CHAPTER 7
TYLER
The following day Tyler woke up in her childhood bed a little later than usual. The two-hour time difference didn’t help and she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.
“It’s Mommy’s birthday, Ror-Ror.” The dog let out a sigh and went back to sleep. “I hear you, buddy. Birthdays are shitty.”
She was thirty-two years old and no closer to having a baby unless she counted the acts on SDM’s roster that she was constantly bottle-feeding.
Out of habit she checked her phone, but it was too early for their artists to bother her. No doubt the legacy acts would text her later with questions they could have googled.
She smiled as she read the birthday cards from Marnie and Heather.
She’d been friends with them since kindergarten, and they’d grown up together.
But after high school Marnie and Heather moved to Toronto to attend university, and they ended up staying after graduating to be closer to their boyfriends, now husbands.
Long-distance relationships were tough, even with girlfriends.
Would it be easier if she were on Facebook?
Sure. But at least it had spared her from random Happy Birthday wishes from people she used to know or who were just acquaintances.
What’s Cary doing?
Last night was so much fun. She still couldn’t believe he’d shown up in the hospitality suite after singing the anthem.
Once the initial shock wore off, she was able to have a decent hang with him, but she’d fumbled the ball when he’d asked her to go to his concert.
Of course she wanted to go, but she was also starting to have feelings for him. And that was a no-no.
She scrolled through his Instagram but found nothing new.
The habit of stalking his account started after their kiss—or whatever you wanted to call it.
She had to admit the photos he posted were spectacular, but the comments from his fans, mostly women, were more than suggestive.
If people had said those things to his face they would have been arrested.
Hopefully he’d disabled his DMs. She couldn’t imagine the filth in those messages.
But enough about Cary. Today was a big day for her family. The benefit concert was meant to celebrate her mom’s legacy. Her dad believed that music, not laughter, was the best medicine.
She wanted to buy something special to commemorate the benefit’s anniversary. She googled dad + gifts, but it resulted in nothing more than corny coffee mugs and jokey T-shirts.
Cary’s wine.
She searched penfolds grange + 2011 + liquor mart and clicked the link.
“Eight hundred and fifty dollars!” she cried, waking Rory again.
Not in this lifetime.
When Tyler came out of her bedroom that morning, there wasn’t a soul—or a balloon—in sight, so she walked across the street to give Dylan a chance to wish her a happy birthday.
“Hello?” Tyler opened the door and a blond Afghan Hound barked. “Samson! Shh . . . who’s a good boy?” The dog galloped toward her, his hair blowing like Beyoncé’s.
“In here!” Dylan hollered from the kitchen. “Samson! Shut the hell up!”
“Auntie Ty!” Nadie ran toward her.
Tyler beamed at her niece. Their bond was undeniable. Her brothers had sons, and she loved them too, but having a boy wasn’t the same thing as having a girl.
Nadie was an only child, not for a lack of trying.
Dylan and Joe had always wanted another baby, but in her late twenties, her sister was diagnosed with fibroids.
After several attempts at removing the tumors the doctors predicted her condition wouldn’t improve, but it wasn’t the end of the world.
They’d always said that Nadie was a gift, and they counted their blessings.
Full stop.
“Hi, honey.” Tyler hugged her niece. “How are you?” She floated her hand over Nadie’s head. “I think you’re still growing.”
“Geez.” Nadie glanced at the floor and wiggled her stocking feet. “I sure hope not. I’m the tallest girl in my school.” She twirled her long black hair with her fingers. “I’m stoked for tonight! I can’t wait to sing in front of a live audience.”
Even though Dylan said Nadie was ready to perform a solo number, it was still a lot of pressure for someone so young and inexperienced.
“Tyler! Get your ass in here!” Her brother-in-law’s voice bellowed from the kitchen.
Joe Grant was a stand-up guy. He was Cree, First Nations, and his family had lived on the lands for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The Grants had embraced the Robertsons as if they belonged to their nation, and they’d reciprocated in kind.
“Looking good, Joe,” Tyler said.
Joe placed his hands on his belly, exaggerating its size. “I’m down ten. Only ten more to go.”
Tyler laughed and glanced at her sister. “Don’t get up or anything.”
Dylan, perched at the kitchen table, held a needle and thread between her fingers.
“What are you doing?” Tyler asked.
“Fixing the hem on Nadie’s dress.”
Dylan was an expert seamstress. With no formal training, she’d set up a home-based alterations business when Nadie was an infant. She said she’d rather spend time with her daughter than put her into daycare with a bunch of spoiled kids.
“May I borrow your car, please?” Tyler directed her question at her sister. “I want to check out the casino.”
She’d seen a lot of day-of-show disasters, and mitigating damage was the only way to solve them. She didn’t trust people to do their jobs, and she was often right not to.
“Yeah, the keys are on the hook.” Dylan seemed to be concentrating on her slip stitch, not paying any attention to her.
Did they really forget my birthday?
She crossed her fingers but saved her wish.
Everyone was at the Robertsons’ house by mid-afternoon for the last practice before the concert.
The Family Band included Tyler’s brothers, Perry and Stewart; her sisters-in-law and nephews; plus the Grants and Bert.
It had been years since she’d played music with her family, and it showed—her rhythm was more enthusiasm than precision, so she decided to watch.
Still, no one had said anything about her birthday.
WTF?
“Watch me, Auntie Ty!” Nadie grabbed the microphone from its stand.
“One . . . two . . .” Bert counted the band in and Nadie began to sing “River” from Joni Mitchell’s album Blue: one of the best records ever made, according to her dad.
“Holy shit!” Tyler nodded along to the music, and when it ended, she clapped. “Bravo, honey! Bravo!”
“What did you really think?” Nadie asked, hip jutting out.
“What did I really think?” Tyler shook her head, not believing what she’d heard. “I think you’re the best singer in this family.” Which was saying something.
Tyler’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Vegas.
Can u come 2 the Meet & Greet at 5? Radio station screw up.
Seb made the promo girl cry.
She’d gone nearly twenty-four hours without babysitting an SDM artist—possibly a new world record.
Note to self: check Guinness. Vegas never asked for favors, so this had to be important.
Besides, she owed him more solids than she could remember.
And she’d been on the receiving end of Sebastien’s tirades enough to know exactly how that promotions rep felt. Her boss had made her cry . . . often.
Not long after, Tyler arrived at the arena, where Vegas was waiting by the side entrance, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
As they walked down the hall, he filled her in.
“The local radio station gave away a hundred meet-and-greet passes,” he said matter-of-factly.
She scrunched her nose. “So?”
“All of them with plus-ones.”
“No!” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Two hundred in total?”
“Yeah, and when Seb found out, he yelled at the radio station’s promotions person, even though it was our intern’s fault.”
“Figures.”
It was oh-so typical, like that Tegan and Sara song.
“It’s a shitshow in there,” he said, opening the green room door.
Fuck. He was right. They’d squeezed two hundred people into a tiny holding area, breaking every fire code occupancy regulation in the province of Manitoba.
Vegas sighed. “A hundred people have to go.”
Tyler had a feeling—more than a feeling—that Cary didn’t know.
“What did Cary say?” she asked.
Vegas shrugged. “No idea. He’s at catering with Seb and Tommy.”
“Tommy?” She turned up her nose.
“Fucking Tommy,” he confirmed, shaking his head.
The reaction to Cary’s booking agent was ubiquitous: everyone hated him.
“Cary’s going to be pissed if he catches wind of this,” she said.
The back of her neck was wet to the touch from the sweltering heat, so she took off her coat. It surprised her that Sebastien wasn’t marketing the green room as a sauna and charging top dollar for it.
Vegas grumbled. “Do you want to tell Sebastard? Because I don’t.”
She shook her head, making a split-second decision. “I’m telling Cary. They’re his fans, not Sebastien’s.”
“It’s your funeral.” Vegas held out his hand. “Here, I’ll put your shit in our room.”
Tyler handed him her coat, but she kept her bag over her shoulder because Sebastien snooped through everything he wasn’t supposed to.
She texted Cary. Hi. Meet & Greet is now 200 people! Sebastien said to send 100 away.
A few seconds later, her phone vibrated. When she saw Cary’s name, her heart fluttered so hard it nearly knocked the breath out of her. The biggest rock star on Earth had her number—the same girl who once saved up for weeks to buy his concert ticket.
Are you here? he asked.
She answered, Green Room.
I’ll be right there. Don’t send anyone away. xo
Five minutes later, Cary, Sebastien, and Tommy swaggered down the hall like astronauts in the movie Armageddon—all confidence.
“Hi, doll,” Sebastien said.
Drinking so early?
“How are you feeling?” she asked as they exchanged fake pleasantries.
“Bit of a rough start this morning.” Her boss cleared his throat and straightened his baseball cap. “It’s nothing a few drinks can’t solve. Hair of the dog and all that.”
It’s called a drinking problem.