A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,6

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Are you okay? I mean, he didn’t get your hand or anything, did he?”

“What? No, no I’m fine. This is the most excitement I’ve had in a month. My daughters are never going to believe this.” She stared at her hand. “They will never let me wash this hand again,” she said solemnly.

Michael laughed again. His breathing was back to normal. Max yawned, and began sniffing the grass. “Are they fans?”

“Are you kidding? They’ve been trying to win tickets for weeks. Some contest going on. It’s amazing how much trivia there is out there about you guys.” She leaned toward him. “Do you know what your drummer’s wife’s maiden name is? I do.”

He reached over and brushed something from her shoulder. “God, I hate those damn contests. Our publicist drives us all crazy. Do you want tickets? I could have some sent over.”

Diane took a half step away from him. There seemed to be a heat radiating from him, an energy that she could feel.

“Really.” His eyes were serious. “It’s the least I can do.” That grin again, sudden, a full blast of charm. “My dog stole your lunch.”

“You can do that? Just get tickets?”

“Hey,” he said with a cocky tilt of his head, “I’m in the band. Of course I can. How many daughters?”

“Three. But only two are home. Megan and Emily.”

“How old?”

“Old? Sixteen and fourteen”

“My nieces are that age. Do yours travel in packs, too?”

Diane smiled. “Yeah.”

He nodded. “Okay, so I’ll send over tickets. Your daughters can each bring a couple of friends. You and your husband want to come?”

“I’m divorced.”

“Okay, your date. I wouldn’t expect you to take teenage girls to a concert unprotected.”

“That would be wonderful.” Diane was taken by surprise. “You have no idea what that would mean. They’d clean their rooms for months.”

“No problem. Do you have a pen or something? Write down your address and I’ll get them to you.”

She turned and rummaged through her purse, dragging out a pen and note pad. She wrote her name, address and phone, and handed it to him.

“Diane Matthews,” he read. He stuffed the paper into his pocket. “So, tell me, Diane Matthews, are you a fan, too?”

She opened her mouth to lie, then caught the glint in his eye. “No, actually, I’m not. Nothing personal - I happen to think you guys are really talented. I was a big Motown fan. I never liked rock and roll.” She grinned. “Except, of course, the Beatles.”

“Of course. So who was your favorite?”

“Paul. Naturally. I had his picture everywhere. I was devastated when he got married. I spent years obsessing over the fact that I was too young for him. Who knew I’d end up being too old for him?”

Michael laughed in delight. “God, that’s great. I have to remember that for my sisters. They all loved Paul too.”

“How many sisters?” Diane sat back on the picnic table top, propping her feet on the bench.

“Three, all older than me. The youngest was ten when I was born.”

“You must have been spoiled rotten,” Diane said. “I bet you had them all wrapped around your little fingers.”

He sighed. “Oh, you are so right. I can’t believe some of the things I got away with. They are such great women.” His face changed. “My mother died when I was a kid. They all raised me.”

“I’m so sorry. But I bet they loved it, raising you.”

“Yeah.” He nodded his head. “My oldest sister, Marie, she used to get so upset when people would mistake me for her son, instead of her brother. She would yell at them, you know? But when she got home, we would all laugh about it.”

They were silent a moment, Diane staring at the tips of her shoes, and when she looked back over to him he was staring right at her, and she once again caught the force of his personality. A second later he shrugged and smiled.

“He’s still living here, my dad, in the same house we all grew up in. It’s great coming back.”

Diane was surprised. “You’re from here? I thought the band was from over in Hawthorn.”

“The rest of the guys, yeah. But I was born and raised right here in West Milton.”

“Wow. Did you go to Carver Mills High?”

“No. Fabian’s.” Fabian Academy was a very exclusive, private prep school. He noticed her raised eyebrows. “Before that it was Catholic school,” he added, shrugging. “For all of us. Saint Kate’s. Those nuns were ball-busters, I’ll tell you.”

“Me

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