Knowing fingers moved across the keys, blue eyes closed, body swaying with the music she was creating.

Christine had written more music in the past two months than she had in two years. Brows drawing as the emotion passed through her, filling her with a peace that only music could give her, the creation and execution of it, giving her a sense of control that she didn’t have anywhere else in her life.

During her stay at Promises, she’d started having the dreams again, and remembering things she thought long dead. Demons of her past, some self-invoked, others thrust upon her, haunting her and dogging her nocturnal steps.

Her therapist at the exclusive rehab told her that now that her body and mind was free of the poisons she’d been feeding it, it left the gates wide open for her to face whatever was causing her to run in the first place.

Therein lies the problem; she didn’t want to face the ghosts.

Christine stroked the ivories with a lover’s caress. Music was the only thing she’d ever had that hadn’t betrayed or demanded from her. Music gave itself willingly to her, allowing her to bring forth into the world freely and willingly, never asking questions or wanting answers. It just was. Through music Christine could tell a story, share a part of herself without the vulnerability that a similar conversation would have.

No one knew the real her, and that was what she wanted. She had always been so grateful that when Bob had found her in that shit hole bar in Queens that she’d been doing her own stuff. She had been smart enough at fourteen to make sure he knew she would only do her own stuff, and that any covers he wanted her to do, he could shove up his ass.

That’s basically where her creative freedom had stopped.

If she were to play the piece she played now for Bob, he’d laugh then tell her to burn it; it had no place in his show.

Christine didn’t want to think about all of that. Those thoughts dogged her days as it was. Right now all she wanted to do was lose herself in her music and forget about all the things that were wrong in her life. That was part of the problem. She’d started to allow everything to weigh so heavily upon her shoulders, not dealing with any of it, that it had started to overwhelm and then finally control her.

Her counselor said that was why she’d turned to drugs. She wanted to numb herself to the internal turmoil and pain.

Christine snorted softly at the truth of those words. Music was becoming her new drug. One addiction for another. Her creative juices had started to churn within her soul, demanding to be let out. The singer was happy to oblige.

Her fingers came to a stand still as a knock sounded on the outer door to her suite.

"Come in!" she called, pushing the bench back and standing, carefully closing the lid of the baby grand as the door opened, then swiftly closed. "Good afternoon, Margaret."

"Hello, Christine. Were you practicing?" the older woman asked, arranging her bulk on the couch that faced its twin, where Christine seated herself.

"Composing, actually." The singer ran her arm along the length of the back of the couch, her head slightly tilted as she studied the brunette sitting across from her.

Margaret Olson looked at the white Baldwin, then to her patient. "I see no music." Christine tapped her temple.

"All up here." The singer smiled.

"Ah. If only I had one-tenth of your talent," the counselor said with a sigh, Christine chuckling. "Alright," getting down to business, the older woman opened a manila folder, searching through some papers as she spoke. "Last time you talked about the dreams that were coming back," she glanced up at Christine, then gazed back down at her notes from their previous session. "Have you had any more since last week?"

Christine blew out a breath, glancing out the French doors, which overlooked the beautifully manicured grounds of the posh rehab center. "Yes."

"When was this?" Margaret clicked her pen, which was poised over a clean sheet of legal pad paper.

"Sunday night," Christine said, her voice quiet, almost fearful. The counselor waited for her patient to continue, as she had come to learn she would in time. Her own time. As the singer began to speak, her voice remained quiet, almost a haunted tone. "The alley again,"

"Tell me about that alley, Christine,"

I jumped, startled almost out of my skin. Glaring at my friend, Adam, telling him with my eyes that he better have a very good fucking reason for interrupting me.

"These dreams are pretty vivid," Margaret said, her voice quiet, subtle. Christine nodded.

"Yes, they are." The singer sighed, running her hands through her hair, leaving it in disarray. The counselor was quiet for a moment, studying her patient, who hadn’t looked at her during the entire telling of her story.

"How did you feel about that? The fact that you may have been his next victim?" Christine looked at the woman for a moment, not sure what to say to the kind, knowing smile she saw. She turned away again.

"I don’t know that I would have cared. There wasn’t much to save, you know?" Christine leaned back into the soft cushions, hands tucked behind her head and her eyes on the older woman.

"Did they catch him?"

"Yeah," she snorted. "But not before the bastard nabbed three more girls."

"Did you know the girls?"

Christine was quiet for a moment, her mind reeling back, then slowly she nodded.

"And what about your friend? Adam, was it?"

The singer couldn’t keep the smile off her face. "He’s fine."

"Present tense? You keep in contact with him, then?"

"Oh, yeah," she turned that brilliant smile to Margaret. "He’s my boy, my kind of people."

"And what kind of people is that?" Margaret asked, putting her pad of paper aside and crossing her legs. She studied the woman in front of her. Such a lovely girl.

Christine smiled, looking down at her lap. "I’d rather not talk about that,"

"Alright. You look good, Christine. You’ve put on some weight. I must say, a woman of your height, what, five ten? should not weigh one hundred and thirteen pounds." Margaret couldn’t help it as the mother in her came out. Watching her own daughter go through a terrible struggle with anorexia was a difficult thing to watch.

"Yes, well it’s hard to keep the weight on when four lines of coke is dinner for three days and nights at a time."

The counselor smiled, though it was sad. "How do you feel?"

"How do I feel, good question." Bringing her hands out from behind her head, Christine stood, walking over to the French doors and looking out. A few fellow residents were strolling around the grounds, talking with each other or alone. Sitting on a stone bench she recognized a fellow musician that she was stunned to see at Promises. "Interesting," she muttered.

"What was that?"

"Huh?" Realizing she’d been asked a question, the singer turned from the doors and walked back to the couch. "I feel okay, I guess. Very worn out."

"What are your plans once you leave here? You’re to be released in what, three weeks?"

"So they tell me."

"Do you feel you’re ready?"

The singer studied the older woman, taking in her caring features, concerned eyes and motherly bulk, and felt something she hadn’t felt in many, many years- she wanted a hug.

Shaking that thought out of her mind, she shrugged. "To be honest, Margaret, I don’t know a damn thing anymore. I’m void of all thought and understanding of myself."

"What does that make you want to do? How do you want to deal with that?" Margaret’s soft voice made the singer smile. She knew what she was getting at.

"Don’t worry, Margaret," she said quietly, smiling at the counselor. "I think I’ve learned my lesson."

"In what way?" Margaret uncrossed her legs, straightening the skirt of her dress, then re-crossing them.

"I could have hurt another person this time," Christine whispered.

"The nurse?"

"The nurse." Christine dropped her head, shame filling her.

"What about your fans? How do you feel about them? The last concert …" Margaret’s voice trailed off, seeing the hurt and uncertainty in the piercing blue eyes, made electric by unshed emotion. If only Christine would allow herself to cry, to release her pain.

"They’ll come back," the singer said, her voice so low the older woman almost missed it. "They always do. Bob will make sure of that."

)))

"You about done with my air compressor, there, Kevin?"

Willow’s head shot up from the fence she was working on. Her husband, wiping his forehead with his hat, headed on over to Richard Dean, their closest neighbor at three miles.

"Hey there, Dick. Yeah, sorry about that. Come on into the garage. I’ll get it for you." The sandy-haired man said, patting the old man’s back.

The blonde smiled as she turned back to her work. She had been telling Kevin for months to get the thing back to Dick, but it wasn’t as if he listened. Stubborn male. She had no idea what he’d even been using the thing for in the first place.

"Ouch, dang it," she nabbed her finger away from the wire cutters that had pinched the skin on her index finger, making it bleed. She stuck the wound into her mouth, a mumbled curse aimed at the fence around the finger in her mouth. Examining her hand, she saw that she was fine. Just a small cut.

Once her work had been interrupted, the blonde realized just how hot it was. She looked up into the May sky, blue as a robin’s egg. Snatching the doo-rag from her short hair, she wiped her face down with it, then beat the kerchief against her cargo-clad thigh and decided to head in for some iced tea.

The walk back to the house was a long one, but beautiful and peaceful. The soft whinnies and snorts of the horses could be heard, as well as the squawk of chickens in their pen. The dogs were out running, making those chickens squawk, but it was okay. Life over the past six days had been good.

Willow and her husband, Kevin, had taken some well deserved vacation time, trying to get to some of the repairs and improvements on the ranch they’d been wanting to do for a couple years, but had never seemed to find the time to do. It was Saturday, and she’d be going back to work Monday night.

"Hey, honey?" Kevin called, pulling Willow from her thoughts.

"Yeah?" she called back, stopping just shy of the square plot of grass that was their ‘backyard’ on the two hundred and sixty-five acres of land they owned. Kevin came out from the shade of the garage, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Have you seen the attachments to the air compressor?"

The blonde shook her head. "Nope. Did you look in your work bench?"

"Why would it be in there?" he rolled his eyes and headed back into the garage.

The blonde headed toward the house again. "Five, four, three, two,-"

"Here it is!"

She sighed, pushing the back door open, knowing damn well that he’d never admit to finding it in the Bermuda Triangle of Oklahoma known as his work bench. Heading over to the fridge, she pulled it open and surveyed the contents, looking for the jug of iced tea she had brewed the night before. Moving aside Kevin’s gallon of Gatorade, she spotted the green top of the pitcher.

Sighing with contentment, she pulled the jug free, and poured the dark gold liquid into a glass, drinking half of it down before she could even get to the freezer for ice. Breathing heavily as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she filled the glass once more, adding a few cubes of ice.

Kicking her hiking boots off, she padded around the cool Mexican tile of the kitchen with pleasure. She hated shoes and ditched them at every possible moment, hauling herself up onto one of their tall bar stools that sat before the breakfast bar. The paper had been tossed there earlier that morning, neither she nor Kevin having a chance to read it.

"He’s a cool old guy," her husband said, near bouncing into the house, tugging his Gatorade out of the fridge and drinking straight from the plastic jug.

"Yeah, he is," Willow said absently, shaking the pages of the Williamsburg Gazette. Kevin walked over to the bar, Gatorade in hand.

"Give me the sports, will ya, honey?" He sat next to her, seeing his wife glance at him, only to do a double take, a grin spreading across her lips. "What?"

Without a word, Willow reached up with her thumb, wiping the red smudge from Kevin’s upper lip. He looked away sheepishly.

"What can I say, I like my fruit punch Gatorade."

"Obviously. Here." Handing him his section of the paper, she went back to the leading stories of their small area of the world. She grazed the local stuff, not caring much about the local pig competitions or how large Meridath Graham had grown a squash this year, she made her way to national news.

A familiar picture catching her eye, she zoomed in on the short editorial.

Singer and song writer Christine Gray front woman of the group Twilight, who mysteriously dropped from public view last winter, has announced that the concert tour for her latest album, Swan Song, which was cancelled after she was hospitalized for fatigue and exhaustion last February, had been rescheduled.

Announced yesterday, "All those who had tickets to the cancelled performance, including those in Oklahoma City, will be valid to attend Miss Gray’s concert in their respective cities," said Gray’s rep, Mark Hutchins, who added that Christine is feeling great and in good spirits and is looking forward to seeing her fans.

Willow couldn’t keep the smile from her face, resting her chin on her palm. She had thought about the singer often, wondering what had happened to her, where she’d ended up. Obviously the news was no help, nor E! or Entertainment Tonight.

Robert Knowels had done his best to keep things under raps at the hospital, let alone the rest of the world, she figured, She couldn’t help but wonder how much that silence and privacy had cost Christine.

"Who’s’ that? She’s pretty," Kevin said, resting his chin on his wife’s shoulder.

"Christine Gray," Willow said absently, reading over the article again.

"Who?" His sandy brows drew in confusion.

"She’s not country, honey, you wouldn’t know her." The blonde grinned, gently patting her husband’s stubbled cheek.

"Hey, I’ll have you know I once shook the hand of George Jones!" he said, looking at her with narrowed brows. She loved it when he looked at her like that. In that moment she knew exactly what he had looked like as a young boy. Though she was filled with love, she wasn’t through torturing him just yet.

"Who?"

"God, what kind of country girl are you? You do your state shame, woman," he muttered, turning back to his sports page. She snickered, turning back to her own paper.

)))

Willow stepped out onto the wrap around porch of the light smoky blue two-story with the white trim. Something else she and Kevin had done during their working vacation. It had taken thirty years off the old farm house.

She smiled, closing her eyes as she inhaled the early morning air, hands wrapped firmly around her mug of mint tea. She loved the way two worlds were merging- the sounds of male crickets frantically rubbing their back legs together, desperate for a mate. Their song bearing witness to the night while the songs of the birds in the dozens of trees around the house birthed a new day as the sun peeked over the flat plains of Willow’s beloved Sooner state.

This was her time, a time of peace and tranquility where she could regroup and gather strength from the dawning of new life.

She was usually just getting home around that time, always getting her tea and watching the day reborn. Come Monday morning Kevin would just be getting up for work.

She looked out over the pastures, hearing the horses start to wake, snorting, their hooves stomping lightly on the ground. In the distance she saw the headlights of Macy Allen’s car as she delivered the morning paper to all the outlying farms and ranches; her own homestead was only about ten miles away. The blonde usually passed the small blue car on her way in.

Sipping from her mug, she made her way slowly down the stairs of the porch to the flagstone path that led to the edge of the landscaped part of their yard, and ended in the dirt road that led to the gates of their property.

She noted the colors that spread across the sky, pinks and oranges, stretching fingers through the clouds, with rays falling through the cracks, seeming to send a spotlight on the plains.

Memories began to flood Willow’s mind of an earlier time. Her grandfather had been born in the farmhouse in 1918, his parents adding another story to the once tiny, one-room house as their family began to grow. Eight children later, everyone began to disperse and find their own place in life.

Willow’s grandfather, Earnest, had stayed on, loving the land far too much to leave it. His brothers had gone off to fight in World War II, while he’d stayed on, not having to go as he was the sole son left to run the ranch. His father, aged and weathered by that time, was far too weak to run things.

Earnest Wahl had lost three of his four brothers in the war or from just plain stupidity, and one sister, Rose, who had gone over as a WASP. The remaining sister, Lucille had married and moved off to New Jersey, Earnest’s brother Carl had no interest in the life of a farmer/rancher, and made his west to explore the world of real estate, making his fortune in San Francisco.

Willow walked to the fence, which she needed to finish fixing today, pushing the waist-high gate open and headed across the dirt road to the mailbox on the other side, standing tall before the ditch filled with water for irrigation. Grabbing the paper from the yellow, plastic paper box mounted on the mailbox pole, she tucked it under her arm and headed back across the road.

Hours and hours and hours Willow had spent with her grandmother on this land. Myra Wahl, now that was an interesting woman.

Born in 1932, at the height of the Great Depression, she was the middle of six children, born to poor farm hands. Having no interest in the farm life, she ran away from home at the age of sixteen, running of with the strong man at a carnival that was coming through Rifle, Colorado.

By this time World War II was over, and the country was desperate to have their spirits raised as so many of their young men didn’t come home. The carnival was a great success, and Myra traveled all around the United States and Canada with Dale, she working as a weight guesser and dancer in one of the carnival’s many shows.

Tiring of the carnival life, Myra decided to find her own way and began hitching rides along Route 66, where a lonely driver named Earnest Wahl picked her up. That had been in 1951. They’d been together until the day Earnest had died, October 2, 2000. Myra and Earnest had only one child, a bouncing baby boy, who eventually became Willow’s father.

When Willow’s grandfather had died, Myra had decided the ranch was too much to take care of, and since her granddaughter had always loved the place so much, and her son had his own life and home, the ranch in its entirety, repairs and all, had been willed to Willow.

Willow’s father had inherited his mother’s wandering spirit of her youth. Throughout the duration of the blonde’s own youth, he had moved them from this house to the next, one town to the next, and even spreading across state lines. She had no real childhood home to speak of, never living anywhere longer than a few years.

Once Willow had figured it out, and was stunned to realize she’d attended nine schools and had lived in more than a dozen houses or apartments.

The ranch had become her stability, always something that she knew she could return to, and it would be in the same place, look the same, feel the same, be the same. Willow spent nearly all of her summers there, and when her parents lived close enough, her weekends, too. Once her grandmother had even called Willow’s own mother, Helen, to see if there was a problem at home because the girl waned to spend so much time at the ranch.

Helen had been hurt by the question, but the blonde hadn’t the heart to tell her mother that it was because she felt she had no security with her own parents, and so sought what she craved with her grandparents.

It had been even worse when Willow’s parents had divorced during her sophomore year of high school. She had felt lost and adrift. Once again the ranch had provided the emotional nourishment she had needed, even going so far as to consider moving in with her grandparents indefinitely. But by that time, Earnest was getting sick, and Myra had enough to deal with, so the blonde had stayed with her mother and Helen’s new boyfriend, Shawn, who eventually became Willow’s step-father.

Willow walked over to the pasture, the horses seeing her coming, and walked over to the wooden rail fence.

"Hey, guys," she murmured, reaching a hand out to pet waiting noses. "How’s my girl, huh?" The big, brown horse snorted, nuzzling her with a hairy nose, tickling Willow’s face. The blonde smiled, running her thumb over the bright, white marking that gave the horse her name. Star had three babies of her own now, all grown and making her a grandmother.

"Hey, you," Kevin’s soft voice said from behind the blonde. She leaned back into him, smiling as warm arms snaked around her to clasp under her breasts. "I missed you this morning," he said into her ear, kissing the tip.

"Mm, sorry," she sighed in contentment. "I need to get myself back into a routine. Staying up all night Monday night will not be so fun if I don’t."

"Hmm, true." Together they watched the horses, absorbing the warmth of the dawning day and of each other.

Kevin hated how often he awoke alone, even when his wife was off, but he understood her need for the alone time, so he did his best to not complain too often, though he had hoped they could have at least spent their last morning together in bed, before the real world of work encroached upon them. He decided to try.

"So I was thinking," he said, leaning down to nibble lightly at his wife’s neck. "This is our last day together," he moved up to her lobe, encouraged as she tilted her head a bit. "And maybe we could spend it in bed." Green eyes closed as Willow’s head tilted even more, feeling the soft lips and tongue spread to her jaw. A soft moan escaped the blonde as a large, warm hand cupped one of her breasts.

Kevin knew he had her. Her breasts were so sensitive, the nipple already pressing against his palm. The blonde turned in his arms, mouth finding his. Yeah, he had her.

)))

Christine set the silver tray with its empty dishes out into the hall, just outside her suite door.

Belching loudly, she put her hand to her stomach, feeling full and content. She walked over to the French doors, knowing she’d miss the view when she left. It was amazing how colorful and beautiful things were to her again. Through the haze of the past ten years, the world around her had started to lose its color, flavor and beauty. How had she allowed herself to become numb to the sounds of life? Weren’t they music of a sort?

Wrapping her arms around herself, she leaned against the open doors, not quite stepping out onto the balcony. She did one night, and nearly fainted. Looking down, it had reminded her entirely too much of a lost night in Oklahoma nearly four months ago.

It was almost time to go home, and the singer was glad of it. She wanted her own house, her own bed. Plus she missed Milly, which surprised her. The housekeeper had been with her for just over two years and had quickly become a cherished friend, as well as one hell of an employee. The older woman had no family in California to speak of, and her son was clear across the country in Nashville trying to become the next Kenny Chesney.

Christine shivered. Who one earth could listen to that country babble? The stuff gave her ulcers. How could anyone have that many problems in one song?

Glancing over her shoulder at the unexpected sound of a knock on the outer door, the singer pushed away from the door and headed back across the room, pulling the door open.

Blue eyes grew huge at the smiling face that waited on the other side.

"Adam!" Finding herself almost picked up in thin arms, Christine hugged her old friend for all she was worth, thrilled beyond words to see him there. Finally pushing him away, she held him at arms’ length, looking him up and down, finally resting on the face, skin slightly darker than her own, white teeth blinding in contrast, and hazel eyes twinkling.

"Hey, gorgeous," he said, deep voice resonating through her.

"My god, come in, come in." Ushering him inside, she closed the door behind him, turning to just look at him. His dark brown hair was long, pulled back into a ponytail, slicked back from his broad face. "What are you doing here?" She walked over to him, taking him into another hug, this one warm, soft and comforting to them both. He held her, chin resting on top of her dark head, breathing in his past.

"I heard you might need a friend. So here I am, friend."

"I’ve missed you, buddy," she whispered, head resting against his narrow chest. After a long, contented moment, Adam slowly pulled away, taking his friend by the hand and leading her to the couch. He looked around the opulent room as he did so, amazed and awed by where Christine had ended up.

"Robert Downey, Jr. really stayed here, huh?" He grinned big at his friend, who rolled her eyes, smacking him lightly in the stomach. All joking aside, intense hazel eyes looked into Christine’s. "What’s going on, Chris? Why are you here?"

Sighing, the singer looked away, ashamed to face him. "I almost did it, Adam," she finally said, her voice quiet and alone.

"How?" he asked, voice almost choking over the single word. Christine chuckled ruefully, really unable to look at him.

"I jumped off this old, rickety bridge into a river."

Adam closed his eyes, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, trying to keep his emotions at bay. He couldn’t keep the image out of his mind of a pale, bloated Christine from his tortured mind.

"Why didn’t you call me?" he whispered. "I would have been there in a heartbeat."

"I know." The singer turned to her friend now, seeing the pain on his face. She hated herself knowing she’d put it there. "I know," cupping his prominent jaw, she made him look at her, brows furrowed. "I lost control, Adam." She shook her head to emphasize her point. "I lost it."

"What were you on?" his voice was low and serious.

"Everything. Anything." She sighed, glancing at the hand that grabbed hers, holding it tight. "I was taking anything I could get my hands on, Adam. I totally fucked up, bud. I may have ruined my career."

"I heard about the concert in Oklahoma City," he said quietly. She met his gaze, hers filled with terror.

"How?"

"It was all over the news, in the papers. They said it was because you had worn yourself to exhaustion, but I knew something was wrong. I’m only sorry I couldn’t get here sooner."

Christine closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths, her stomach in knots. Now she wasn’t so sure she should have eaten as much as she had for breakfast.

"I’m just glad you’re here," she finally said.

"And don’t worry, Chris. There’s no way you could ruin your career. They love you. Don’t you know that?"

"I don’t know, Adam. I just don’t know anymore."

"How did you get out of the river?"

Christine grinned, feeling foolish. "A clown saved me."

"What?!" Her friend looked at her like she was crazy. "Jesus, you really were on some bad shit."

The singer laughed, letting it roll out of her throat with abandon. He grinned, confused.

"No, really. It was this woman, a nurse or something, who was dressed as a clown. Scared the shit out of me, too. I hate clowns."

"Oh man," Adam laughed. "Why was she dressed as a clown?"

Christine shrugged. "I have no idea. But I do know she saved my life. In a lot of ways," she blew out a breath.

Continued….

Part 3

"Hey, girl!" Rachel jogged across the parking lot to her friend, and one time college companion.

"Hey." Willow smiled, stopping her path to the building. Rachel grinned, out of breath from her short run. "What’s up?" The blonde nurse shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other, already in her scrubs for the night’s shift.

"Did you see that article in the newspaper?" Rachel asked, digging through her own large bag, bringing out Sunday’s paper, folded so that Christine Gray’s picture smiled up at the blonde. Willow nodded, but took the paper from her friend anyway. She wondered how long ago the picture had been taken, as the singer looking nothing like the black and white, grainy image.

"I’m so glad she’s doing better," she said quietly, glancing up at her friend, also nodding.

"I know. Did you tell Kevin about it?"

"No." Willow sighed. "I know he won’t say anything, but, I don’t know," she shrugged, a sheepish grin tugging at her lips. "He didn’t even really know who she was when I pointed it out to him yesterday. I think the specialness of it would be lost on him, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Did you tell Connor?"

"Yeah. And don’t worry, he won’t say anything, either." Rachel said, taking the paper back, stuffing it back into the bag. "Sometimes it still amazes me that she was here," the red head indicated the building they were both walking toward.

"I know." The blonde was silent for a moment. She and her friend hadn’t talked about it since it had happened, both afraid to. What if someone else heard them? Was it breaking the rules of the contracts they had signed? "It was so scary that night, Rache. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw someone plunge off the bridge."

"You’re brave, Wills. I don’t know that I would have jumped in after them."

"Sure you would have. You’re a nurse, it’s instinct."

"Not to risk my life, it isn’t." She smiled, Willow chuckling lightly. "I give total props to you, my friend. That was really an incredible thing."

"Thank you." Willow glanced shyly at her friend before smiling down at the asphalt of the parking lot they crossed.

"I’ll be so glad to get rid of these damn nights." Rachel sighed. "It’s just a good thing that Connor works from home and can work any ol’ crazy schedule. How is it working with you and Kevin?"

Willow shrugged, holding open the tinted glass door for her friend.

"Thanks," the redhead said.

"It’s okay, I guess. We manage. Don’t have much choice. To be honest, the hardest thing is taking care of the animals almost by myself."

"Kevin doesn’t help?"

"Hey, girls," doctor Kathryn Morrow said as they passed her in the hall.

"Hey, doc," the nurses said in unison, all three chuckling. Rachel pushed the button on the elevator that would take them to the floor where the nurse’s lounge was, with attached locker room.

"He does, but I’m the one there during the day. I mean, shoot, he doesn’t even get home until after dark half the time." Willow leaned back against the stainless steel walls of the large car, hands tucked behind her butt, palms against the cool steel.

"Well, if they’d hire someone else down at the lumber yard, I doubt he’d have to work so damn much."

"I agree." The blonde looked up at the lit dial above the doors, watching as their floor came nearer, the car jolting to a stop, then slid open.

"Hey, are we all still on to go see the new Star Wars movie this week? I hear it’s getting great reviews." Rachel pushed open the locker room door, her friend following close behind.

"Uh, I think so." Willow turned the dial on her lock, the numbers whizzing by until it clicked and the lock slid down, allowing her to remove it. Every time she released the lock she couldn’t help but think of high school, fumbling with the lock the first day of classes until you learned the unique intricacies of the new padlock.

"I can’t wait! And Connor! My God, you’d think the world had come to an end,"

As Rachel went on and on about the movie, blonde brows drew. She noticed something, and bent down to pick it up. At the bottom of her locker lay a white business-size envelope. It had been slipped in through the vents in the door.

"What’s that?" Rachel asked, noticing her friend’s preoccupation.

"I don’t know," Willow said absently, turning the envelope around in her fingers. Written across the front was her name and the hospital’s address. There was only a P.O. Box for a return address.

"Maybe it’s anthrax," Willow met grinning blue eyes. "I’m just kidding, Wills, jeez."

"Funny." Now curious, the nurse shook the envelope, holding it up to the light.

"Oh, jeez, come on. Just open the damn thing."

Slipping her finger under the flap, she ripped across, the paper slicing easily. Inside was a folded piece of paper, folded in thirds. Opening it, she saw it was a hand-written letter, something else sliding out of the folds of the paper. She caught it, realizing they were tickets. Eyes trailing back to the letter, she read:

Dear Miss Bowman,

I feel strange writing a letter, not having done it in a very long time. I can’t thank you enough for what you did, risking your life to save that of a complete stranger. I’ve never seen such heroics, and can’t believe people like you truly exist.

I wanted to say thank you. Because of you I have another shot, and that is something I don’t take likely, nor will I soon forget. Not in this lifetime, anyway.

Please accept the tickets enclosed. You and a guest are invited to my show in Oklahoma City, June 13. I hope to see you there and thank you in person.

Yours,

Christine Gray

Willow looked up at her friend, stunned, then looked back at the letter, quickly reading it again.

"What is it?" Rachel breathed, trying to read over her friend’s shoulder.

"It’s from Christine Gray," the blonde breathed, handing the letter to the other nurse, her hand trembling. Blue eyes read over the letter, eyes getting wider and wider with each passing line.

"Oh my god," she said, a smile spreading across full lips. "That’s incredible."

"Yeah," Willow swallowed, still unable to believe that Christine Gray had taken the time to write her a personal missive, as well as send concert tickets! As the blonde studied the tickets, she noted they were good for backstage entrance, too. Her eyes met those of the redhead. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"You’re going to a Twilight concert with me." Willow showed her the tickets, both women erupting into cheers and whoops. Jenny Marquis, self-proclaimed maintenance expert, walked in, eyeing the two like they were nuts. Quieting down, they quickly got their bags stowed, then hurried off to their respective floors.

)))

Willow leaned against the sink, blonde bangs falling into her eyes, the hairs sticking to the moist skin found under them. Taking several deep breathes, she pushed off the sink, looking up into the mirror above it.

She looked so worn down, bags under her eyes, which glowed green from the upset.

"Honey, are you okay?" Dr. Maureen Halston asked, hand on the nurse’s back. She looked on with concern at one of the most compassionate women she’d ever been blessed to know. She worried about her, worried that Willow would give far too much of herself to her patients, not leaving anything left for the woman herself.

Willow sniffled, running her hands through her hair, nodding.

"Yeah. I’ll be okay." She laughed nervously, feeling foolish. "You know, after all the years I’ve been doing this, you’d think I’d get used to losing them." She looked up at the doctor with pleading eyes. "Does it ever stop, Maureen?"

The twenty-year veteran sighed, shaking her head. "No, honey. You’re always affected by God’s special babies, but you learn how to deal with it. You have to, Willow."

"I know." She sniffled again, running the back of her hand across her nose. The doctor smiled, heading into a stall to grab a wad of toilet paper.

"Here, honey."

"Thanks," the blonde blew her nose, then sighed, trying to make her heart release just a bit of sorrow; just enough to get back to work. "I’ll be okay, Maureen, thank you." She smiled up at her friend.

"Okay. I best get back to it." With a quick one-armed hug, the older doctor was gone, leaving Willow with her thoughts.

The grounds of Mercy were impeccably kept, grass green, flower beds scattered in an array of colors and smells, tucked into brick planters.

Willow sat on the edge of one of those planters, arms wrapped around herself as she stared out into the hot summer afternoon. It may have been in the upper nineties on her skin, but inside it was the dead of winter.

It was almost three in the afternoon, and she’d been at Mercy for just over eighteen hours, and she felt the strain. She’d worked long shifts before, and she was usually able to push the fatigue away and turn that tress into determination.

But this time, …

Willow folded her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees, resting her chin upon them. She thought back to the events of the past day.

New tears fall as Willow could hear Ellen’s voice echo in her head- "No!" She knew in that moment that Melissa had lost her battle, and her young body was finally able to find peace.

Burying her face in her hands, the tears slipped between her fingers, making her shiver as the cool breeze caught the wetness, cooling her skin.

After awhile Ellen had found Willow and had clung to her, thanking the nurse over and over again for everything she’d done for Melissa and the family. Willow took her thanks, but felt she wasn’t deserving. No, she wasn’t a doctor nor a miracle worker, but felt she should have been able to do more, just a little extra.

She felt like she’d failed the girl, and it ate at her.

Sniffling several times, she swiped at her eyes and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, flipping it open and staring at the keypad. All she had to do was press the button with the number one on it, send, and she’d be connected to Kevin.

With a sigh, she flipped the phone shut, gently setting it on the planter beside her. She’d have to do like Maureen said and deal with it, find a way to let it go.

)))

Christine inhaled deeply, just the barest touch of a smile curling the corner of her lips. Eyes opening, she looked around. It was just as she’d left it before starting her tour- scattered sheets of blank pages feathered out on the wood floor, resting in the shadow of her beloved grand. Finished work was still resting on top of the piano, the lid down.

Walking over to it, she fingered some of the pages, her mind automatically conjuring up the music in her mind’s ear, following the notes with her eyes for a brief moment before memory finished the song.

Striding past the piano, she walked over to the bar at the far end of the large, spacious, nearly empty, room. The late morning sunlight filtered in, coloring everything bright and clean.

Stopping, she opened the cabinets next to the small bar fridge, surprised to see it empty.

"Milly," she murmured, a pleased smile quickly spreading. As the singer expected, the trashcan under one of the cabinets was filled with glass bottles of varying shapes and sizes. Christine knew if she bent over the small, stainless steel sink she’d smell the distinct odor of alcohol.

Walking back across the room, bare feet padding against the cool, oak boards, she seated herself in front of the keyboard of the Baldwin, lovingly lifting the lid, the black and whites coming into view. Reaching out a finger, she tapped middle C, listening to that one beautiful note resonating in the room, which stood two-stories tall, the entire outer wall glass and looking out into the Japanese gardens.

Closing her eyes, she sat straight, hands poised above the keys, and with blinding speed began to play, her fingers racing over the ivories, the music flowing like water, her ears drinking it in. She needed to feel the music.

Her body swayed with her emotions, rising and falling, cresting only to slam down again upon the rocky shores of melancholy. Though the music was sad, Christine couldn’t be happier.

)))

"Okay, here’s the plan," Bob clicked a button on the small remote that rested unseen in his hand. "We follow basically the same route as last time." A list of cities in various states all around the country popped up on the large, white screen. Another click and bullets appeared next to certain cities. "In these places you’ll be meeting with camera crews for pre-arranged conferences, which," he looked at Christine, eyes sharp, "you will continue with the story of fatigue and over doing it, got it?"

She nodded dumbly, eyes on the screen, mind in outer space. She tugged at her bottom lip with her fingers as she slowly propelled the chair back and forth, using her feet for leverage.

"Good deal." He clicked again and went through a quick slide show of the various venues she’d be playing at, including Coors Field in Denver. "The good thing about doing this now instead of February is that in Colorado you’ll be in the stadium as opposed to the Pepsi Center, where we were before. More seats, more people, bigger pay check."

"For who?" she muttered, eyes reaching the ceiling. Bob looked at her, clicker ready to do the voodoo it did far too well in Christine’s opinion.

Bob Knowels ignored the singer’s comments, moving on to the next slide. It showed Christine at an earlier show, hair wild around her face, makeup dark and smoky. She recognized the pants she wore- black leather, slung low on her hips, and black boots. Very similar to what she wore at every show. The top, however. That was new.

"What is this? I don’t own a top like that, nor have I worn one. Hell, it’s not a top, Bob, but a friggin’ bra!"

"I know," he grinned, obviously proud of himself. "I had Wayne play a bit with a picture of you during the Toronto tour, cut and paste with his computer, and voila!" He indicated the picture. "This is our new look."

"No way," Christine sat forward in her chair, hands clutching the edge of the conference table before her, ready to rise. "I am thirty-one years old, Bob, and the fifteen year old skanky look is out. You have me looking like a goddamn prostitute!"

"Old habits die hard, eh, Christine?" She looked at him, stunned and deeply wounded. Opening her mouth to say something, he quickly continued. "You need to do something to put you back on the map, Christine. You’ve been out of the game for six whole months! And you fucked up during a goddamn tour! We’ve got to get you back in the spotlight."

"And dressing me like a whore is the way to go?" she growled, nails digging into the wood.

"Careful, Christine," Bob warned, his own voice lowered.

She looked at him, hatred running through her veins, face like stone. Biting her tongue, she decided to change the subject.

"By the way, I’m doing much better. Thanks for asking."

"I know you are." He tossed the clicker across the smooth, wood table. "I’ve spoken with your doctors."

"And?"

"And what?" He rested his temple against his fist, hooded eyes studying his client.

"Forget it." She shoved out of the chair, heading toward the door to the conference room in Bob’s office building.

"Christine,"

The singer stopped, hand on the door. She glared at him over her shoulder.

"Why should I give you my pity or congratulations? You did it to yourself."

She stared him down, neither of their gazes wavering. He was pushing her more and more, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could take it. His threats were beginning to ware thin, her priorities shifting.

Without another word, Christine walked out, leaving the door open behind her. Bob called out after her.

"Fittings are set up for Wednesday!"

Christine slammed through the double glass doors of Bob’s offices, nearly running a passing woman over as she headed toward the elevator, hastily pulling her long hair into a ponytail and tugging the baseball cap on low. Mirrored sunglasses would follow once she hit the bright day outside, famed blue eyes hidden from view of fans and paparazzi.

She got about ten feet from the building when she heard the first rush of camera clicks.

"Fuck," she mumbled under her breath, not in the mood to deal with the photogs. Fans she could handle. After all, it was because of them she was allowed to do what she did and making a living from it. But the photogs, or hounds as she thought of them, were a whole different story. They sniffed around the city all day and night for a high-profile celebrity to snap unsolicited pictures of to sell later to high paying magazines, newspapers, collectors, and magazine shows.

She hurried her pace when she heard her name being called by a chorus of photog hopefuls.

"Christine! Over here! Look this way, Gray!"

This, of course, drew the attention of fans and autograph dealers. It still astounded her that an autograph dealer had made fifteen thousand bucks off a graph from her last year. The more elusive the celeb, the more their graph went for.

It made the singer sad, never knowing who wanted her autograph because they were truly a fan or if the were just trying to make a quick buck off her.

Up ahead she spotted a little girl, probably about eleven or twelve, standing in front of a shop window with an older version of herself. Dark brown eyes peered at her shyly from under black bangs, white teeth appearing as they clamped down on a lower lip.

Christine pushed her way through the growing crowd of photogs, grinning when she saw the girl talking excitedly to the woman at her side, pointing at the singer and basically looking as though she were about to bounce right out of her shoes.

The older woman glanced at the singer, her own dark eyes widening in shock, and nodding vigorously at the little girl who then took off at a dead run at Christine.

The girl stopped just shy of reaching her, suddenly turning very shy and uncertain. Finally brown was able to meet blue, and Christine smiled down at the girl, bending slightly so she was more on the short girl’s level.

"Hi." The singer said, all paparazzi stopping, clicking away at the exchange. The singer stood, annoyed, turning to the rude intruders. "Come on, guys. Give us a moment, huh? I promise to give you a few when I’m done, okay?"

"Cool! Thanks, Christine!" Jerry Mitchell, who the singer had seen tons of times, grinned at her.

Turning back to the star-struck girl, she smiled. The girl smiled back.

"Can I have your autograph?" the girl managed around the finger that had found its nervous way between her teeth. Christine smiled.

"Sure. What’s your name, hon?" The singer smiled up at the older woman who stood behind the girl, and handed Christine a deposit slip she’d torn from her check book and a pen.

"Juanita," the shy girl said.

"Juanita. That’s a very pretty name." The singer gave the girl her signature smile, beautiful white teeth, blinding. This made the girl even more shy, seeming to revert in age right before Christine’s eyes. She leaned back into the body of the woman behind her, a protective hand coming to rest on the girl’s shoulder.

Using her knee for a solid surface, Christine quickly scribbled out a message to the young Juanita, then handed the page to the girl.

"Here you go, hon."

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome. Oomph!" The singer was shocked when the girl basically launched herself at her, wrapping thin arms around her neck. Unable to hold back the grin, Christine hugged the girl, giving her a squeeze before letting her go. Standing, she shook the older woman’s hand, the older woman saying something to the girl in Spanish.

"Thank you again," Juanita said, both smiling at the singer, then heading back toward the store they’d been about to enter. Filled with a sense of pride that a sweet kid like that would want her autograph, and think she was something special. Yeah, it made all the paparazzi in the world worth it.

Turning, she put on her game face, ready to pose.

"Alright, boys. Who’s first?"

)))

"It’s not about finding a place to stay, Adam, or having money for a place. Man, this is my chance!" my voice is filled with passion, as are my eyes. Imagine, the guy giving me a chance to sing. Me!

The last of the bags are loaded into the belly of the black and silver bus, two identical ones idling behind it.

"Are we all good?" Stone Lee, road manager extraordinaire asks into the small cell phone/walkie talkie in his hand.

"All loaded and ready to roll," answers the tinny, disembodied voice.

"Okay. Let’s roll ‘em!" he calls out, waving his arm high in the air for the other drivers to see. All the buses go from idle to roaring to life as the large man climbs the stairs of the first bus. The doors closed behind him with the whoosh of air brakes being released, and they’re moving.

The early morning air is crisp, but there was already every indication that it would be a hot day in L.A.

Stone made himself comfortable on the couch toward the front of the bus, made to seat five, the television unwatched as he typed away on his laptop, making sure everything was still good to go for the first couple upcoming concerts. They’d hit all of California then move up through the north west then over and down, zig zagging their way across the country.

Christine was back in her private quarters on the bus, which took up the entire back half. She lay on the queen-sized bed, knees drawn up, bare toes tapping to the beat on the comforter as the music played through the headphones of her Discman.

She so preferred headphones to the larger speakers of a stereo. Somehow it brought it closer, made it more personal and intimate. Three Door Down sang to her, her fingers clasped over her stomach, eyes closed.

The singer was filled with a mixture of fear, anticipation and excitement like nothing else could bring her. She had been told that ticket sales were outstanding, most of the concerts sold out. But still, would her fans forgive her for abandoning them last winter?

Sighing, she threw those thoughts out of her mind, instead concentrating on the music. She had to get herself clear in the head for the performance that night. It would be the first concert she’d given sober in more than two years. Part of her was excited, actually able to be present for it, and not go through it in a numb haze. Oh, but what she wouldn’t do for a calming hit of weed.

This thought startled her, making her feel guilt course through her. Margaret had warned that could and probably would happen. "You can’t expect a habit of over a decade to just fade and go away over night," the counselor had warned.

That wasn’t good enough for Christine. She was stubborn and impatient, and wanted it to happen now. She had worked so hard to give up the want and need for the numbing medicine that drugs had become for her. Life was so much easier when you didn’t have to feel.

)))

"Check, check, check. Check one, check one, check one."

As the sound engineers and set builders did their thing, Christine met up with the boys for talks of how the show was to go that night.

The singer walked the large auditorium, able to hold twenty-thousand pulsing, cheering, screaming fans. She smiled at the thought, closing her eyes to imagine their voices, all mingling into one beast of excitement.

"Okay," she breathed, "maybe this won’t be so bad."

)))

"Why didn’t you tell me, Willow? Damn it, I’m your husband. I know how attached you were-"

"I’m fine, Kevin." The blonde looked at her husband’s reflection through the mirror, telling him with her eyes that she didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t take the bait.

"When did she die?" he persisted, sitting on the closed toilet seat, watching as his wife applied a touch of make up to the eyes that had first caught his attention six years ago. So intense in the way they looked at you, into you. It made lying hard.

Willow sighed, twisting the cap off of her mascara, looking back at herself, opening her eyes wide as she lined her lashes. "Two weeks ago."

"Two weeks," he did the math in his head, brows knit. He shook his head, not remembering any change in Willow’s demeanor. He sighed, picking at a stringy wedge of toilet paper that had been left after some of the tissue had been ripped from the roll.

He hated how much Willow kept to herself, wishing that she’d let him help her. He knew that the death of that girl with leukemia must have been devastating to her. She had been with the family since the kid got sick. That much Willow had told him.

"Do you trust me, Will?" he finally asked, watching as she brushed something across her cheeks and forehead. He didn’t understand all that makeup stuff, and since she didn’t wear it much, had no idea what was what. She stopped what she was doing and looked at him.

"Of course. What kind of question is that?" The nurse felt slightly hurt at such a question. Kevin shrugged.

"I don’t know. It doesn’t matter." He stood, kissing the back of her neck. "I hope you guys have fun at the concert. That was really nice of Rachel to get you guys tickets like that." He appraised the beautiful woman in the mirror, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Yeah, it was," Willow couldn’t meet his eyes. She felt guilty as hell lying to him about where the tickets came from, but if she told the truth, she’d have to tell him about that night in February.

"I’ll see you when you get home." One final kiss to her cheek, he left her alone in the bathroom.

Willow sighed, understanding why Kevin was hurt with her, but not knowing what to do about it. They had dinner with Rachel and Connor two nights ago, and Rachel had brought up Melissa’s passing. Kevin had been stunned, looking at his wife with expectant eyes. The blonde had expected a discussion that night when they’d gotten home, but instead he had waited until that morning.

"Honey?" Willow pulled her wallet out of the purse that sat on the kitchen table. Not hearing anything, the blonde looked over her shoulder, trying to spot her husband. She could hear the faint sound of the television, and headed into the living room.

Kevin sat on the couch, arm resting along the back. Willow leaned down, hugging him from behind.

"I’m sorry, honey," she said into his neck.

"It’s okay," he said quietly, turning his head to give her a solid kiss on the lips. "You two have a great time, okay?" Willow nodded.

"Okay." Hugging him tightly, she let him go, grabbing her keys from the table, tucking her wallet into the back pocket of her jeans, and headed out.

)))

"I have never seen so many women in all my life," Rachel muttered, leaning over to her friend who chuckled.

"I guess that’s what happens when you’re a lesbian icon." Willow muttered back, eyeing all the excited women around them.

"You’re kidding? What, is she like Melissa Etheridge or something?"

"Of the alternative music world, yes."

Rachel looked at the blonde, brows drawn. "How do you know?"

"I read about it," Willow whispered, smiling at the look of confusion on her friend’s face.

"Huh. Guess I didn’t know you were such a fan." Rachel whispered back. The lights began to lower.

"I’m not."

The lights were nearly completely dimmed now, the front of the auditorium, and blackened stage, filling with gray smoke. A pulsing beat could be heard, low, almost to quiet to be heard, but could certainly be felt. Willow’s bones pulsed with it.

"Mm, you feel that?" a smoky, almost deep voice riding on velvet, said, the voice sensuous as it spread throughout the auditorium. The audience started to go nuts.

Willow and Rachel looked at each other, matching grins spread across their faces. The excitement was palpable.

The beat was getting louder, blue lights slowly rising, pushing their way through the smoke, sparkling lights all around the stage, giving the effect of a night filled with fog, the coolness from the dry ice machines reaching the front row, where Willow and Rachel sat, making the effect that much more real.

"You feel it. Like a heart beat," followed by a long sigh.

"She’s got a really sexy voice," Rachel whispered, Willow nodding in agreement, eyes searching the stage. "I wish I sounded like that when I talked dirty." Dark figures began to be outlined as more lights rose. Members of the band, a low guitar beginning to join in with the beat.

"Feel it, want it, taste it," the last whispered, as if said in the throes of passion. The audience was on its feet now, eyes desperately scanning for just one glance of Christine Gray.

Willow gasped as a small burst of light illuminated the drummer from below, casting his features in freakish shadows, his sticks in continuous motion.

"That’s right. Let’s get a little light on the subject," was breathed over the audience. The blonde was surprised to feel a little shiver down her spine, her excitement building with everyone else’s.

Another burst of light and the guitarist was revealed, followed by the bassist and keyboards, all in swift succession. A ring of smoky figures around the outer edges of the stage, the center in impenetrable darkness.

The drum beat was at a feverish pitch now, resonating in the bones of the excited, anxious fans, nearly out of their minds with anticipation.

Suddenly all music stopped, a heavy silence filling the large space, and everyone in it. Willow was almost holding her breath, hearing her own heartbeat fill her ears.

A sensuous sigh, then blinding light, thousands of pairs of eyes squinting at the burst, then cheering like mad once their vision cleared, Christine standing center stage, head arched back, eyes closed, the silver light above her shining down like the very touch of God.

A heartbeat passed, the cheers at a deafening pitch, then the music began in earnest. A blast of fire and smoke, and Christine Gray was visible in all her glory, the light full-on, blue eyes gazing out upon her sea of fans, microphone held to her mouth as she began to sing.

Willow, caught up in the rush of adrenaline, was on her feet with twenty thousand other people, dancing in the aisles. The front row was close enough to the stage that they could take a few steps and touch the apron.

Christine felt her own blood