"Andrew!"

"Drew!"

"Drew! I love you!"

He smiled little. At least he recognized the words, and even the accent. The girl was definitely local, from the Liverpool area. Drew headed to his dressing room, where he showered and pulled on fresh clothes.

He'd just spent the last couple years touring the world, literally. He no longer remembered which countries he'd been to, or what he'd seen while there. Machu Picchu, the Eiffel Tower, the Great Barrier Reef, Drew had seen them all, and Drew remembered barely any of it. It was a blur of planes, hotels, shows, the endless sea of screaming fans.

And the girls.

At first he'd kind of remembered, or at least he associated certain girls with certain places. Bucharest was where he'd gotten the phenomenal blow job in the car from the pretty redhead, Sao Paolo was where he'd participated in the three way with the beautiful sisters.

But even these memories had begun to run together, in an unpleasant collage of all the girls he'd sucked and fucked and left in his wake. He kept telling himself that he shouldn't feel bad, all of these girls were fans, groupies, young women who knew what was what. None of them expected him to stay with them, or ask them to join the tour, right? They all knew that whatever they did was a one time thing, just a bit of fun.

But, there was always a moment, usually after they were finished, that they looked at him, some nameless thing in their eyes. Maybe a combination of hope and hopelessness, of joy and sorrow?

Drew was always polite. He was known for this, and he saw no reason not to be so in the bedroom (or car, or toilet stall, or wherever). He always thanked them, told them they were beautiful, and that he'd had an awesome time.

But it never seemed like enough. Not for them, and, lately, not for him, either.

"What are you on about?" his bandmate Gary used to ask. Gary played bass in their band, Manderley Dreams. "Course it's enough. They're here because they want to fuck us. Why not oblige them?"

Gary's life philosophy had gotten him into a bit of a mess, however, and Drew was less and less inclined to take his advice. There was a woman in Chicago who said she was going to have Gary's baby in the spring. Gary was kind of in denial about the whole thing, but the truth was that he could deny it as much he wanted, and it still wasn't going to go anywhere.

At the beginning, it was all fun, just one big party. Drew and his three bandmates would head for whatever party was on that night, find a few girls, and get it on, as the Yanks liked to say.

But lately it wasn't enough.

He, Drew, was tired. He needed a rest. He found his security and driver, and headed to his mum's house. She and his little brother recently moved in to a new place, bought and paid for by Drew himself, and it hadn't been discovered yet.

In fact, he, Drew, was thinking of doing the same thing. He could use a little time in the country, and it wasn't like he couldn't afford it, was it?

He was a man of action, was Andrew Charles Pennington, and he put thoughts to deed immediately. When money truly was no object, it was amazing how quickly things could happen.

++++++++++++++++++++++

"Well? Will it suit you?" The house agent, Moira, leant on the kitchen counter to see his response.

"Yeah, I think so," he answered. And he did.

It was a beautiful house, covered with clinging vines, the whole bit. And not too big, so he wouldn't feel lost in it. And it sat right in the middle of twenty acres, miles away from anyone.

Ned had thought he was crazy, when he ran the idea by him after a show. Ned was packing up his drum kit as he listened.

"You're what? Where?"

"I'm looking at estates. In Kent, I think."

Ned's blue eyes had narrowed. "You're having me on, right, mate?" He grasped Drew's shoulder. "London's where everything's happening, man." He looked to guitar player Luke for corroboration. "Am I right?"

"I don't care," Drew had answered stubbornly. "I feel like Bilbo said in one of those movies, you know? Like butter spread too thin over too much toast, or whatever it was. And besides, I won't be that far from London."

"That's true," Ned agreed, grinning. "And we can always go visit if we want to see your ugly face, I reckon."

"Wait a minute," Drew answered, lifting his hands. "My new house is going to be a retreat, like what they have in France and that, for artists, writers, you know? No carousing of any kind is going to happen there."

"I don't carouse," Ned answered, pretending to be hurt. "You got me mixed up with Gary, I think."

The voice of the estate agent brought him back, to the gorgeous house that looked so old on the outside, but had every mod-con on the inside.

"Brilliant! I'll get the paperwork going straight away," she said, black bob bouncing pertly.

"So how soon will I be able to move in?" Drew asked. "It's just that I've already sold my place in London, and I'm so tired of staying in hotels, you know?"

Moira nodded sympathetically. "Probably by the end of the week, I'd think," she answered. "With the money you have, your credit must be phenomenal. Shouldn't take long."

She patted his arm with well-manicured fingers. "If you need a place to kip down, my place is nearby," she said, arching one eyebrow suggestively. "Even if it's just for a few days?"

Drew knew exactly what she was offering. He sighed.

"Didn't you say you were engaged?" he asked, not bothering to hide how he felt.

"Yeah, but doesn't mean anything yet, does it?" she returned, letting her fingers trail up his arm, making the hairs there stand up on end and his skin tingle. "And come on, I think he'd forgive me. You're Drew Pennington, you know?"

Yeah, I do know," Drew responded, a little more grimly than he'd intended.

"I'll take it. The house," he clarified.

Moira shrugged, shoulders elegant in her blue suit. "Suit yourself," she replied, pulling out her phone.

+++++++++++++++++++++

"Chiara? Wake up, the day's half over."

Chiara heard her father calling her and sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Coming!" she answered.

She pulled her blankets back to air out her bed, got dressed and padded downstairs to where her father was already working on breakfast.

"Good morning," Bert Cavuto called from where he was frying sausages.

"Morning, Dad," Chiara answered as she measured the coffee into the filter.

"You remember how sometimes when she was very sleepy, your mother would put tea into the coffee pot?" Bert asked, smiling.

Chiara nodded. After a moment, she went and hugged her father from behind. "You still miss her, don't you, dad?"

"Well, course, I'll always miss her," he answered. "But I'm okay, don't worry about me." He turned to her after she let him go.

"I think you're growing," he declared. "You felt taller when you grabbed me."

"Don't tease me this early in the morning," she begged her father. "I'm five foot four, and I have been since I was fifteen. People don't have growth spurts when they're twenty, you know?"

"Come on, you can't know that," Bert answered as he slid the sausages onto a plate and started on the eggs. "I really think I grew well into my twenties."

"Men are different," Chiara said, smiling nonetheless. "Okay, let's say you're right, then, yeah? Woo, I'm five five now, let's call the news crews."

"It doesn't matter how tall you are," Bert declared as he sat down to eat with his daughter. "You're beautiful at any height, and you always will be."

"Thanks," Chiara answered as she began to eat. "But you realize you're my dad, you have to say that? I mean, my hair is brown, my eyes are blue, I'm an average height, with an okay body."

"What's with this 'okay body' business?" Bert asked. He shifted in his chair. "I thought we agreed that we wouldn't discuss any of that kind of stuff, ever, didn't we?"

Chiara laughed. "You're right, you're right, so sorry. I'm just a neutral, genderless person, okay?"

"That's better," Bert agreed.

"Hey, you know, the Langton Estate sold," he said, changing the subject adroitly.

"Oh yeah? To whom?" Chiara asked, drinking her coffee. "And will it affect us?"

Bert shook his head. "Don't think so. There are, what, three acres of garden that we work? I don't think anything's happening that changes that."

"So the new owner's not going to go ripping out the roses to put in a racetrack or anything stupid like that?"

"I haven't heard anything about racetracks," Bert assured his daughter.

"Because those roses are the most gorgeous in the whole of Kent, I think," Chiara said, rising to clear her dishes. "And I won't be a party to tearing them, or any other part of the gardens, out, just let me go on record with that."

Bert nodded. "Not going to be a problem, I think. The house agent said everything would remain 'pretty much the same.'"

"Famous last words," Chiara said darkly.

"Well, let's go out there today, then, if you'd like to reassure yourself," Bert said.

"But what about the Eckersley property?" Chiara asked. "I thought we had to get it ready to show also?"

Bert shook his head. "They've changed their minds, not going to sell," he told his daughter.

Her blue eyes glowed.

"Dad, I'm so happy! You need to lead off with that kind of news in future, yeah?" she begged, lunging in to hug him. "I was worried that another house was going to be sold to some horrible, filthy rich Londoner who'd have his horrid, skeevy friends out for awful parties and that, you know?"

"I know," Bert replied, hugging his daughter back.

"So okay then, let's go check out Langton," Chiara said to her father. "The hydrangeas and roses are due for fertilizing, anyway, and maybe we can meet this wonderful, beneficent new owner who's saved yet another historic house from ruin."

"Listen to you, with your wonderful uni vocabulary," Bert said, smiling with pride as he started their beat up old truck. "I think next year we'll have the money, Chiara, I do."

"We'll see, then, won't we?" Chiara answered, patting her father's arm.

Bert just looked at her and turned toward Langton.