“Where’d you get off to,” he muttered, going through pocket after pocket of the oversized bag. He finally found the worn linen pouch hiding near the bottom and grunted in triumph. Taking his prize over to the table, he opened it up to pull out a cigarette lighter, an old white candle stub and a wooden holder. He held up the homemade candle and peered closely at it, still able to smell the fragrant oil Grandmother had rubbed on it. “No, dressed, Ian called it,” James corrected himself, lowering his voice to mimic Ian’s slightly deeper one, “and not to be used for romancing women in your room.” Smiling at the memory of his brother’s stern warning, he took a deep breath and lit the blackened wick, setting it in the holder.
He sat back in the chair and took several deep breaths, staring fixedly into the flame. He remembered his grandmother’s implicit instructions. Light the candle, ask the question, snuff–never blow–the flame and let the rising smoke carry the question to the wind.
Clearing his throat, he began to speak in a hushed whisper. “I want to find someone of my own, someone who will love me for me, not just because of who I am. Who is she? Where is she? What should I be looking for? How much longer am I going to have to wait for her?”
I’m gonna need a bigger candle, he thought with a wry smile. “Okay, last question. How will I know her when I see her?” When no mysterious voice issued forth from the flame–and James half-expected there would be one–he sat a few more minutes thinking about what he had asked for, then licked his fingertips and deftly pinched the flame between thumb and forefinger.
The rising smoke from the candle drifted toward the open balcony door and was gone within seconds. When he was certain all the smoke was out, he slid the door closed, then lay back on the bed. Sleep eluded him for nearly an hour before he gave up and reached for the TV remote.
“Wonder how I’m going to know her when I see her,” he mused. “Maybe there’ll be a clue or something. Trumpets…trumpets would be good.” He turned on the TV and began surfing through the channels.
He landed on a public broadcast channel concert featuring five men singing Celtic music. The group moved from one familiar song into the next. James gave a low whistle of approval. “Man, they’re tight. Good harmonies,” he said, singing along with the traditional “Raggle Taggle Gypsy.”
That was the last song before the commercial break so James moved on, his eyelids beginning to droop. His next stop was a classic movie channel. He watched as Charles Laughton’s Quasimodo tried valiantly to save the beautiful Esmeralda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. “Sanctuary,” he murmured in sympathy.
Another commercial and he began surfing again, landing on an infomercial for a Sounds of the 70’s CD package. When the image of Cher singing “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” filled his screen, he watched only a moment before clicking the TV off and tossing the remote on the nightstand.
He yawned wide and shrugged. “I’ll have to keep my eyes open,” he said. Pulling the spread and sheet up over him, he had one last fleeting thought before sleep finally claimed him. If Ian found someone maybe there’s hope for me yet.
* * * *
Myrtle Beach, SC–Three months later, Early Spring
Aaron Nicholson sat behind the oak desk in his expansive eighth-floor office, one hand drumming anxiously while the other clutched a bottle of Maalox. It was only 10am, but his stomach already felt like it was on fire and he knew without a doubt he had yet another ulcer coming on. When he got the phone call demanding an appointment last week, the pain started and hadn’t let up. He wasn’t in the habit of naming his ulcers, but by God he was going to christen this one James Kelly in honor of the man he was certain had triggered this latest flare up. He glanced out the window at the traffic whizzing by on Oak Street, wondering what he had done to deserve this latest internal assault.
James was the lead singer for his hottest and most lucrative commodity, the rock band Horizon. Their CD sales and merchandising were through the roof and scores of screaming fans mobbed them wherever they went. Every venue they played sold out within minutes. The show in Charleston the night before had been amazing with three encores and the crowd still chanting for more even as the band climbed into their limos to leave for the hotel. He had been their manager long enough to know that not everything was as rosy as he desperately tried to pretend and had the sneaking suspicion that this was the reason for Mr. Kelly’s visit this morning.
“Musicians,” he growled, taking another sip of the antacid. He looked up at the framed promotional poster on the wall of James in all his glory–wailing into his microphone, head thrown back a la a young David Coverdale, his open shirt showcasing the muscles of his chest and stomach. Twenty-three years old with eyes of dark emerald green, bedroom hair and a devilish grin that made female hormones stand up and salute, he was “six feet of gorgeous,” Aaron’s thirteen year old daughter had proclaimed, insisting her father introduce her to the talented young star. He categorically denied her on the grounds that he was certain just being in the same room with the man was a danger to her virginity. Eying his bottle of antacid morosely, he wondered if it was going to last the entire day. He doubted it.
A few minutes after ten, the intercom buzzed. “Mr. Nicholson, Mr. Kelly is here,” his persistently pert assistant chirped. It took all his strength not slam his head onto his desk surface just to end it quickly. He pressed the response button. “Thank you, Marie. Send him in, please.”
James Kelly had so much raw charisma Aaron felt the presence before he actually laid eyes on the man. Rock music’s favorite wild child strode into the room like he was on a mission, shadowed by a slightly taller, longer-haired version of the young Irishman. Fuck me, he’s brought reinforcements, he thought. Death by desktop was starting to look good.
“James! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my humble office this morning?” Aaron forced out a hearty laugh coupled with what he desperately hoped was a sincere smile. “And this is… he said slowly, knowing the family resemblance was so strong it could be none other than one of his brothers. On closer inspection, he realized which brother and one of his older ulcers flared up in recognition.
“You remember Ian,” James said curtly and without waiting to be invited took a seat on the sofa. Aaron and Ian exchanged a curt nod in greeting and Ian walked over to stand by the window, arms folded across his chest as he watched the traffic. Aaron sagged inwardly. Not good. Not good at all.
“I’m here to talk about my contract,” James began, stretching his long, jean-clad legs out before him.
Aaron stifled the look of panic he was certain swept across his face and swiveled around to look at Ian. “I’ll be delighted to discuss that with you, but wouldn’t you prefer that we talk privat–” James cut him off with an irritated wave of his hand.
“He stays. I’ll cut straight to the chase. My contract is up in July and I want some time off. I’ve spent the last three years dragging my ass around the world for you and I’m tired, Aaron. I need a break.”
Aaron forced another smile. “There’s nothing scheduled yet after the end of the tour in June, so I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t take a couple of weeks off…”
James cocked an eyebrow and snorted. “That’d be like throwing a deck chair off the Queen Mary to lighten the load. A week or two isn’t going to make a dent in the amount of tired I’ve got, Aaron. I want a year. Minimum.”
The older man pushed the call button on the intercom. “Marie, bring in some coffee. Right now,” he said through clenched teeth before adding mentally before I choke this arrogant sonofabitch.
James crossed his arms and waited. The assistant came bearing coffee and warm southern pecan rolls within a minute or two of the request. She poured three steaming cups, then after giving both visitors a long, appreciative look disappeared efficiently. Aaron busied himself looking through binders at the upcoming tour schedule and appearance calendar. The fine hair prickled on the back of his neck when he realized