I pound the concrete and reach our meeting spot near the pond only five minutes late. Fortunately, Natalie knows how to keep herself busy. She’s doing push-ups on the crunchy, cold ground, decked out in running pants and a fleece jacket.
“Hey, Ironwoman,” I call out.
She pops up and strikes a muscle pose for me. “What do you think of these guns?” she asks, patting her biceps in a deliberately self-aggrandizing manner.
“I’ll need a magnifying glass to see them.”
“I already did buns, abs, and arms, thank you very much,” she says, then starts running, gesturing me alongside her.
“And wrote a new addendum to the Kyoto treaty limiting carbon emissions too?”
“You know it.”
Natalie is the typical first child, an overachiever. She was the athlete of the family, having excelled at field hockey and soccer in middle school and high school. Owen and I watched her score many goals from the bleachers. She earned impeccable grades and went on to Brown, graduating magna cum laude with a degree in environmental science. Now, she has two kids—Ben is her biological child and Grace she adopted from China.
Natalie manages to hold a full-time job she loves, running the farmer’s markets in the city; pick her kids up from school every day; spend time with her husband every evening; and work out each morning. If she decided to write the Great American Novel she would find a way to pound it out in three months, not sacrificing any of her other activities. Owen, on the other hand, has been working on his book for three years and he’s single and child-free. Proof that we are all different people, and that’s the way it goes.
“So today is your CRB Radio interview,” Natalie begins, shifting into the perfect runner’s stride that she learned from her coach, Jill, who trained her for the New York City Marathon last fall. Why do I run with my sister? Oh right. I’m a glutton for punishment.
“And the most important thing is what you wear. Have you thought about that? Because you could actually wear your pajamas or even that hideous blue T-shirt from Matt Murphy’s that has a hole in the neckline but you won’t throw out.”
“Very funny.”
She maintains her perfect conversational pace. “But seriously, maybe you should get a PR person to go with you. I keep sending you names.”
“I haven’t found anyone yet.”
“Well, you better make that a top priority. I’ve been talking to your booking agent and she has some contacts she’s going to share with me too for publicists.”
“I will, but I’ve managed without one for a long time.” I slow down, forcing her to slow her pace, too.
“And don’t you think recent events justify the need for one? Like that Star Magazine piece?”
I drop my speed further so I can actually talk. She narrows her eyes, but knows if she wants to administer her big-sister edicts she’ll have to trot, too. “I know,” I admit as we continue north on Central Park Drive. She’s going to get antsy soon to run at a clip, so I decide to mention my upcoming story with Matthew. It’ll keep her occupied with chewing me out, so she’ll have to run at my sluggish pace. Her jaw drops after I dispense the details and she touches my forehead momentarily, as if I have a fever. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Why do you ask?” I’m secretly enjoying getting her riled up. Just imagine what would happen if I stole all her Kickin’ Kelly DVDs. She’d rip up her apartment like a Rottweiler on speed.
She stops running. We walk in the brisk morning air. “I understand you like the whole indie-artist approach. And that’s cool. I totally respect that. I am just saying that with Star Magazine two days ago and now this behind-the-scenes story with Beat, I worry that you’re letting the media in too close. You’re in the spotlight whether you choose to be or not. And this whole ‘I don’t need a publicist, I can do it myself, I’ll talk to any reporter, any time, any where’ thing might have worked fine when you were a rising star, but now you’re a star.”
“I’m not a star,” I insist. Success is temporal. Fame is mercurial. Tomorrow, I could be nobody again.
Natalie brushes me off. “You’re a star, and I worry about you. Reporters are interested in you. That, my darling, is self-evident. I bet even CRB Radio won’t be able to resist discussing Aidan’s sexuality. Oh, they’ll frame it in some socially responsible light, but still it will come up. And this Beat reporter now coming to the recording sessions. When you let a reporter in too far, you lose control.”
“Would you feel better if you met him first, Mommy?”
“Jane, now for the moment of truth. Did you say yes to the Beat guy because he’s hot?”
“How did you know he was hot?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Might it have been when he said hello to you at the Grammys and told you that you looked fabulous? You two were flirting like it’s going out of style.”
“You were checking him out?”
“It’s my job as your older sister to keep track of details like this so I can put two and two together when you make these decisions. And he’s British, too. I’m sure that didn’t play a role in your decision, either.”
I glance away. I’m definitely not telling her that his fantastic kisses that send me into another stratosphere might also have played a little role in my decision. Not to mention his e-mails and the delicious way he felt when I wrapped my legs around his sexy hips. Nah, I’ll keep those details to myself.