Wish on a Star Page 2

  “Goodnight, Karen.” Isabelle reached over to give her a hug. “See you tomorrow.”

  It was rare for the tough brunette to get emotional, but Karen’s delicate voice cracked slightly when they broke apart. “Sweet dreams, kid. Whatever your wish is, I can’t wait to see it come true.”

  Isabelle trudged toward her room, dragging the wheeled oxygen tank behind her. Danielle made a show of cleaning up the glasses so she had an excuse to watch until she made it safely to her bedroom. It seemed as if she was moving slower than usual, struggling a bit more to catch her breath. Most parents complained about their kids stampeding through the house. Danielle would’ve been thrilled to see Isabelle run or even walk without getting winded.

  “This whole wish thing is pretty hard on you, huh?” Karen gave her a concerned once-over when the empty glasses rattled in her hands.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Relentless, her friend followed her into the kitchen, her stare alone enough to force Danielle to respond after she set the cups in the sink. “Okay, okay. I know Izzy is excited, but it makes everything seem far too real. Almost hopeless.”

  “Iz getting to make her wish doesn’t mean you won’t get yours,” Karen consoled. “She could still get the transplant.”

  “I pray for that every night.” Danielle squeezed her eyes shut. “Then I wonder if I’m being punished because I’m technically praying for someone else’s family member to die in her place.”

  Karen rested a hand on her shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting your baby to be healthy. You’re the best mom, Dani. And Iz is a great kid because you raised her right. For now, focus on having some fun. Take things one day at a time.”

  Danielle was giving herself the same advice earlier, so she couldn’t argue with the logic. Instead, she waved as Karen stepped into her blue Volvo with a COEXIST sticker on the bumper – a car she drove to Philadelphia to procure since no local dealers sold them. When she peeled out of the driveway, she narrowly missed sideswiping the mailbox, then blared her horn at a teenager on a bike who popped a wheelie in front of her.

  After Karen turned the corner, Danielle shut the door and tiptoed into Isabelle’s room. She must’ve been completely exhausted because she was already tucked under the covers, fast asleep. The warmth of the blankets tinged her cheeks pink. If not for the prongs in her nose, it would be easy to believe she was a healthy, normal child. Sadly, it was impossible for Danielle to cling to the fantasy, just as she couldn’t spend the whole day imagining she was dancing on Sing! with her teenage crush. Real life was hard, and while music might take the edge off occasionally, it didn’t solve problems the way it did in the television series. Eventually, she might have to say goodbye to her daughter, and it was a reality she wasn’t ready to face.

  “I can’t lose you,” she whispered. “You’re my entire world.”

  Danielle tucked a lose curl behind her daughter’s ear, then covered her lips with her hand to stifle the sob building in her throat. She refused to plan too far into the future because even one day without Isabelle’s smile brightening her morning was too terrible to imagine. Holding back tears, she clicked the door shut and went downstairs to wash the dishes.

  As soon as her mother slipped out, Isabelle Hoelz lifted her head from the pillow. When the soft patter of footsteps disappeared down the hall, she climbed out from under the covers. The action made her lungs tighten, but she was so accustomed to the pain she barely noticed it anymore. Sure, some days were really bad – days when every breath made her lungs burn and she didn’t have the strength to get out of bed. Today, though, was a good day and she wanted to relish every minute of it, especially since she had no idea how many minutes she had left.

  That’s why I can’t waste my wish on something silly like a trip to Disneyland.

  Grinning, Isabelle reached for her bookshelf, sliding aside copies of Anne of Green Gables and Romeo and Juliet. Being stuck in bed so often meant she was pretty well read, but it wasn’t a book she was searching for. Behind the paperbacks, she’d hid an old poster she found tucked inside her mother’s hope chest. Once she located it, she unfolded the paper, smoothing out the well-worn creases. A smiling image of a young Reed Overture greeted her, the same one that once graced her mother’s bedroom wall. She’d packed it up with her other high school memorabilia, but Isabelle dug it out one day when her Uncle Nick was babysitting. It was so old the pieces of tape stuck to the edges had yellowed with age, but the cheerful blue eyes, sandy brown hair, and big smile were no less vivid. Even though he was old now, like way over thirty, Isabelle was just as big of a fan of Reed as her mother. She not only adored his alter ego Steve Ewing, she’d watched every interview she could find online, and discovered the real man was as interesting as the fictional character he portrayed. He actually had a lot in common with Danielle, from their love of camping to their soft spot for new age artist Enya.

  They could be soulmates.

  Isabelle hated that her mom was so sad all the time, and it wasn’t only because she was constantly consumed with worry. She was lonely. Sure, she had Karen and her brother Nick, but she hadn’t been on a date in years. She made so many sacrifices, devoted her entire life to Isabelle. If – when – she died, Danielle needed someone to be there so she wasn’t alone. Someone who’d love her and make all the dreams she’d put on hold come true. If Isabelle had her way, that person would be Reed Overture.

  “I may not be able to do much,” Isabelle whispered to the handsome teen on the poster. “But I can play matchmaker, and I’m going to use my wish to help my mom fall in love.”

  Chapter 1

  Thunderous applause echoed across the packed stadium where Reed Overture stood center stage, an acoustic guitar strapped to his shoulder, surrounded by his castmates for the long-awaited Sing! world tour. He’d danced in the background for the first set, but this was his solo. His time to shine. His costars stood in a line behind him while Reed took the lead, chanting the first verse of Glory Days by Bruce Springsteen while he strummed the chords on his guitar. The others joined in when they reached the chorus, performing a flawless line dance, each actor in perfect sync after three years of sharing the small screen. When the last note faded, the confetti cannons on either side of the stage fired, blurring the faces of the cheering crowd as glitter rained down. Grinning, Reed lifted his hand in salute as they shouted his name.

  “Reed! Reed! Reed!”

  Just as he reached out to shake hands with a shrieking girl whose large breasts bounced as she jumped up and down, his eyes snapped open. His heart was still pounding from the exhilaration of the dream, the memory, but it was coupled with a steady pounding in his head. Groaning, Reed reached for the radio alarm clock which was still blasting Glory Days, but instead of switching it off, he accidently knocked it over. The music continued to play, as if the universe was determined to remind him his own glory days were far behind him. Instead of coming down from the high of a concert, he was fighting a hangover from a night of drinking straight whiskey at a local club. He was supposed to be celebrating his thirty-second birthday, but it felt more like a pity party. Ten years earlier, he was a star who had his pick of any girl in America. Now his only company was a friend who was once in one of the hottest boy bands in the country, but who was currently fighting a beer gut and combing over his dark locks to hide his receding hairline.

  “Ugh, I need coffee.”

  Dragging himself from his bed, Reed kicked the alarm clock until he finally silenced it, probably permanently. He groaned from the exertion and cursed under his breath when he stubbed his big toe, signaling the beginning of what was certain to be another long, unproductive day. After far too many shots the previous evening, his head ached and his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton balls. When he pushed aside his shaggy brown hair and glanced at his reflection in the mirror, he was reminded of why he was no longer the star he’d once been. There were creases under his eyes and he’d gained a few pounds he couldn’t lose no matter how many hours he spent at the gym. Once he was regaled as one of the top one hundred sexiest men in the country. Sure, he was only number ninety-six, but still pretty impressive for a twenty-two-year-old guy playing a sixteen-year-old on television. Back then, people asked for his autograph whenever he strutted down Rodeo Drive. Today, he might as well be one of the overweight tourists wearing a fanny pack. Maybe he should be grateful for the success he had. It was far more than the majority of starving artists achieved, but he missed the applause, the excitement, the constant pandemonium of fame.

  I miss the spotlight. I miss being someone.

  Reed stood in the kitchen of his modern, mid-century style home, lost in memories as he watched the slow drip of the coffeemaker. He was debating whether to jump in the shower when he heard a loud thump. Initially, he thought it was the pounding in his head, but when the sound repeated, he realized someone was knocking at the door. Before he mustered the energy to answer, he poured a mug of coffee, downing half the scalding liquid without adding sugar or cream. Since the pot wasn’t completely finished percolating, it continued to drip onto the counter. Instead of cleaning up the mess, he stomped to the door, determined to ream out whoever dared intrude upon his solitude. He didn’t get a chance, though, because the woman standing on his front porch beat him to the punch, shouting and banging with even more insistence when she failed to garner a response, the piercing female voice making him flinch.

  “Open the door, Reed!” A peek through the peephole revealed a head of thick black hair, shortly followed by a magnified brown eye peering through the opposite end of the glass. “I know you’re in there. Your Camaro is parked in the driveway!”

  “Dang, I hope I didn’t drive home last night.” After running a hand through his disheveled hair, he utilized his acting abilities and opened the door with a smile. “Good morning, Cheryl.”

  “Don’t you good morning me!” His publicist, Cheryl Adams blew past him, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the collection of acoustic guitars hanging on the wall. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours. Don’t you ever check your phone?”

  Reed flinched and pressed his fingers against his eyes. “It’s probably dead. Either that or I left it at the nightclub last night. I can’t remember the last time I saw it.”

  “Did you leave your clothes there, too?” She smirked and ran a perfectly manicured nail along his bare chest. “Not that I mind when you show a little skin.”

  For the first time, he realized he was wearing nothing but his black briefs. Dang, he really needed to stop drinking so much. He also needed to stop getting into compromising positions, including the one he found himself in presently. Cheryl pressed her body against his, and he instinctively responded by lacing an arm around her waist. Despite her being fully clothed in a professional business suit, other parts of his anatomy responded as well, albeit against his will. Cheryl was an obnoxious bitch, but she was a warm body, and still hot as hell even though she was over forty. The former model was also a great publicist. Having her oversee his media relations was the only reason his last album got picked up by a label. A few years earlier, she’d hinted she needed to make room in her roster for more relevant clients, at least until they started sleeping together. Their intermittent love affair continued whenever the mood struck her, but thank the good Lord in heaven, she hadn’t demanded any type of commitment. She was a cougar who enjoyed playing the field, but now that Reed was in her little black book as well as her business rolodex, it meant he was on call both personally and professionally.

  “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet,” he warned, squirming free when she tried to sneak in a little tongue. “You don’t want to do that right now.”

  “I’m here on business anyway, but I can’t work under these conditions.” Unoffended, she breezed into the kitchen and tossed her Louis Vuitton handbag on the counter. Thankfully, she didn’t notice it landed in the puddle of coffee he failed to wipe up. “Your pecs are far too distracting. Go put on some clothes, and for God’s sake, shave off that stubble. You’ll never book another acting gig if you run around L.A. looking like a hobo.”

  That was Cheryl, both complimentary and cutting in the same breath. Regardless, he took her advice and plodded toward the restroom. She had an eye for talent and always had the best ideas when it came to grabbing the audience’s attention. As his country-loving father would say, she could polish a turd, but even a genius publicist couldn’t pull off a miracle. She’d almost killed his agent, Paulie Mazurek, when he convinced Reed to sign up for a plotless romantic comedy about a couple who gets stranded on an island of swingers. The script was far from Shakespeare, but it was the first male lead he’d ever been offered. He’d jumped at the chance to reignite his star power, but it was a cinematic disaster, tanking before it ever hit theaters. Cheryl sensed the impending doom and refused to touch the film from the get-go, going so far as to suggest he never mention it on his social media. Instead, she encouraged him to focus on his music. He wasn’t doing much better in that arena, but at least his single Holding On went viral a few years earlier, mostly due to his publicist’s networking.

  “Hurry up, Reed!” Cheryl pounded on the bathroom door. “I have other clients waiting, most of whom don’t live in a one-story shack in the poor section of Hollywood Hills.”

  “Poor section.” Reed was so put out, he nicked his cheek with his razor. “One-point-six million is the poor section.”

  It really was, though. A few miles away, there were twenty-bedroom mansions with indoor swimming pools and personal tennis courts, making his three-bedroom, two-bathroom home seem like a trailer in comparison. His last girlfriend, a movie-star with a net worth of well over one hundred million, owned one of those beauties. It was no wonder she dumped him after three months. She probably had nightmares about the alimony she’d have to pay in a failed marriage. Either that or she realized he was slowly losing the solid six-pack that boosted him to stardom on Sing!, and it sent her running in the opposite direction. He had to face facts. His love life was on life support, same as his career.

  “Reed!”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” He let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl, and popped a few aspirin into his mouth before emerging. “Give me one more minute.”

  When he finally stepped into the kitchen, freshly showered and breath minty fresh, he was greeted by a cloud of smoke and an annoyed scowl. Cheryl was in full business mode as she flicked the ashes from her menthol cigarette onto the floor. She’d helped herself to a mug of coffee, and sat at the table with her long, salon-tanned legs crossed.

  “I have an offer for you,” she announced casually. “A job of sorts.”

  “I’m confused.” Reed scratched his head. “Isn’t it Paulie’s job to find work and your job to promote the finished product?”

  “Paulie is a moron who should’ve retired a decade ago when he lost Andy Palmer as his top client,” Cheryl declared, waving a hand in dismissal. “He was a god in his time, but these days he barely makes an effort and only takes the hard-luck cases no one else wants.”

  “And you believe you can do better?” Reed narrowed his eyes. “How much does this job pay?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted. “As you so helpfully pointed out, I’m a publicist. There may not be a cash payout, but if you play your cards right, this could rekindle the embers of a nearly extinguished flame.”

  As much as he wanted to defend himself, he couldn’t come up with any valid arguments. “I’m listening.”

  “Good.” Before continuing, she dropped her cigarette into his coffee a second before he picked it up. “A woman from the Wish Come True Foundation reached out to me today.”

  Reed blinked. “Isn’t that the charity that grants dying kids their last wish? I’d be happy to donate something, but it’s not like I’m raking in fifty grand a week anymore. I’ve been living off my trust fund for years.”

  “They don’t want your money, honey.” Cheryl licked her lips. “They want you.”

  “Woah!” Reed blanched. “Isn’t this wish thing for a bunch of minors? Even if it’s not, I’m not sure I’m desperate enough to sell myself to the highest bidder.”

  “Good grief.” She rolled her eyes so far back, it was amazing they didn’t get stuck. “Would you please stop channeling the idiot jock you played on that ridiculous television show? Nice as it is, they don’t want your body. They want your talent.”

  “Soooo, like a benefit concert?”

  “Closer, but still not quite right,” she explained. “It seems some kid in New Jersey is on the waiting list for a lung transplant that probably won’t happen, and her dying wish is to have you teach her how to play the guitar.”

  “Me?” Utterly flabbergasted, Reed pointed to himself. “Why me?”

  Cheryl shrugged. “I wondered the same thing myself. Sing! aired before she was born, but I guess when you’re at death’s door, you have nothing better to do than watch reruns of nonsensical sitcoms where everyone overacts and serenades each other in nasally voices.”

  Reed was so used to her insults, they barely registered. “Do you realize how long it takes to learn how to play an instrument? It could take weeks, months even, just to master the basics.”

  “The foundation realizes that.” She swiped her cell phone and squinted her eyes as she examined the details. “They’re prepared to set you up with a rental car and an ocean front condo at the Jersey shore for up to three months. I suppose they assume she’ll either learn or die by then.”

  “Dang, Cheryl, do you gotta be so callous? You’re talking about a little girl.” Still trying to take all this in when he was fighting a hangover, Reed dropped onto one of the kitchen stools. “What’s wrong with her anyway?”