Chapter 34

Phyllis stood before her walk-in closet, eyeing her options with distaste. When the hell had she gone so… establishment? Tailored suits and blouses, casual t-shirts and jeans… and very little in-between. More to the point, very little that she wanted Rory to see her in when they went out tomorrow. It had made sense at the time: she'd given up the rebellious bad-girl rocker act, she'd been raising a toddler, and she'd wanted to dress in a style that wouldn't make her stand out for all the wrong reasons at the office or at Hana May's nursery school. She still dressed fashionably, but she'd ditched the low-cut leopard-print junk to act—what she'd told herself was—her age. Tonight, though, she wanted something more… fun.

She hesitated only a moment before dialing a number. "Hey, Stormer. You doing anything this afternoon?" She smiled. "Feel like going shopping? I could use a few things." Stormer would never outright say if the outfit she picked was awful, but Phyllis had known her long enough to pick up her friend's obvious tells. If Stormer told her that it was stunning immediately, then it was. But Stormer was an awful liar, and if she stammered, if her smile seemed forced, if she hemmed and hawed, Phyllis considered herself expert enough to gauge from those reactions just how much of a fashion faux pas it would be. And while, even now, the two of them had very different styles, Phyllis knew that she could trust Stormer to distinguish between, 'Not something I would wear' and 'Not something anyone in their right mind would wear.' Phyllis was shooting for something in-between, but closer to the former.

For now, though, it was Marisol's day off. She threw on some items from the casual side of her wardrobe and headed into the kitchen to start breakfast before Hana May woke up.

Roxy hadn't had a drink in two days and YMCA hostels didn't have room service. She glanced at her watch. Forty-nine hours, seventeen mi—What the hell was wrong with her? Did she miss drinking so much that she had to keep track of exactly how long it had been since…? Yeah. Yeah, she did. And she wanted the stuff so bad it hurt, but her life was in the toilet and if she'd gotten anything out of that meeting, it had been the realization that drinking might help her forget the crap she was dealing with for a little while, but it wouldn't fix it.

"What if forgetting's good enough?" she asked herself aloud. Actually, forgetting sounded pretty damned good. Forget running out on Hana May. Forget the mess with that Baxter chick who'd stolen her place. Forget the court date and the threat of prison and the way Minx had sneered down her nose at her. Forget that she was a washed-up has-been at twenty-nine, who'd probably been blacklisted in Vegas after skipping out on her last gig without a word. Forget that she'd turned her back on a benefit concert that might have led to a comeback. Yeah, forgetting really did sound pretty damned good.

She looked at her watch again. It was nearly eleven. The closest bar opened at three. She could hold out until then. At least, she thought she could.

She grabbed her jacket. Maybe she could get a six-pack to tide her over until then.

"Hey," Casey said softly. Emma looked up. She'd been sitting on the wide window sill, her knees to her chest, looking out at the grounds of the Starlight mansion. She forced herself to smile. "Hey."

"You okay?"

Emma shrugged. "Sure. I guess. I mean, it hurts knowing that she was just stringing me along, but I'll get over it."

Casey sighed. Then, she grabbed a chair and pulled it closer. "Why do people do stuff like that anyway?" she asked.

"Beats me," Emma muttered. "It's not like I ever did anything to her; if I had, I'd understand it. Well, maybe." Her voice broke a bit on the last word, and she swiped angrily at her eye. "I'm fine!" she snapped, when Casey put a hand on her shoulder. Then she shook her head and tried to smile. "Seriously. I'm okay. I just… want to be here for a little, all right?"

"Sure," Casey said.

Emma turned back to the window. She heard a scrape as the chair moved away. When she looked around a few minutes later, she saw that Casey was sitting some distance away, her nose pointed down in a book. Emma allowed herself the slightest of smiles. She had real friends here, the kind who were there if you needed them, but who were okay if you needed time for yourself, too and didn't think you were stuck-up, just because you felt like being alone. When she returned her gaze to the window a moment later, she felt some of the tension go out of her shoulders and she closed her eyes and exhaled. Sometimes, she thought, you can have a day when some terrible stuff happens and still call it a good day. Sometimes.

Jerrica frowned thoughtfully, considering Joellen's request. "I have to agree with you," she said. "Since Emma's started writing songs, she's really started coming out of her shell. And I know that she and the girls were disappointed when I had to tell them they couldn't play the benefit, but they're still showing the discipline to keep practicing." She smiled. "All right. I'll check when the recording studio at Starlight Records is available. Aja knows the equipment better than anyone else; we need to factor that in, too. But if we can find a time when the studio is free, Aja's around to keep an eye on the equipment, and you're able to keep an eye on the girls…"

Joellen grinned. "They can rehearse at the record company?"

"They can rehearse at the record company." She hesitated. "But don't tell them anything until you and Aja have the logistics worked out."

Joellen nodded, still beaming. "All right!"

"So, that's why you never went goo-goo eyes over Rory or Rio," Phyllis said, smiling just a bit, as she sat in Stormer's Saab in the parking lot of one of LA's better shopping malls.

Stormer smiled back weakly from the driver's seat. "I thought it'd be better if you heard it from me, in case Roxy told you first."

"Yeah, I get it," Phyllis nodded. "And while I'd be lying if I said I suspected it all along, I'd also be lying if I said I was shocked."

"And it's okay?" Stormer asked, and Phyllis snorted.

"With me? Sure. I've met enough folks in the music industry to figure out that I'm more interested in whether they can carry a melody and show up on time to rehearsals than who they're sleeping with." Her face turned serious. "I've met teens in foster care that ended up in the system because their parents didn't want them around once they came out, too. Kids whose parents sent them for what they call conversion therapy," she added, "and blamed them when it didn't work."

Stormer winced. "My folks still don't know," she admitted. "Or maybe they figure if they ask me no questions, I'll tell them no lies."

"I can believe that," Phyllis nodded.

"I'm lucky Craig's always been there for me. And now, well, Kimber of course. And Aja and Jerrica. And…" She met Phyllis's eyes with an expression that was equal parts hopeful and apprehensive.

"You know I am, kid," Phyllis said. "And if I don't hug you, it's just because I've never been big on touchy-feely stuff, and with the benefit coming up, I'm trying to let my inner mean girl out to play again. Don't worry," she added. "Between my day job and Hana May, I can't afford to let her get up to the sort of tricks she used to, but the fans are expecting her, so…"

"Hey, you don't have to tell me about being in the closet," Stormer chuckled, and Phyllis laughed. "I'm not really out, not yet," she added. "And yeah, I know that the more people we tell, the sooner the word's probably going to get out, but for now, Kimber and I are sort of… keeping it to people we think we can trust."

Phyllis nodded. "In that case, I'm glad you think I'm one of them."

"Ready to hit the mall?" Stormer asked, hitting the button to unlock her car doors.

Phyllis unfastened her seatbelt. "No time like the present," she said, glad for the change to a less-charged topic of conversation. "No time like the present."

It was half-past two and Roxy couldn't wait any longer. She grabbed her purse, making sure that her credit card was in her wallet. She frowned, trying to remember how much balance she had left available. She'd used to be good with numbers, even when she hadn't been able to tell one letter from the other. At least, she'd been able to add up the figures, though she'd trusted Eric and Stormer to explain the various taxes, fees, and surcharges. She might not have known her earnings to the penny, but she'd never had to worry about rent or groceries. Now, she wasn't sure if she had enough for a beer.

She sighed. "If I don't, here's hoping the Calabria Lounge won't expect me to pay up until I'm ready to go." They wouldn't be able to get the drinks back from her by then. And maybe someone would recognize her and offer to buy her a drink anyway.

If not, she'd have to look at other options: dine-n-dash, get rowdy and hope to get thrown out, pretend to pass out and then act as though someone had stolen her wallet while she'd been sleeping…

Did they still make you wash dishes if you couldn't pay?

Maybe the card would go through. Otherwise, she might just find out the answer to that question.

Roxy was making her way down the street and wishing she'd taken her car. She knew it was better that she hadn't, not where she was heading. She was facing a court date in the not-so-distant future. She had to make sure she didn't have any more run-ins with the law until after that happened, and considering that she was planning to drink until she forgot how badly she'd mucked up her life so far, she sure as hell wasn't going to want to be driving when she was done. Or maybe she would want to be driving, she thought darkly, and so now, while she was still sober enough to think about consequences, she was making sure she wouldn't have the opportunity.

She wasn't paying attention to her surroundings, and her foot came down hard on someone else's. Startled, she stepped backwards, came down wrong, and went sprawling. "Shit!"

"Are you all right?" a man's voice asked quickly, and Roxy found herself looking into a pair of intense blue eyes, as a firm hand reached out to help her up.

"I'm fine!" Roxy snapped. "Next time, watch where you're going!"

"I think I saw you at the Y last night," the man said, taking hold of her arm with his other hand and gently pulling her upright. "I'm—"

"—Devon Silverstone, yeah, I know." Roxy said pulling free as soon as she was standing.

"And you're…"

"Don't act like you don't recognize me!"

A puzzled look came to Devon's face. "I-I'm sorry," he said. "I'm afraid I don't."

All at once, Roxy remembered. The hatchet-and-dye job she'd done on her hair. Maybe Minx hadn't recognized her, after all. "Roxy," she muttered. "We met on Magic Island, a few years back, for that TV special."

Devon's eyes widened and damn if that didn't make them look even more arresting. "Roxy, of course!" He shook his head ruefully. "If you'd prefer, I can make myself disappear, but if you'll let me, I'd like to buy you a cup of coffee to make up for, well, all of this."

"Coffee?" Roxy repeated.

Devon sighed. "Look," he said, lowering his voice, "honestly? I've burned a number of bridges over the past few years. That wasn't my first meeting last night. I went through some bad times, but I've been doing better for six months, now. Well enough to tell my agent I'm ready to go back to work. Unfortunately, Hollywood has either forgotten about me… or they remember me for all the wrong reasons. I just got off the phone with my agent. I was hoping he'd have some good news for me, but he didn't. And right now, I'm about this close," he held his thumb and index finger up about a half-inch apart, "to chucking six months of sobriety and hitting the first pub I can find. That's not your problem, I know," he added, "and I'm not asking you to play therapist, but maybe just… coffee and talking would be enough to hold me until tonight."

"Tonight?" Roxy echoed, wondering when she'd turned into a parrot.

"There's another meeting at… Sorry, I'm blanking on the name of the church, but it's about six blocks from here and it's got a blue door. I'm sorry. If it was later in the day, or if it was the weekend, I'd call my sponsor, but he's working now. I have a few other people I can call, but if they're busy, I…" He hesitated. "I don't think I can deal with much more rejection today. And now, I'm putting you on the spot," he added apologetically. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm not trying to guilt you into anything."

Roxy hesitated. "Well, it's not like I've got anything better to do," she muttered. "Yeah, sure. Let's get that coffee. And, uh, Devon? My life isn't exactly Grammys and platinum albums right now, yannow? Not sure talking to me's gonna help anything, but, well, I… guess I sort of know where you're coming from." She paused for a beat. "Actually, I… was going for something a little stronger than coffee, myself, so if you're looking for someone to talk you out of a good time, I'm probably not the right person."

Devon absorbed that. Then he smiled. "Well, maybe we can talk each other out of one. And if you want to hang out until that meeting starts, if you feel up to joining me… No pressure," he added and Roxy laughed.

"That better not be your idea of a date, because more coffee and stale donuts sure as hell isn't mine."

"Ah, but that's one of the selling points for this locale," Devon beamed. "The donuts will be fresh. But that's not till later," he added, when Roxy chuckled again. "Meanwhile, I do know a place with better coffee than they'll be serving tonight. If you'll allow me…"

Several hours later, Roxy made her way back to her hotel room. She was tense and jittery; a gallon or so of strong coffee would do that to a person. She'd also probably polished off a box of doughnuts on her own. (Devon had been wrong: they'd been at least a day old, but she was a sucker for Boston creams and you didn't have to make small talk if you were stuffing your face.)

She was, however, stone-cold sober.

Yay, me, she thought, tugging off her boots. She was too caffeinated to hope to sleep tonight. She definitely wasn't used to this much sugar in her system, and Devon was a nice guy, but nice guys were so not her type. At least, when she was drunk, she didn't feel this lousy.

That came when the drink wore off, she reminded herself. Until it did, though, she felt like she was on top of the world. Right now, she just felt hyper and tightly wound.

It wasn't too late. She could still find a bar and kick back. She was tempted. She sort of wished this dive had a bar fridge, or that she could order a beer through room service. This place didn't have room service. There was a convenience store in the lobby, but they just sold sodas and snacks and they were closed now.

How badly did she want that drink?

She looked at the five-inch stiletto-heeled boots she'd just shed and rubbed her ankles. There was no way she was getting back into those things. She looked around for her track shoes and, when she didn't see them, sank back down on her bed. She didn't really want to go out again at this hour. This place wasn't in the safest part of town, and it was only going to get more dangerous as the night wore on. She sighed. "Fine," she said aloud to nobody. "I'll stay in tonight. Happy?"

She'd probably have that drink tomorrow, but tonight, she was going to check what was on TV, and take a long hot shower. Maybe, by the time she was out, her caffeine high would wear off and she could get some sleep. And by the time she woke up, maybe that bar she'd been planning to visit would be opening for business.

"You look pretty," Hana May said at breakfast the next morning.

Phyllis smiled softly. "Thanks, kid. Cheerios?"

Hana May considered. "Rice Krispies," she replied.

Phyllis waited, and when Hana May repeated her request, she locked eyes on the four-year-old. "Rice Krispies, what?" she prompted.

"Rice Krispies, pl—." A crafty look came onto the child's face. "Frosted Flakes, please."

Phyllis laughed. "You know I don't buy that junk."

"Would you buy some, please?"

"Nope."

"But Tony the Tiger says they're grrrrrrrreat!"

Phyllis chuckled. "Yeah, well if someone paid you a few bucks to say something was great, bet you'd say it, too."

"Only if it was great," Hana May said. "Or it'd be lying." She frowned. "Tony the Tiger doesn't lie, does he?"

Phyllis sighed. "No, but just because he thinks they're great doesn't make him right." She wasn't yet ready to explain to Hana May that a cartoon mascot was a drawing with a voice actor behind it. The kid was still too young to be disillusioned. "They taste good, but all that sugar will rot your teeth. You want to start kindergarten toothless?"

Hana May shook her head.

"Cheerios or Rice Krispies."

"Rice Krispies, please."

"Comin' right up." She poured some into a bowl and added some sliced strawberries before pouring in the milk. "Eat up, kid. You've got a big day ahead of you."

Hana Mae nodded happily. "I'm gonna see Barney and play in tar!"

Marisol laughed. "I don't think Barney's going to be at the La Brea tar pits," she exclaimed. "But maybe some of his relatives will be…"

"Really?"

Phyllis hid a smile.

Rory's face lit up as Phyllis sat down. "You're looking well, Pizzazz," he said. And then, almost at once, consternation creased his face. "I'm sorry. I should have gotten the chair for you."

Phyllis made a scoffing sound. "You were already sitting, and I can get my own chairs."

"It would've been gentlemanly."

Phyllis tilted her head. "You just call me a lady?" she demanded, smirking an instant later to let him know that she was only feigning offense. He laughed.

"Perish the thought." He smiled again. "It's good to see you again."

"Yeah, it's been three whole days."

Rory laughed, but he sobered at once. "I hope you believe me when I tell you I had no idea about Hana May. Roxy never said a word. If there's anything she needs—"

Phyllis cut him off with an upraised palm. "She's fine. Look, I get that you want to get to know her, and if she's okay with that, so am I. But she has everything she needs." She leaned forward, her gaze intense. "It may not be everything she'd like, but it's good for her not to have everything she wants." She took a breath. "If you want into her life, I need you to be clear on that. Don't buy out a toy store or show up with a custom wardrobe or whisk her off to Europe for some daddy-daughter bonding time. Take her for ice cream, sure. Get her a teddy bear or a Barbie, no problem; hang onto the gift receipt in case she's already got one. But don't play Santa and show up once a year with a big bag of goodies. Be a dad and be there when it counts."

Rory blinked. "Whoa. Where's this coming from?"

Phyllis didn't back down. "From a former spoiled brat who got everything her heart desired from her dad except time and attention. Instead he threw presents at me. For the longest time," she continued, "I thought it was because he wanted to shut me up. Now, I think he just… didn't know how to be a single dad with a small kid. I don't want Hana May to turn out like I used to be and I don't want you to make my dad's mistakes. We clear?"

Rory nodded. "Very much so. And I do understand. My own father… I certainly don't come from old money. Or new money," he added. "I'm from a military family; I'm not sure if you were aware. But that's not important. I do know what it's like to want a relationship and get…" He winced. "Well, in my case, it wasn't gifts and cash." He shook his head. "My love of music… He saw it as some kind of failing. I spent most of my childhood and adolescence trying to mold myself into his picture of the ideal son without giving up the things that made me feel the most like… me."

"Your music?" Phyllis asked, shocked.

Rory nodded. "He came around. Eventually. But it took years of radio silence and my mother collapsing from the stress of seeing the two of us at each other's throats the one time I went back to try to talk to him before we could reconcile."

Phyllis winced. "I'm sorry." Things had never been as bad between herself and her father that they'd had to reconcile, but she found herself wishing once more that she'd had the opportunity to have a real conversation with her dad before he'd passed.

"Don't be," Rory said, with a bit of his old, easy charm. "We're in a better place now."

"Lucky you."

Rory's eyes widened, when he realized that something had hardened in Phyllis's expression. "Did I… say something?"

Phyllis sighed. "Don't worry about it."

At that moment, a waiter came over to ask if they were ready to order and they told him they needed more time and quickly picked up the menus they'd been ignoring until now.

Wendy sat on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. Emma might forgive her in time, but how much time would Pan allow her? There was no way to be certain. Days on Neverland were as long or as short as their ruler willed, and when he was caught up in some game or adventure, he tended to lose sight of everything else. She might have weeks, or even months. She might have hours.

She had to behave as though Pan might yank her leash at any moment. She didn't have the luxury of time. She had to ensure that Emma would lose the home and security she'd so recently acquired. And if she couldn't coax Emma into breaking too many house rules, and she couldn't turn the other girls against her, what else was there?

She lifted her head, thought about Michael, and felt steely resolve settle over her like a smooth cloak. "I suppose I must contrive to create a situation where something dreadful happens and Emma gets the blame for it," she said aloud. It wouldn't matter that Emma couldn't be tempted into breaking rules—or worse—if everyone around her could be made to think she had!

Phyllis came home in a good mood. Hana May and Marisol hadn't returned from La Brea yet, so she sank down into an armchair with a sigh. It was good to have a few minutes to herself. It never lasted. Sure enough, the phone rang less than five minutes later. She debated letting it ring through to voice mail, but picked up on the third ring. What if something had happened to Hana May? "Hello?" After a moment she snorted. "Should've known it'd be you, Jerrica. Can't wait to hear how it went with Rory, huh?"

"Actually," Jerrica said, "I was calling about something else. I've had a call from our legal team about Kerry O'Flaherty."

Phyllis frowned at the unfamiliar name for a moment. Then she remembered. "Jetta's husband. Right, she told me he was having some issues with his visa."

"Which we were trying to unravel," Jerrica confirmed.

"From the tone of your voice, I get the sense that it's not good news."

"Afraid not," Jerrica said. "I didn't want to tell you until we knew for sure. Our legal team thought it was maybe some other Kerry O'Flaherty and the records got confused or combined or…"

"Okay," Phyllis said. "How about you cut the crap and just say it?"

Jerrica sighed. "You're right." She took another breath. "Nine years ago, Kerry O'Flaherty was arrested in Belfast. He was accused of being involved with the IRA, found guilty, and sentenced to four years in prison."

"What? Nine years ago… he must've been a kid!"

"He was fifteen," Jerrica confirmed. "But because of that record, the State Department won't grant him a visa. I'm sorry, Phyllis."

"That is so... I mean, I get it, but… fifteen?"

"I know," Jerrica said. "So. Which one of us gets to break it to Jetta?"