“Sunny,” Joe says. He sits up straighter. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Bobby has done a fantastic job, don’t you think? Fantastic! Though he could stand to put some healthier items on the menu. Had to have the chef make me something special.” He lifts his green glass. He smiles at me. His teeth look as bleached white as teeth could possibly get. “So this is the elusive Daphne. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your beautiful daughter?”
“Oh yes,” Joe says, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Daphne, this is Mr. Sunny. My manager.”
“Oh.” One of the few things I do know about Joe’s career is that he’s been with the same manager for almost eighteen years. Kind of unheard of in the business, these days. Which is weird, because even though Joe has a polite smile on his face, the tone coming off him makes it clear that he’s less than happy to see his manager at the moment.
I take the hand that Mr. Sunny offers. He clasps his fingers around mine as we shake. His skin is as cold as ice. Or I guess as cold as the smoothie he’s been holding.
“We were just discussing some plans for the summer,” Joe says. “Wouldn’t it be nice to take Daphne on tour?”
Mr. Sunny’s enthusiastic grin falters at the edges. I’m guessing that traveling with your teenage daughter doesn’t do the best thing for your image when you’re a rock star trying not to seem middle-aged to the younger generation.
“You haven’t forgotten about your obligations this spring, have you?” Mr. Sunny says.
Joe shakes his head.
“Speaking of which, Bobby says you’ve missed your last two sessions at the recording studio.”
Ah, the reason Joe isn’t happy to see Mr. Sunny. He’s been slacking.
“I’ve been busy working on the musical for Daphne’s school.”
“Oh, that explains it,” Mr. Sunny says merrily, but the sound coming off him is anything but. “Joe, may I have a word with you in private?”
“Of course.” Joe pats my hand as he stands. “I’ll only be a minute, Daph.”
“You are letting yourself get distracted,” Mr. Sunny says to Joe as I watch the two walk away. A mixture of very unhappy sounds is coming off both of them. I imagine Joe is about to get a berating for neglecting his “God of Rock” duties.
“So, you do exist,” a man says as he scoots into the booth next to me.
I blink at him until recognition clicks. I’ve seen him on TV countless times with Joe. Bobby Rox, Joe’s drummer.
“I did the last time I checked,” I say.
Bobby laughs. He’s pink-faced, and I can tell he’s on the verge of being drunk.
“Tell you what. We thought the old monk had made you up so we’d stop teasing him about being a eunuch!” he says with a chuckle.
“Did you just call my father a eunuch? Because I’m going to need a Brillo pad for my brain to get rid of that mental image.”
Bobby laughs so loud that the people at the adjacent tables stare. “We just like to tease the old boy. I’m sure he’s got all the right equipment. The guy’s as celibate as a monk. In all our years, with all those groupies and reporters and supermodels, he’s never once … you know.”
“Again with the mental images …” I point at myself. “Daughter, remember?”
Although a slightly disturbing topic of conversation, this bit of information surprises me about Joe. He’s never struck me as the religious type, nor the self-disciplined type, either. My mom had never said whether she and Joe had ever technically gotten divorced. Was it possible he is just that faithful?
I shake my head. They’d seen each other only five times in the last seventeen years. That certainly didn’t count as a marriage. There had to be another reason for Joe’s discretion.…
“The old boy probably wouldn’t drink so much if he let himself get laid once in a while!” Bobby goes on guffawing, and I’m glad when a familiar face approaches the table.
“Marta, you’re here, too?” I ask.
“I was nearby,” she says. “Joe sends his apologies. He needs to attend to some business with Mr. Fitzgerald. I’ve been asked to escort you home.”
Normally, I might feel slighted by Joe, but I don’t argue with this change in plans. It’s nearly one thirty in the morning and I can feel the fatigue pulling at my bones. I’ve already scheduled a Skype-chat breakfast with my mom, followed by three hours of self-imposed singing practice in the morning, and then I’m supposed to meet with Tobin for lunch so I can tell him everything I’ve learned about Haden and the Lord family. It’s still not a lot, but I know he’ll be revving for an update.
I follow Marta sleepily to her Audi. It’s a long drive back to Olympus Hills and I’m not sure I’ll stay awake. “Who’s Mr. Fitzgerald?” I ask with a yawn as I get into the passenger seat. “I thought Joe was with Mr. Sunny.”
“Oh yes. Only Joe calls his manager Mr. Sunny—because of his ‘sunny disposition.’ He’s Mr. Fitzgerald to the rest of us.”
chapter forty-one
HADEN