Bear Hugs

By Ginny McBlain

Paige Holbrook needs help to bring her son out of a coma. In desperation, she turns to Bidwell Bear, young Jamie's TV idol.

From the first meeting between Paige and Hunter Blackwell, the man inside the Bidwell costume, each experiences an attraction neither can ignore. But Hunter is about to realize his life-long dream--to be a singing star.

Glitz and glamour aren't Paige's thing, not after what she's been through with her star quarterback, playboy ex-husband.

Is Hunter's love worth the glare of the spotlight?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Uncial Press
• Release date: Mar 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781601742360

Book preview

California

Prologue

He didn't sound like a bear. His voice, whiskey smooth and low, curled her toes, and when he sang his little ditties shivers crawled along her spine. His voice conveyed sexy, his words portrayed caring. Her imagination conjured breath-stopping handsome.

Paige chastised herself for such a schoolgirlish notion, and stuck her head around the family room door. Jamie, put your shoes on. Daddy'll be here in a few minutes.

Mo-om, Bidwell's on.

And nothing on earth, not even a trip to the zoo with his father, would keep Jamie Holbrook from his daily date with Bidwell Bear.

What did the man under the fuzzy bear costume look like? The question nagged every time she heard the Bidwell Bear theme song. So often voices didn't match the mental image they proclaimed. Good old lovable Bidwell was most likely a balding fellow, whose paunch was camouflaged by his costume's thick artificial fur.

You can put your shoes on and watch Bidwell at the same time.

A toe-tapping rhythm emanated from the television set. Mom, watch this! Bidwell's gonna dance and do a flip. Watch, Mom. He's awesome.

Intrigued in spite of herself, Paige perched on the edge of the couch, her gaze trained on the screen. How could anyone wearing a bulky suit move with such grace? Bidwell sang, bidding his young fans to share and play fair while he executed a terrific soft-shoe and emphasized his lesson by turning a back flip. His electric blue, Greek fisherman's cap dropped to the floor. The long, vest slid up to his armpits. How he kept from getting tangled in the poppy red garment, she'd never know. The image of a well-honed athlete flashed through her mind.

Didya see him, Mom? Jamie's eyes, blue as the Nebraska sky on a clear summer day, sparkled.

Not for the first time, Paige thanked her lucky stars that Jamie had chosen such a lovable, worthy idol. The Bidwell Bear Show was fun, fast-paced and informative, geared to the limited attention span of a pre-schooler. In Jamie's mind, the TV character's word was gospel.

Jamie shook her knee. Mo-om! Didya see Bidwell flip?

Sure did. Now, please put your shoes on.

Jamie shoved his feet into battered sneakers and pulled on the laces. I make rabbit ears, right?

That's right-- The doorbell chimed.

Later that afternoon, Paige made her way through the crowd of proud parents and excited graduates looking for her favorite students to tell them good-bye.

Ms. Holbrook!

The Vice Principal's voice sounded urgent. Yes, Mr. Bentley?

Your father called. There's been an accident. Jamie's hurt badly. They've taken him to the trauma center at UNMC.

Chapter One

Hunter Blackwell jerked the bear costume hood from his head and plowed his hand through his soaking hair. Taping was over for the day, finally. He rubbed his back and flexed his sore knee. How many cotton pickin' times had he performed that flip and not gotten twisted up in his baggy vest? More than he could count. He was gonna pay for that misstep or whatever it was that sent him sprawling into the light stanchion. Although Bidwell's back flip was signature to the character, at times like this he wished he'd never included gymnastic stunts in the show.

As soon as he was in his dressing room he yanked the soft black nose from his face. He removed the contact lenses that changed his unbear-like blue eyes to a believable dark brown. As he shed the Bidwell trappings, Hunter wondered how many more times he'd don the costume and persona of Bidwell Bear. Through the month remaining before hiatus, another season, or never? It sure wouldn't be never. He was contracted for the season, which meant he'd play the character at least until hiatus, but after that...?

After stripping the bear suit from his sweaty body, he headed for a quick shower. He'd rather face Monica cleaned-up.

He returned to the dressing area minutes later and frowned at the cloud of smoke emanating from the recliner facing the window. Blast it, Monica! How many times have I asked you not to smoke those filthy things in here?

The swivel chair turned, revealing a twiggy woman in its depths. How'd you know it was me?

Simple. You're the only one I know rude enough to ignore my repeated request. You're setting a bad example for the kids, besides injuring your health.

The kids don't see me, bucko, and my health is my own business. Monica deWitt, executive producer of The Bidwell Bear Show, puffed on the cigarette through the silver holder clamped between her lips. She'd be pretty if she'd grow her close-cropped spiked hair to a reasonable length and wear less dramatic make-up. She levered herself out of the chair and waved a ream of paper under his nose. You haven't signed your contract.

Hunter perched on the dressing table bench and pulled on his socks. We've been through this before. I'm not committing myself to another season until I talk to Palmer about my tour.

That old has-been. You don't really expect him to come up with a gig better than this. She rattled the contract under Hunter's nose.

Palmer's done all right by me so far. I wouldn't have those-- Hunter tilted his head toward the Oscar residing in splendid glory on the shelf above the piano beside his golden record --if it weren't for Palmer.

C'mon, Hunter, you got a lucky break. Palmer May didn't have one damn thing to do with it.

Yeah, it was a lucky break, but the opportunity wouldn't've come my way if my agent hadn't greased the wheels. We've been over this before. I never intended to make Bidwell my life's work. This is my chance to do what I really want to do. I can't afford to let it slip through my fingers. I want to sing; I've always wanted to sing. If Palmer can arrange a concert tour, I'm outta here.

You're a damn fool. One hit song does not a career make. I'm offering you a hell of a lot of money to do Bidwell for the next three years. Between your salary and your percentage from Bidwell products, you'll be stinkin' rich.

This isn't about money, Monica. I've already got more money than I need. It's about dreams. Bidwell's a stopgap. You've known that from the beginning.

She blew a puff of smoke in his face. So, we didn't envision how big Bidwell would become. You can't leave while the show's hot. Her voice rose to a wail. You can't.

Can't wasn't a word Hunter Blackwell liked or understood well. I most certainly can. Anyone can romp around in a bear suit.

That's not true and you know it. She dragged in another lung-full of smoke. You're the creative genius behind the show. We can't do it without you.

He stood and shoved his feet into brown tasseled loafers. The Bidwell Bear Show was Monica's life. It started out as an amusement, financed by dear old dad to get her out of his hair. With syndication, Bidwell's popularity had soared beyond anything either of them had ever imagined. But that didn't mean he had to stay tied to playing to a kid audience when all he'd ever wanted was a career as a pop singer.

He turned around and picked up his comb. Flattery will get you nowhere, especially while you're blowing that cancer stick in my face.

She found a paper cup and stubbed the cigarette out. There! Are you happy?

It's a start. He tamed his hair and loaded the pockets of his khaki slacks, and strode to the door. I've got an appointment with Palmer in an hour. We'll talk again tomorrow.

A surge of excitement shot through Hunter as he was driving along Santa Monica Boulevard toward his agent's edge-of-Hollywood office. After all the years of hard work, all the dreams, all the we'll-let-you-knows that hadn't panned out, the singing career of Hunter Troy Blackwell, professionally known in the music business as Troy Black, was about to take off.

Smog obscured the sun and traffic moved at a pace somewhere between a shuffle and a plod. Street people congregated on the sidewalk and debris danced in the salty ocean breeze. With a sudden pang, he longed for the clean air and friendly faces of the Missouri burg where he'd grown up. He flipped on his turn signal and shook his head. Cranstown, Missouri, where the action wasn't. Los Angeles didn't offer the wholesomeness of small town Mid-America, but LA was where careers were made. He parked his SUV and entered the aging stucco building, climbing the flight of stairs to the Palmer May Agency.

Hi, Mamie, he greeted the spindly lady at the front desk.

Hey, Troy. She batted her mascara-caked lashes at him. What's cookin', hot buns?

You're gonna get slapped with a sexual harassment suit one of these days if don't start watching your tongue.

Nah, Mamie patted her glaring red beehive, you guys love me too much. Palmer's secretary/receptionist matched everything else in the agency, including the talent agent himself--on the downward slope from the pinnacle of success.

Hunter grinned. That we do. I've got an appointment with Palmer.

Hold on, blue eyes, while I buzz him.

You're mixing me up with Sinatra.

Nah, she winked, you're cuter than Frankie ever was. Hold on. She picked up the phone and hit the intercom button. Troy Black's here, Palmer. She cradled the receiver. Go on in.

Troy! Palmer squeaked in his high-pitched voice. He pushed himself to his feet and shook hands. Whatcha know, old son?

Palmer May was one of the world's greatest caricatures in a town where eccentric was the norm. Balding, he covered his pate with salt and pepper swaths pulled from sideburns and French braided from the top of his head to his fringe, where the braid merged into a ponytail held tightly with a piece of red rickrack. He wore loud polyester sports coats that strained around his girth and even louder ties.

You tell me.

Got your tour finalized. Palmer plopped in his chair, which creaked in protest. "You start as soon as Bidwell goes on hiatus."

A burst of anticipation zipped up Hunter's spine. All it had taken was one timely serendipitous event. Dare to Dream, written and performed by Troy Black, had won this year's Academy Award for Best Song. The theme song for a low budget film by the same name had soared to the top of the charts, along with the rest of the soundtrack. No one could've predicted the appeal of the movie. Certainly, nobody expected such a sleeper to win the Oscar for the Best Picture and for his tune to ride the film's coattails as Best Song.

He couldn't rest on his laurels. Fans' memories were notoriously short. A big break did not a career make, as Monica had pointed out so pithily. If Troy Black was to become a major singing star, he must make it happen. And that meant a concert tour in smaller cities, wowing audiences with the very best he could give them. He still fought the frequent urge to pinch himself. No more smoky dives and second-rate clubs. Troy Black had finally made it off the bottom rung on the ladder to stardom. Where'm I going?

"Gotcha booked in nine cities: Sacramento, Phoenix, San Antonio, Louisville, Tampa, Charlotte, Philly, Cleveland and Omaha. One show in each town. Between Philly and Cleveland you stop off in the Big Apple to appear on Good Morning America."

Hunter blinked and stared at his agent. "Good Morning America? No kidding?"

Palmer puffed out his chest. "I don't kid about personal appearances, old son. Gotcha scheduled for a radio interview in each town, too. You do the whole gig in two weeks, then it's back here like you said.

You'll have plenty of time to write new tunes afore you start that bear routine again. Palmer's disparagement of Bidwell came through in his tone. You're gotta quit dancing 'round in that stupid suit if you wanna be a real star.

For the first time, Palmer's badgering didn't set his teeth on edge. After eight years, the daily grind of the TV show had become old. It had started as fluke, and his success had sidetracked him on his way to the career for which he yearned. Rather than digress into an old argument that couldn't be settled anytime soon, Hunter said the first thing that popped into his head. Not exactly first-rate concert towns.

Did you expect Vegas and Madison Square Garden first time out? Palmer sounded testy.

Of course not. I know I have to pay my dues.

You ain't starting where most do, you know. I coulda set you up as an opener for a headliner.

Ah, dang. Now I've got to smooth the old turkey's ruffled feathers. This is better than I expected, Palmer. I know New York and Vegas are out of my league for a while yet.

Once sought after, Palmer May wasn't on the must-have list for the top stars any longer. Even though Hunter could afford a more prestigious representative thanks to Bidwell, he'd have to make Troy Black a household name before the big guys would give him the time of day. One day. One day soon. He wanted more than a two-bit agent and two-bit gigs. Move over Justin Timberlake, move over Prince, move over Jay Z. Troy Black was about to claim his moment in the spotlight.

Mamie's got the itinerary: gigs, flights, hotels, the whole she-bang, all typed up for you.

Thanks, Palmer. This is great, really great.

Do me proud, old son.

You bet. Hunter took a step toward the door.

Take a load off, Troy. We got things to discuss afore you take off. I'm gonna issue a press release announcin' your tour in the mornin'.

Hunter sank into a chair, wishing all this could wait and knowing it couldn't. They were compressing everything that should take months into weeks.

Got you booked on Jimmie Kimmel Live tomorrow, Palmer went on. You'll sing Dare to Dream, then get an opportunity to plug the tour.

Great! Kimmel and GMA, wow! Hunter realized he should be jaded enough not to get a thrill out of appearing on big time early morning and late night shows. Well, he wasn't. If this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up.

Called Sebastian Tolini about a snazzy wardrobe.

Hunter's head jerked up. Whoa. Not Tolini. His designs are pure sleaze.

Troy, old son, sex sells. You want babes to go ape for your stuff, you gotta make their little hearts throb.

Not by strutting on stage wearing glittering strings of nothing. I don't sing that kind of material. The majority of my audience are the moms of Bidwell's fans. Besides I've heard from a few twelve and thirteen-year-olds. It wasn't too long ago that those young people were hanging on Bidwell's every word.

We're not mentioning that dancin' bear thing you do. The fewer people who connect Troy Black and that damn bear, the better.

"Fine with me, but I'm not denying I'm Bidwell either. Which means a clean image. Squeaky clean, Palmer. No more setting me up escorting sex symbols with their boobs hanging out and their skirt split up to tomorrow. My mom almost had a heart attack when she saw that picture in that trashy tabloid, Eyes of the World. Took me a week to calm Monica down."

Palmer squirmed in his chair. Just trying to build name recognition.

Yeah, well, that's not the kind of recognition I want to cultivate. Hunter stood and braced both hands on the desk top. If we try to keep my Bidwell role a secret, someone's bound to find out at just the wrong time. I'm looking to create a sensation with my music, not tabloid fodder. Got it?

You'll get a bigger draw my way, old son.

Maybe, maybe not. I'm willing to risk it. I happen to think there are plenty of fans who'll find a G-rated performer refreshing.

Look at who's at the top of the charts. Palmer countered.

Me, for a few weeks, you old cynic. I'm not backing down on this, Palmer. My songs are about love, not sex. Hunter slouched in the chair, his body in a straight line, diagonal to the floor, his ankles crossed. I want a Boy Scout image or I'll cancel the whole thing.

You can't do that!

Watch me.

Okay. Okay. We'll do it your way. But don't come cryin' to me when you bomb.

It's a deal. Hunter bounced to his feet and offered is hand. Thanks.

You signing Monica's contract?

Haven't decided yet. I'm going to see how this tour goes. Hunter stepped into the reception area.

Here's your itinerary, Troy. Mamie handed him a thick envelope. Tickets, confirmation numbers, everything's in the packet. Call me if I forgot anything.

Mamie, the marvel of efficiency, forget something? Not in this lifetime.

She preened and patted her hair. Check it over. There's a first time for everything.

He executed a one finger salute. Will do. See you.

He bounded down the stairs, his mind in a whirl. The prospect of a coast-to-coast tour, with all those side appearances done in a mere two weeks, daunted him. Yet Palmer had met Hunter's stipulations. He would perform his shows across the country and still have time to write material for a new album before Bidwell taping began again. If he decided to do another season. And that was a big if.

He didn't want to burn his bridges, even if he could afford an extended period of time without a sure income. Bidwell was a deeply ingrained part of him. Despite the grind, despite his achievement with Dare to Dream, despite his craving for a singing career, it would be hard to leave the children's show.

In order to become a successful singer, he needed to devote more time to his craft than he could when Bidwell was in production. That was why this mini tour was important. If he took with live audiences, then he'd know which way to go. If not, he'd fall back on the TV show.

So many if's.

Troy's music was a throwback, a blend of styles of the 60s and 70s. A little Harry Connick, Jr. here, a little Michael Bublé there, sprinkled with a touch of old time Frank Sinatra and a healthy dose of something special all his own. Over the years he'd worked on his stage presence. Now he'd have to polish his act. What worked in the intimate setting of clubs wouldn't necessarily work on the stage in big auditoriums.

He needed a break. Between taping the show and performing five nights a week at the Pacific Club, he had stretched himself pretty thin. At least he'd finished his gig at the club. Not that his free evenings meant he could goof off. There was way too much to do before he left town, starting with new duds.

Palmer was right about one thing. His image needed pizzazz. Suits like those favored by Bennett were too staid for a thirty-one-year-old. The outrageous garb of the rockers and rappers set his teeth on edge. He'd have to come up with a look somewhere in-between and fast.

* * * *

Paige Holbrook stood, shoulders hunched, at the foot of the bed watching Jamie sleep. After all this time, she should be used to all the tubes attached to his small body, but she wasn't. An IV bottle dripped lifegiving fluid into a vein in his hand and a nasal cannula clipped to his nose supplied oxygen. Her heart twisted every time she saw the feeding tube into her son's stomach.

Why was she wasting time in this useless vigil? He slept as he'd done every moment since he'd slipped into a coma in the operating room three weeks ago. Not even the move from UNMC to the Rehabilitation Center at Methodist Hospital had roused him.

Perhaps the coma wasn't as deep as it had been at first. Or was that her imagination?

Did he really respond ever so slightly to the sound of her voice? She wanted to think so. Still he didn't look up at her with his big blue eyes. What she'd give to see those eyes sparkling with his usual impishness.

She stepped around to the side of the bed and brushed his soft blond hair from his forehead, careful not to touch the huge welt of the healing wound that ran from his cheek to his hairline. Jamie. It's Mommy, sweetie. Can you open your eyes? Jamie, if you can hear me, open your eyes.

Paige. Go home. You're wearing yourself out hanging around here day and night. We'll call you the minute there's any change.

Paige started and turned to the redheaded nurse. Oh, Bonnie. I didn't hear you come in.

I'm not surprised. You were too busy trying to wake up your little guy. It'll happen when his body's ready and not one minute before.

I know. It's just--

It's just that you can't leave. I understand. Bonnie patted her arm. Look at it this way. If you don't get some rest now, how are you going to cope when Jamie does wake up and needs you?

Oh, all right. Dad's probably wanting supper.

No doubt.

Paige bent over the bed and kissed Jamie's forehead. I'll be back tomorrow, son. Bonnie's right here. You aren't alone.

* * * *

Paige stepped from the elevator, her eyes peeled for anyone who looked like a reporter. Seeing no one she'd suspect, she made her way across the lobby and exited the hospital.

Has your little boy waked up yet, Ms. Holbrook? Does his face look awful? Have you told him his father's dead?

A chill crawled down her spine. Without conscious thought, Paige's hands balled into