“Bella Wesley. Good to see you in here.”
He steps out from behind the piano.
“Hey!” I give him a hug. “Your hair looks great.” I touch his dark waves that hang midway down his back. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. Even though we work in the same building.”
“You don’t usually hang out by the music lounge.” His voice is quiet.
“True,” I say softly.
He nods at the guitar case in my hand. “I have to say you look good holding a guitar again, girl.”
My heart lifts and I smile at him. “Thanks. The thing is, she needs a little help getting back into playing shape. That’s why I’m here.”
I met Guy my junior year of high school. Tari and Peter were in the middle of a brief break-up, and Tari had an upcoming date with a boy who wanted to play pool. Neither of us knew a thing about it, so we went to the pool hall to try to figure it out.
Guy was older than me by a few years, but he’d seen me perform at an open mic, and he came up and introduced himself. We ended up playing together. He gave me stage pointers, and we both performed for the small crowds that would gather at the music lounge. It was a huge confidence booster for me because Guy had been to New York and Los Angeles and played there, and he told me I had what it takes. And because he could do it and had, I believed him.
He became my music mentor. He helped me with my songwriting and gave me lots of performing advice.
Guy gestures for me to follow him over to the wooden bench by the wall. “What’s the problem?”
“A broken fret, and I think one of the knobs may be loose.”
I unlatch the case, and together we take a look at the guitar.
“She looks pretty good,” he says. “It won’t take much to get her back to where she was before.”
I look up and make contact with his knowing dark gaze. “I’ll pay you for your time. Just let me know when you’ve finished with the repairs.”
“If you want to wait around, it may not take too long.”
“I wish I could. But I have to meet my mom. And just the very sight of me holding a guitar throws her into a bad mood.”
My mother never liked hearing me sing even when I was a child. She and my father would regularly skip my school performances with one excuse or another. They weren’t there when I sang my first solo, when I won first place in the talent competition, or when I was the lead in our town’s rendition of Grease. Ayden and his mom, along with my grandfather, Tari and Peter, made sure to attend every one of my events, and while I valued their support more than I can say, their presence also made my parents’ absence even clearer.
Mom wanted me to be a scientist, the first female in my family to obtain a PhD. She’d been pushing me toward it for as long as I can remember.
Except music was my dream. And moving to L.A. was something I’d been wanting to do for years. But once I made it there, I was so busy trying to keep up appearances for my parents with the excuse I’d given them in order to go to L.A. in the first place—the opportunity of a lifetime, to study marine biology—that the real me, the part of me I cared about, was drowning. I dropped out of the full-time biology program after freshman year of college, and my parents pulled all financial aid for me to continue classes. They were sure that would bring me back home to Lucky Bay.
But I was stubborn. I got a day job at an advertising firm for a boss who rightfully distrusted me because my heart wasn’t in advertising. Bill was awful, but I met Jasalie there. We grew close, and working with her made things bearable. But in addition to my full-time job, I was trying to fit in singing and going to school part-time. Eventually, something had to give. I just didn’t expect it would be my boyfriend and my music manager in one fell swoop. I was still short of my college degree when I left California, but this summer, I’ll finally complete my coursework. I swore once I graduated college, I’d get a “real” job and stop holding onto my pipe dream of making it as a singer.
“So, anytime you want the stage again”—Guy gestures with his arm—“You got it, honey. Just let me know.”
I swallow. Just the idea of it makes me want to throw up. Guy raises an eyebrow at me like he knows.
Performing is a full-on risk. You’re either in or you’re out. There is no middle ground in sticking your neck out as a performer. And I’m well aware of that, so I’ve chosen to take the coward’s route for the last three years and stay on the ground. If my decision weren’t haunting me so much, maybe I wouldn’t be suffering.
“I appreciate the offer, Guy. Thanks.”
He nods at me. “Take care of yourself, Bella. I’ll let you know when your guitar’s ready.”
Maybe by then, I’ll be ready too.
When I leave the pool hall and step onto the wooden walkway, I spot my grandfather waving from the docks.
He ambles his way over to me and wraps me in a big hug. I lean under Grandpa’s Navy cap and give him a kiss on his wrinkled cheek.
“How’d it go this morning?” I ask him.
“It was a good morning.” Grandpa nods and wipes his brow. “Hard time getting all the nets in, though. It’s a windy day.”
I glance at the big waves crashing onto the rocks. “It is.”
Grandpa started going down to the docks after Grandma died. He was retired from banking and bored. He helps some of the local fishermen bring in the nets and anchor the boats. He also helps out with the tourist boat, The Madeleine, mainly because he enjoys meeting new people, and he loves being out on the water.
Grandpa eyes my long black skirt and cream blouse, the kind of outfit I only wear when I eat at a fancy restaurant. “Lunch with your mom, huh?”
I nod. “I’m worried her medication’s not working right.”
I meet my mother every week after her therapy session. She won’t let me come to the appointments; she won’t let me take her to the appointments; and she won’t let me wait for her within a five-block circumference of the psychiatrist’s office. So we’ve reached a tenuous agreement—we meet for lunch, at which point she’s supposed to share with me any changes to her treatment plan.
I’ve tried to get my dad to come to the lunches as well, but he rarely has “time.” He’s too busy being a lawyer. Lucky Bay may be split between fishermen and doctor-lawyer professionals, but the two sides are bound together by the strong New England work ethic that pervades here. My father and Ayden’s both worked the same hours—all twenty-four.
“Your mother…” Grandpa shakes his head. “She won’t talk to me about any of this stuff. I try, but she shut me out the same day she shut out your father.”
I swallow. “She stopped trusting men. It’s not your fault.”
His eyes are filled with sorrow. “She can’t handle the pain,” he says simply. “Everyone’s built differently, Bella.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not especially gifted in the emotions department myself.”
“Bullshit,” he says gruffly but with a twinkle in his eye. “You know how you feel. You know what you want. Don’t pretend otherwise. Not to me and certainly not to yourself.” He clears his throat. “So. You and Ayden.”
I look at him in surprise. “That’s quite a subject change, Grandpa. What about Ayden and me?”
“Are you two going to be okay? With him so far away?”
“Of course. We did this before, remember? I lived in L.A., and he stayed here.”
“Yes, but you were so young. You left here at eighteen; in some ways, the break was probably good for you both. This time is different. You’re both mature, and I think maybe it hurts more. No?”
I purse my lips. “I don’t think we have a choice but to handle it the best we can.”
Grandpa lifts a bushy white eyebrow and glowers at me. “You could go with him.”
I roll my eyes. “Why is everyone suggesting that? It’s completely impractical.”
“Who else is suggesting it?” That eyebrow of his rises even higher on his forehead.
>
I give him a meaningful stare. “You’re too nosy. And too intuitive.”
He chuckles. “So Ayden wants you with him, does he? What’d you say?”
I don’t answer, but Grandpa reads my expression. “Oh, no, sweetheart.”
I throw up my hands. “What was I supposed to tell him? That I failed there once, in a very dramatic, public sort of fashion; but sure, I’ll give it another whirl. That makes no sense!”
“What’s right doesn’t always make sense. Don’t use your past to stop your future, Bella. Your mother froze herself in time. You don’t have to.”
“That’s the thing, though—Mom. I couldn’t live with myself if I left, and she…”
“Broke down again like she did the last time you moved to California?” Grandpa shakes his head. “Wasn’t your fault. You know that. Deep down, you do.”
“She’s just so fragile right now. I’d like to see her stabilize.” I pause and say what’s on my mind. “The other thing is, Ayden and I…we’re just friends. And moving across the country together feels like something couples do. Not best friends.”
Grandpa winks at me. “Sounds like you two have a lot to work out.”
Sounds like we do.
I kiss Grandpa goodbye and walk across the square to The Mainer restaurant.
As I reach the front door, I glance through the front windows and see Mom already seated at her favorite table.
My chest aches at the view of my mother’s pinched face through the glass. I can feel her pain from here, and I know that loss doesn’t always have to come from death. Sometimes somebody lives but is anchored under water all the same.
I suck in a breath and plaster on a smile as I walk through the door and over to my mother’s table.
She flicks her gaze to me briefly and taps the round table in a clear gesture to hurry up and sit down.
I nod cheerily as I take a seat across from her. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” she says in her usual clipped tone.
I want to ask her to please tell me the truth for once. But I don’t.
Instead, I glance up at the chandelier lights hanging from the ceiling. I feel like I’m living in the 1800s when I come here. I turn my attention to the sterile white tablecloth in front of me.
“Beautiful cloth, isn’t it?” Mom says, noticing my gaze.
I nod politely.
“They do such a lovely job here.”
I look back at my mother, forcing my eyes to focus in a way they’ve never wanted to. Lucy Wesley looks the same as always—dark hair up in a tight bun, black jacket, and dress pants. Sometimes she wears skirts and sometimes she changes colors, but it’s always the same general look—straight-laced, Puritanical, fifth-generation New Englander. But underneath all of that, a storm is brewing. It has been for years.
When I was ten, my dad had affair number one. It went on for months before my mother hired a private investigator and caught him in the act with his secretary at a hotel four towns over.
That event changed my entire life. Before it, my mother was fun and loving with me. She had always been strict and proper and insisted on good manners, but she seemed to like being my mother. After that event, she turned cold and shut me out. Ayden’s father had died three months prior, and Ayden and I clung to one another like we had no one else.
We became each other’s salvation in a world where we’d lost hope and faith in humanity. And while Ayden couldn’t get his dad back, I haven’t stopped trying to resurrect my mom. I know the warm Lucy Wesley with the silly sense of humor is in there somewhere; I just don’t have a clue how to reach her.
And when affair number two happened while I was away in California, it broke my mother’s spirit, seemingly for good.
I came home to an absolute shell of the woman I’d left behind four years prior.
I was furious with my father, who seemed clueless how to help other than to promise me he was in a support group to make sure he wouldn’t cheat again. Ayden came by immediately when I called him, and the two of us talked my father into planning an intervention. So what positives came out of that intervention? Other than getting Mom started with a good psychiatrist, not much.
First, she overdosed. To this day, she claims it was an accident. Her psychiatrist sort of agreed. She said my mother did not exhibit specific suicidal tendencies, but that she was confused and hopeless. She took enough pills that she needed to have her stomach pumped, and that experience made her swear she wouldn’t do it again.
Nevertheless, she has what feels like a lifelong prescription for antidepressants, and she claims the pills take the edge off. That may be true, but I swear I haven’t heard my mother laugh in years. Once in a rare moment, I can coax a genuine smile out of her. But a laugh? I’ve honestly forgotten what my mother’s laugh sounds like.
“So!” I say enthusiastically once the waitress has brought over our food. “What happened at your appointment? Did you tell Dr. Thibbs about my suggestion to maybe switch up your meds?”
Mom digs into her halibut. “I did, and she said she’d look into it.”
I furrow my brow. “Will she have a new medication for you by next week?”
“I’m not sure.” Mom averts her gaze and reaches for her reading glasses. “I want to go over the party list with you.”
“Right now? But we haven’t finished discussing your appointment.”
She whips a lined pad of paper and a ballpoint pen out of her purse and puts them on the table next to my plate of pasta and chicken. “You said you’d help.”
After Dad won a big case protecting commercial fishing on the docks, his stock as a lawyer soared, and Mom got stuck on the idea of throwing a town party for him, an honor previously given only to our mayor. She petitioned Lucky Bay and after much deliberation, approval was granted. It’s almost like she thinks she and my father will reignite their love for one another with this party. I’ve been roped into working on the planning with her because she can’t do anything alone, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her no.
My mother’s so rarely excited about anything, and if planning a party will brighten the darkness she lives in, then I’ll pitch in as best I can.
She taps the pad of paper sitting in front of me. “Mirabella, make sure you write down all that I say.”
“How about I type it up and email you a copy?” I’m already reaching for my phone. “It will be much faster this way, Mom. Let’s step into the modern era together.”
Mom’s so enthusiastic about giving me her ideas that she willingly endures my teasing. “Number one is place settings.”
We chat about the party throughout our lunch, and by the time we’ve finished eating, Mom’s about exhausted her long list of items.
“Now, in terms of music,” she says as I stiffen. “Do you have any ideas?”
I try to keep my expression neutral. “I’m not sure.”
When Max got me my first solo gig at a new bar in downtown L.A., I relied on Guy’s counsel the first time I stepped on stage. Granted, it was in an area of town so seedy the owner wouldn’t let me outside until my cab had pulled up and opened the door for me to jump in. But then I got a better gig, and a better one. The thing is, for every small victory, there were about ten times as many rejections—for my demo and a record contract of any kind.
I had a secret fantasy of signing a record deal, getting a number one song on the radio, and then telling my mom everything.
But when that didn’t happen, I kept my failed auditions and frustrations to myself. And as the years passed, the lie got easier to keep up. Because once I returned home and stopped playing guitar altogether, I figured why tell her now?
“Mirabella!” Mom waves her hand in front of my face.
I drag my head back into the present and blink.
“We’ll need music for the party. I don’t know the first thing about this subject. Can you look into it for me?”
“Yes, of course I will. And I’ll deal with the cat
ering and florist this week.”
Satisfied, she gestures for the check.
We leave the restaurant together, and my mother heads immediately for her car.
“Have a good day, Mom,” I call out.
As I walk by the wharf, Michael’s boat has just docked. He does a final look-over of the ropes before he turns and walks down the wood boards, away from the sea and back to land.
His expression is tight, and when I call out a hello, he barely acknowledges me.
Something’s off. And I bet Ayden’s new job has everything to do with whatever’s going on with his brother.
I reach for my phone and type out a quick message.
Hey Ayd. Thinking of you—hope L.A. is sunny and warm. I’m going to spend tonight studying for my test; by the time you get back, I’ll be halfway to graduating.
His response comes immediately. My fingers will be crossed for you. Miss you, B.
My throat clogs with emotion, and I slip my phone back into my pocket without writing back.
I miss him too.
I’ve missed him every day since he’s been gone.
But I have to get used to this feeling of emptiness because soon, Ayden Wild will be gone from Lucky Bay for good.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ayden
I zip up my bag and leave Dylan’s guest room. His and Jasalie’s house in Malibu is so big I have to walk past three other bedrooms and down a winding set of stairs before I find him. He’s sitting on the couch in his massive living room, making out with his fiancée.
“You ready to go, Ayd?” Dylan says, his attention not on me but on the beautiful blonde in his arms.
I chuckle. “You two freaking make me sick. If I weren’t so damn happy for you, I’d throw up.”
Dylan’s lips return to Jasalie’s, the only woman I’ve ever seen who could make my cousin forget about football for two seconds. He wraps his arms more tightly around her and leans her back against the couch cushions. She laughs and pushes him away.
“Don’t be rude to our houseguest.” She turns to me, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and happiness. “We’ve loved having you here, Ayden. And Dylan’s so happy you’re moving to L.A.”
Ayden Page 7
