OK, shippers. We've all wondered, and think we know, what Whitney's life might have been like had she taken a different course, but I wonder how the actual moment to walk away from her husband might have unfolded. That's the premise of this convo/fiction. And one more thing: I'm not sure if I totally buy the notion that KC and WH never talked about music together, and she didn't inspire any of his songs. She had all that talent, kind heartedness and beauty, yet she was
never his muse? I don't think so.
Moonrise
Los Angeles, around April 2000
Whitney drove through an understated yet ultra-private condo complex and parked in her usual space, across the lot from ‘his’ porsche. She hurriedly pulled a designer overnight bag out of the backseat, and made her way to their unit. Since it was night, sunglasses were probably useless, but she put them on anyway, and she kept the scarf tied around her head. She quickly unlocked the door, scooted inside and latched the door behind her.
“Baby?” she turned on the light. “Are you here yet?”
Whitney walks through the duplex unit, which is dimly lit and smells sweetly of fresh cut flowers. Someone is out on the back balcony tooling around on a guitar.
“Baby? Kevin!”
The strumming stops, and a chair scrapes the concrete floor and Kevin appears through the open balcony doors.
“Hey, Beautiful.”
“Oh, thank God!” Whitney rushes over to Kevin and first greets him with a ferocious hug. Then they pepper each other with small kisses, which eventually melt into deep, long ones. Kevin starts taking off Whitney’s knee-length trench coat, her scarf and then her sunglasses.
“Why are you even wearing these? It’s night time.”
Whitney explains that she can’t be too careful, since the press outlets are hounding her more than usual right now. Kevin stands back a little and rubs her arms sympathetically.
“It’s so amazing to see you, Kevin. You’re a welcome break from what’s been haaard week for me. And it’s still only Monday!”
Kevin knows what she’s talking about. Everyone did, because it was reported everywhere. Over the weekend she had been fired from a gig to perform at the Oscars. The music director had become frustrated with her erratic behavior, so he flew in another singer to take her place. Once again the newspapers, blogs and TV shows churned scraps of facts into so-called analyses of her career slide.
“I know it’s been tough on you, Whitney,” Kevin pulls her close and kisses her forehead. “I’m glad you called.”
“Kevin, the thing is, I was wrong,” Whitney finds a seat in the living room, where Kevin has a cup of tea waiting for her. They sit down together, and Kevin acts as her body pillow, while she talks and sobs quietly. “I know ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow” like the back of my hand. I sang it as a teenager that club in New York City, when I was still modeling. There is no reason I should have fumbled that song.”
Yet she knows why she did. Part of it was sitting in the front row of the theater with a coat over his head. And the wedding band she bought him on his left hand. Yet she was too out of it at the time to realize how bizarre the whole scene looked.
As usual, Whitney had almost no time to herself, to think about what had happened to her. She had barely caught her breath before she pulled herself together, propped herself up and headlined the televised Arista 25th Anniversary party that night.
The event had grown from a banquet hall dinner, where she sang “I Am Changing,” from “Dreamgirls,” to a full-blown red carpet event with some of the most successful musical acts working today. She played her part, the crown jewel in Clive Davis’ precious career achievement, his record label.
“When is it going to be broadcast?”
“You know the answer to that!” Whitney wipes a tear and lets Kevin kiss her. He didn’t tell her this, but he was disappointed in not seeing her after the Oscars. Last year, she was absolutely radiant and sexy in her silvery gown, and he begrudgingly let go of her as she went on tour for her “My Love Is Your Love” album. She apologized for casting a grey cloud over their plans to spend the last part of the weekend together, since B---- made plans to leave right after the Arista event. “Are you … are you disappointed in me, Kevin?”
“No, Whitney!” Kevin held her closer. “That could never happen. Will never happen. I will always be proud of you, and you can call me whenever you don’t feel good, you know that.”
Whitney raises herself up on her arms.
“Yeah, I think I know.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“No. I’ve been busy schmoozing, getting my bag, getting Krissy settled with Mama. Ditching my assistant and bodyguard. It’s been nonstop.”
Whitney was grateful for her time with Kevin at the condo, because it also meant she could have time to herself, which was rare. They got this place for her to tune out the whirlwinds of Hollywood and nap, drink tea, and do her vocal exercises. Kevin often read to her until she fell asleep, playing with her hair. He bought a simple upright piano, where she practiced songs and tooled around. Her devoted fans knew she was proficient, and whatever she lacked in technical skill, which wasn’t much, she made up for with clean execution and feeling.
They began kissing again, deeply, until Whitney’s tears are completely gone. Kevin undoes her shirt, pulling it out of her slacks, and pushes it of her shoulders onto the floor. It doesn’t take long for Kevin to have Whitney giggling and smiling again, first in the living room and then upstairs in their bedroom.
The next morning …
Whitney woke up, very slowly, to the sound of Kevin playing music. She didn't recognize the melody at all, and he alternated between the guitar and tapping drumsticks on a notepad. The new music pulled her gradually out of bed and she softly staggered to the bathroom.
He was writing again. Whatever it was, it sounded like an emotionally melody, passionate and pleading. Slightly refreshed, she walked out of the bedroom suite and walked down the spiral staircase to the efficiency kitchen, where she meant to start a pot of coffee.
“I've already done that, Prom Queen.”
Whitney shakes her head, and clears her voice of its hoarseness.
“When are you going to stop calling me that? I'm a grown woman, and I'll be 37 this year!”
“You want my silence about this illicit romance? Them's the rules.”
Kevin reaches for Whitney, and pulls her to sit down next to him at the piano. He watches her sip her coffee in silence, and smoothes her hair behind her ears. He kisses her hand, then behind her ears and starts leaning her backward.
“You know, Kevin, I’m actually pretty hungry, after last night and all. We should make breakfast.”
He slumps his shoulders and puts the guitar aside.
“She’s hungry. Better get on that!”
As Kevin gets up, Whitney swats his behind and watches him go to the kitchen. She picks up the song sheet that he’s been scribbling and erasing on and starts reading. Her emotions begin to shift, and she bites her lower lip.
“Kevin is this about me?”
He looks up from the counter, where he’s been cracking eggs to make omelets. He doesn’t answer at first, because it’s almost a rhetorical question on Whitney’s part.
“Well, I mean, it’s not completely finished yet,” he says. He whips the eggs and starts rummaging through the fridge for peppers, cheese, onions, and some leftover steak that Whitney was too tired to eat the night before. “It definitely needs a bridge, and an instrumental. At least. It's just a start.”
“Well, be careful with this. Don’t let it get out and over-analyzed by the wrong people.”
“Not a chance. That’s for us. Are you going to help me or should I slave in here by myself?”
Whitney puts the sheet music on the stand and goes into the kitchen. Together they finish preparing breakfast and eat holding hands.
“So tell me more about the concert. What did you perform?”
Whitney becomes animated, drops her fork and holds onto both of Kevin’s hands.
“Kevin, there is one segment, near the finale, when you come in.”
“Oh, well I hope it’s because you’ve saved the best for last.”
“I have, believe me. I do a medley, which I say I dedicate to Clive. But that’s because he’s my boss. It’s really for you.”
“What’s in the medley?”
“It’s a surprise, but I think you’ll like it.” Whitney winks and Kevin nods, understanding. “There is one part, though, where B----- comes on stage and interacts with me. It kind of had to be that way. But don’t worry. He’s not … he’s not you.”
“Yeah, but legally, on paper he has one very important thing on me.”
Whitney averts her eyes when he says that. His remark partially explains the meaning of the song sitting in their living room.
“Is that the reason for the song?”
“Maybe.” Kevin gets up, takes another swig of water and walks over to the piano and picks up his guitar.
“Come on over, Prom Queen,” he smiles at her. Whitney doesn’t protest this time. She just smiles and takes a seat nest to him. “You can play chords and follow me. Let’s start at plain old C sharp, since it’s early and you don’t hit soprano until around, one.”
Whitney pinches him and picks up the song sheet. “Kevin” has written:
Moonrise
You're in my arms, and it's quarter past two
So plain and clear, what we need to do
Get rid of him, Baby 'cause he don't mean you right
I hurt when you cry in your sleep at night
I'm calling, I'm knocking
'cause I've got to get through
To show you what I see A beauty so true
A heart straight from Heaven, a sweet smile that heals
Your touch is electric, you're too good to be real
CHORUS
Oh a change has gotta come
And it's got to be soon
We both see the truth
by the light of the moon
you can lie through your pain
Or let me stop the rain
But Darling it's time to choose
Whitney plays perfectly, but she doesn’t quite want to delve into what the song means. Kevin, though, doesn’t want to scuttle the issue any longer.
“What do you think of the first verse?”
“It’s deep. Pretty too, you know?”
Kevin nods his head and continues: “Because I had originally written at the end of that verse, ‘it hurts to see bruises on your body at night.”
Whitney sighs and bites her lip again. “Well, I’m glad you changed it."
She gets up to leave, but Kevin puts his hand on her arm softly.
“I didn’t write that to push your buttons, Whitney. I’m just telling you that I’d never hurt you, and sometimes it’s obvious to me at least, that he does.”
“I would never let him get hits off of me! I have two brothers who taught me how to fight …”
“So you’re saying you two physically fight? That doesn’t mean **** to me, Whitney. Would you listen to yourself? He shouldn’t be starting physical fights with his wife. I don’t care if she does hit back.”
It takes a few minutes, but Kevin convinces Whitney to sit next to him again.
“Come on. We both know why we get together. Things are unnatural and weird between you and him,” Kevin says, rubbing her back. “It’s not a healthy relationship.”
Whitney settles down again, and Kevin checks his watch.
“If we’re going to hit the private beach, we need to do it soon. I’m going to shower quickly. Can I trust you not to steal this and run off to Clive with it?”
“Oh yes! I don’t need to give him any more reasons to send me around the world. He has enough of those.”
While Kevin is in the bathroom, Whitney runs through the verses and chorus in different orders, changing keys and hums something that turns into:
Bridge
You and me we're a forever love story
And we can give the sun it's glory
We'll light up the sky
If you stay, just stay
Whitney puts a Chicago blues instrumental on the song, and an impressive, yet understated run at the end of the bridge. Before long, Kevin is standing next to the piano dressed only jeans and a towel.
“Very, very smooth, Whitney. Why don’t you do that more often?”
Whitney shrugs and explains that she already has her hands full singing and executive producing. Then she eyes his chest hair, cropped in a perfect ‘T’ around his stomach and pecks.
“Are you checking me out?”
“Maybe. Are you gonna please keep this song from seeing the light of day?” Whitney gets up and faces Kevin. She rund her finger through his chest hair and looks into his face.
“If you leave him, absolutely.”
Whitney stops for a moment and looks at Kevin, their lips just about to touch. She averts her eyes slightly, then hold him tighter.
“OK. I’ll do it, and I mean it this time. Just help me to be strong, and I’ll do it.”