set or stay home, whatever seems best to you..."

I think about Aidan Mosteller and Row. "Honestly Row, I don't know about that part. I'll have to think about that a good bit. We'll need to talk about it more..."

"But you'll come to New Zealand?"

"It's...doable," I agree.

"Of course it is, Trace and the guys won't mind if you spend the winter--summer, down there— with me. You're still recuperating and Soundcrush will be on a real shutdown for a while after the twins are born, right?"

"They are convening to write for the new album in March."

"They don't need you for that. Marley can referee those fights," she snorts.

"They plan to begin recording mid- May, if all goes well. I'll need to be there for that..."

"We should definitely be back by then. Especially if I only do a partial season..."

"True."

"So...yes? You'll come?" she pushes.

"Yes, I'll come with you," I kiss her temple.

She gives a huge sigh of relief. "Okay, so we'll finish this last little bullshit and then we can focus on what's really important."

On any other night I might have teased her by saying "Soundcrush's album, you mean?" but not tonight. Tonight the scales of her loss musical career and Trace's success are weighted with too much grief on Row's side.

"What's that, love?" I say instead.

"Us," she says. "And our new partnership."

I do tease her now. "Are you proposing again?"

"I'm proposing we write some songs together," she whispers.

"Oh, we are going into the song-writing business, are we?" I murmur as I stroke down her arm.

"Maybe," she agrees. "But let's make a deal—we'll only sell them to artists who can sing them better than we can."

"Who gets to judge?"

"Impartial jury of our peers..."

"Deal, darling," I say with a sleepy yawn.

Think you just made a deal with a devil, Rye. That one won't stop til she has her way. It's alright. You know you want to make music with her.

Go away, I tell Priscilla.

It wouldn't be a proper haunting if I did what you said.

This isn't a haunting. This is my brain trying to justify going back on my word to you.

A-ha! You just admitted it was me! Thought you said I wasn't real.

Will you belt up, for Chrissakes? I hiss in my head.

For now, Priscilla says in her sing-song voice.

"Row, let's not drink any more shiraz," I murmur. "It makes my head...a bloody mess."

"Just the shiraz?" she laughs softly.

"God, I hope so," I murmur.

"I love you," she whispers sweetly. So fucking sweetly.

"I love you," I tell her, and Priscilla knows better than to object to that.