Jane (37 page)

“Exactly.” I gave this latest idea a moment to sink in and took a deep breath to summon my courage. “And there’s one more thing I’ve been thinking.” I looked off at the distant, sparkling water,
unable to meet his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s about time you got married?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m the marrying kind.”

He
was
teasing me, wasn’t he? Well, I deserved it after the hard time I’d given him about River. I dared a glance at him. There was that sly look I hadn’t seen in so long.

“I think you’re
exactly
the marrying kind… provided you choose the right bride.”

Now he was grinning. “I could marry Bianca Ingram. Or if she won’t have me, maybe a supermodel.”

I made my voice casual. “I think you’d be much better off marrying
me
.”

“Miss Moore, are you proposing to me?” He affected a shocked tone.

“Yes, Mr. Rathburn, and you’d better answer fast or I’ll rescind my offer.”

“Don’t do that.” His grip on my hand tightened. “Yes, Jane. My answer is yes.”

Then he was in my arms, kissing me, his hand in my hair, the length of his body warm against mine, the sauce forgotten on the stove.

After a minute or two, he pulled away from me. “One last question. What finally brought you back to me? No, let me guess. You heard about the accident. Or you heard about Bibi’s death and realized I was free. Or you heard the song I wrote for you, and it did what I hoped it would do — lure you back.”

“All of those,” I said, “and more. Something just snapped. I realized what an idiot I’d been, running away from the one person
I value more than anyone else in the whole world.” I kissed him again. “That would be you… Mr. Rathburn.”

“Miss Moore,” he said fondly.

I tugged his hand, leading him to the staircase, then back up to the roof garden, where we sat out long after dinner, making plans. Side by side in our lounge chairs, we allowed our imaginations to run free, musing about the albums he would record, the tours he would take me on, the galleries I would show my art in, the fund-raisers he would play for the soup kitchens and shelters of New Haven, the little brother or sister we would someday give Maddy. Below us, streetlights flickered, and I thought of the strange turns my life had taken. How shy Jane Moore from the Philly suburbs never would have imagined herself atop a Tribeca penthouse, holding the hand of her rock-star fiancé, preparing to walk with him into the blinding flashbulbs of a curious world. The very idea would have terrified me once, but now I felt ready.

“You’re quiet.” Nico squeezed my hand.

“Just catching my breath,” I said. “I can’t believe how far I’ve come.”

“How far
we’ve
come. This has been a wild trip for me too.” He got to his feet and pulled me up with him. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.” I followed him over to the edge of the roof garden, where only a waist-high wall stood between us and a fifteen-story drop. “I love this view. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished you were with me so I could show it to you.”

I leaned out over the wall to see what he was pointing to, but a wave of vertigo stole my breath. “I can’t look down,” I told him, pulling back.

He gathered me to his chest. “Here. Hang on. I promise you won’t fall.”

Clutching Nico’s shoulders for support, I let myself enjoy the view: the sharp blue of twilight, the velvety river, the pulsing red and white lights of cars headed uptown — and the intoxicating feeling that together we were poised on the brink of something immense. When Nico bent to kiss me, I shut my eyes, absorbing all that was familiar about him — his taste, the softness of his lips, his arms holding me steady — and I could tell he was doing the same, drinking me in, committing my kiss to memory, as we found our way home to each other in the gathering dark.

First and foremost, thanks to my agent, Amy Williams, who performed magic on my behalf, and to my editor, Julie Scheina, and the rest of the Poppy team, whose enthusiasm and expertise have been nothing short of amazing. Thanks for believing in
Jane
and in me.

I’m more grateful than I can say for the help of friends who read this story in earlier versions and provided crucial feedback. Big thanks to Tenaya Darlington, whose careful reading of an early draft helped shape the story, and whose generosity helped
Jane
find a home. Rich Fusco’s thorough and expert reading was invaluable, and his support over the years has been a real blessing. Thanks to Jo Alyson Parker, for her insight at a critical juncture. Also thanks to Melissa Goldthwaite, who provided much-needed
encouragement at an early stage of the writing process, and who has always been a thoughtful and trusted reader.

Jane
was eased into being by the calm support and selflessness of my husband, Andre St. Amant, who helped me come up with the idea in the first place, who sent me off to countless coffee shops and rock concerts, and who never made me feel like the crazy overgrown teenybopper that I am. Much love and gratitude to my sons, Eli St. Amant (leader of the hot new RaveRap band SplitGenetics) and Noah St. Amant, who knows how to hold his own in a mosh pit. Thanks to Chris Bamberger and Dorothee Heisenberg, for steadfast friendship, and to Eric Drogin, whose expertise in several fields has enriched these pages.

A shout-out to my friends at Greasy Lake, especially those with whom I’ve shared “the power, the glory, and the ministry of rock and roll.” There are more of you than I can name here, but special thanks to Sharon Concannon, Mike Fink, Eric Coulson, George Skladany, Sherry Clements, Mark Boufford, Magnus Lauglo, Marty Rynearson, Dawn Ehlinger, Jim Patricelli, and Killer Joe and Brenda O’Donald, and to Christian Weissner, in memorium. Thanks also to Linda Morkan, who took
Jane
on vacation and sent back much-needed encouragement. Extraspecial thanks to my road buddy and first-ever pit partner, Dan Medina, and to Diane Wilkes, Louise to my Louise (since neither of us is Thelma), and my mentor in all things tarot and rock and roll.

Finally, while Nico Rathburn is a figment of my imagination, I couldn’t let this moment go by without thanking the real-life rocker who has given me so much inspiration, solace, and joy, and
who has served as a model of how an artist giving his all can truly work magic in the night. Without the soul-transporting music and electrifying stage presence of Bruce Springsteen and the legendary E Street Band, this book would not have been written. It’s that simple.