“Ah, Bee. I wish it were as simple as that. Even when you do find someone . . .” He trailed off and stared out at the murky blue. The calm after the storm. Amazing how nature was able to settle into a powerful stillness, even after all the chaos. Sidra had been right about that all along.
Abbey fidgeted, impatient with him. She pulled her small hand out of his and plunged it into her flower girl basket. “Did you give her makana aloha?”
“I tried.” Buying the old building, in hindsight, had been a bit over the top. But how else to show her he was invested and in it for the long haul? The test of time? Then again, her father had run a twenty-year bar tab to drink away his guilt. Had Sidra assumed he’d thrown money down in the same fashion, to assuage his own? Is that why she hadn’t reached out to him?
He jammed his hands in his pockets and kicked at the sand. He was done with guilt and grief. Sidra had taught him to learn to let it go, and he would always thank her for that.
Abbey ran ahead, dropping something out of her basket as she went.
Rick stooped to retrieve it. Not a rose petal this time. But the small familiar shell of his adopted homeland that he had given the little girl the first time he met her.
Back when he thought such a rarity was found once in a lifetime.
Twice, if you’re lucky, he heard Kat insist. A memory he had carried since he had given away the shell four years ago.
And a memory, along with Simone’s, that was a blessing. He was allowed to live, and love, again. Sidra had taught him that, too. But it was he alone who had had to instill it into his head and his heart. Funny how far he’d had to travel just to realize the journey had been within his grasp all along.
He jogged to catch up with Abbey. “You don’t want to lose this,” he said, stooping to deposit the moonrise shell back into her basket.
“Silly Uncle Riff. You can’t lose love!” She laughed, tugging at his waistcoat to keep him at her height. “You can find it, but you can’t lose it. ’Cuz it’s here.” She tapped the spot above the pocket where Adrian’s and Kat’s rings were stowed, and then smoothed back a rogue curl as the wind blew it across his cheek. “And here.” She patted his head. “And,” she whispered, as if she were bestowing a great secret, “in the stars.”
To his utter surprise, Abbey dipped down into a Deep Forward Fold like a skilled yogini. The little girl grabbed the shell from the basket, made a perfect Reverse Swan Dive up, and chucked it as far as she could throw it, toward the water’s edge.
“Abbey!” he exclaimed. But there was no time for admonishment. Guests were spilling onto the beach for the cocktail hour Kat and Adrian had wisely decided to have before the ceremony, so friends and family could meet, mingle, and break the ice.
“Please don’t be mad at me, Uncle Riff.”
Rick’s own ice floe, the one that had dammed in his chest since the band had reunited, melted away as he glimpsed the bride and groom, together for the first time on their wedding day. Kat, swathed in an elegant dove-gray gown, seemed to float across the sand. At arm’s length, she playfully held the hand of her partner in crime. He was all at once debonair and devilishly doting. And the happiest Rick had ever known him to be.
“Adrian on marriage” was going to be a beautiful thing.
Abbey careened away in the direction of the tent, where the rest of the bridal party was assembling to take pictures. But just beyond that . . .
Like a vision, the woman named after starlight walked barefoot along the shoreline in a beautiful orange sari. Her hair was loose, no ribbons today, and the lake breeze blew ripples in it, like a wave. Something by the shoreline appeared to catch her eye. Rick watched in wonder as she gracefully gathered the hem of her flowing gown and bent, slowly and deliberately, in a one-legged balance to retrieve whatever it was.
And he felt every grain of sand, hot under his heels, as he dug in and raced to join Sidra by the water.
Sidra
Makana Aloha
Sidra stood facing the lapping shore, eyes closed, and formed a perfect Tree pose. Her lower body was rooted, but her arms light. She was all at once balanced, strong, attuned. Sun and shadow caressed her face, and as the breeze picked up, she sensed she was not alone. Strong, warm arms bound her waist from behind, and she slowly lowered her pose, bring her prayer hands to her heart’s center. Leaning into the solid familiarity of Rick.
“What did you find, Goddess?”
His question was spoken softly against her, lips brushing against the silk draped over one shoulder. Without a word, she opened her clasped hands to reveal Abbey’s moonrise shell.
“Ah, the rare makana aloha,” he remarked, his rough fingers sliding over her smooth ones to caress the delicate treasure resting on her palm. “And what’s this?”
He moved the shell aside to study the mehendi adorning her hand, tracing the heart pattern. Like their relationship, it hadn’t taken long for the henna stain to mature and deepen. Rick took her hand in his and pressed his mouth against the spot where his initials blended with the intricate designs. She felt his smile blossom there. “Looks like a gift for me.”
“How did you spot them so fast?” she marveled.
He slowly turned her in his arms until they faced each other. “I’ve learned to appreciate the details . . . but not worry so much about how they fit the big picture.”
“I think I read somewhere you’ve become rather Zen,” she teased. “And speaking of the big picture . . .”
Abbey, just a pinwheel of color far down the beach, turned a perfect cartwheel in the sand, fancy dress and all.
Rick laughed. “I don’t know how she did it, but I am sure she will fill me in later.”
The lake seemed to want in on the joke. Sidra gave a yelp as it surged against their ankles, darkening the hem of her sari.
Rick stepped in deeper to steady her, the water weighing down the rolled edges of his dress pants. “I don’t care,” he said, dismissing it with a glance. “This is the calm after the storm I’ve been waiting for.”
“Thank you,” Sidra blurted. “For my song.”
“Thank you, for giving me courage to find the words.” He wove his fingers between her beautifully adorned ones.
There was something wholly new in his kiss, something that went way beyond rescue and redemption. Sidra tried to think of the words she needed to string together to convey her gratitude for what he had done to help save her building and her business, but only one emerged, like a new mantra, buzzing with energy as he repeated it back, reminding her that they were, indeed, together in this process.
“Love . . .” she breathed, allowing it to linger in her sigh as he captured her mouth once more, waking vibrations within her.
Epilogue
Rick
On Waves and Wings
Seventeen thousand fans can’t be wrong.
And even if they were?
Rick Rottenberg needed no validation. All he needed was the music, flowing like a straight line of energy from bandmate to bandmate across Madison Square Garden’s vast stage. And love, waiting patiently for him in the wings.
Right, wrong.
Soft, strong.
It hadn’t mattered, all along.
Jim rode his Paiste 14” Rude hi-hats like they were his one-way ticket out of the gates of hell. Sam was hot on his heels, bludgeoning the bass strings with exactly the kind of force needed to show the devil he meant business. And Adrian played licks off their backbeat that left scorching burn marks in his wake as he strode toward stage left. Rick watched the sea of arms undulate in the same direction as his lead guitarist. Pride and admiration swelled within him; his best mate had not only salvaged his shipwreck, he now sailed it victoriously from the heavy metal helm.
And the King of Doom?
He was just getting started.
Rick raised his mic stand like a scepter and not only heard, but felt the crowd hold its collective breath, as if preparing to be pulled into the undertow.
Sidra
stood side-stage with Kat, her eyes delighting and dancing, luring his gaze more than once during the evening’s performance. While the gig had been sold out for months, tonight he sang for her, for memories old and new. And for himself.
He ran his fingers through the bits of orange ribbon festooning the stand. Starting with a soft growl, he allowed his voice to grow seamlessly into a strong, sustained full sound that quickly evolved into an effortless scream.
Lyrics followed, channeling through him perfectly; he delivered each one with rhythmic intensity, never losing musical momentum.
Destined to do this? Perhaps.
But no matter what, he was enjoying the journey.
Casting another glance side-stage, he was surprised to see Abbey had replaced his fan club. She stood, coltish legs splayed and kid-size noise-canceling headphones on, throwing double rock horns his and Adrian’s way.
Her stepfather threw an amused smile at her and raised his brow at Rick before subtly nodding in the direction of the barricade.
It wasn’t exactly a coffee klatch down there, but the girls looked out for each other in the pit. And at home, while the band was on tour. They weren’t road widows. They were warrior women.
Stronger than steel, and softer than silk.
Rick swung the eight pounds of guitar that had been slung behind him back to front and center, joining Adrian’s dual guitar attack as if they were battling unseen forces to the death. Never missing a note . . . until something came sailing from the crowd. His peripheral vision registered the incoming object, but his mind was unable to reconcile exactly what it was as it struck his sternum with a muted thump. He jerked his hand, breaking a guitar string in the process, and stepped back.
Like a jousting knight, Rick had collected his share of lady favors throughout the years. Rock and roll–style tokens of appreciation: bras, panties . . . and most recently, a lone flip-flop.
But this?
“Is that . . . a diaper?” Jim’s voice flowed through the rest of the band’s in-ear monitors on the private mix. Their drummer sounded incredulous, but his hands and feet didn’t miss a beat.
Sam stepped up to his pedal board and kicked his own mic-mute to join the band-only conversation. “If that’s a nappy, I ’ope it ain’t a soiled ’un!”
The band’s backline tech deftly swooped in and unstrapped the guitar with the busted string, freeing Rick’s body from its customary armor. Leaving him free to retrieve the bounty at his feet.
It had a date written on it. A due date.
Sidra’s head was slowly shaking, but she was quick to grin. Not me, she channeled up toward Rick’s questioning gaze. Not right now, anyway.
Together, they had agreed to stay in the present. But who knew what the future held?
But as Adrian’s song had predicted, emerald eyes held it clear.
Kat’s hand was to her mouth, eyes wide and apologetic. She had missed her mark.
Adrian was playing both rhythm and lead in the improv instrumental jam going on. He had a stubborn “the show must go on” jut to his goateed chin, but his eyes glittered in realization as Rick held up Kat’s message.
“Mazel tov, Dad.” Rick hadn’t bothered using his own toggle at his feet to keep his message between them. He let it be known through public decree. Anything that took away from Corpse time, Rick now knew in his heart, wasn’t a threat. Not when the payoff was so much sweeter. The crowd roared their approval, too.
Fancy that.
The tide had shifted. Rick studied the sea before him. Thousands of hands were raised open in supplication, while feet were planted firmly. Dynamic tension at work.
Rick lifted his eyes to the rafters, turned his back to the crowd and, with arms wide, surrendered himself to the infinite possibility.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, thanks to my amazing team at Berkley: Leis, Bethany, Jessica, and Ryanne. Your attention to detail and your support are second to none! Super-huge thanks to Nalini Akolekar: for your guidance and advice, and for falling in love with Sidra and Riff on the early pages.
Kristin Contino and Pat O’Dea Rosen: thank you for lending your eyes and your thoughts, chapter by chapter. I know we never reached “the end” together on this one, but you were with me in spirit when I crossed the finish line. And thank you to my very best bestie, Alysa Cohen, for reading Deeper Than Dreams and Softer Than Steel back-to-back, and texting me comments and encouragement!
Thanks to Amanda Usen—I have so much fun plotting and posing with you! You’re a true friend for letting me drag you halfway across Atlanta during RWA Nationals to attend a Metal Yoga class. A big thank-you as well to Neda, the owner of Tough Love Yoga in Atlanta, for flying the heavy metal yoga flag and showing how such music can have a place in people’s practice.
Al Schnier and Frank Robbins deserve a round of applause for their go-to guitar advice and for making time in their busy touring schedules to not only read my books, but to always go out of their way to discuss them with me. Kudos to my husband, Jon, for answering weird recording studio questions without a second thought. Contrary to popular belief, I did not model my evil band managers after you!
And finally, I am ever grateful to my favorite yoga teacher and supportive friend, Kimberly Locke Gionis. Your words linger in my head after each class I take with you, and you helped shape Sidra and Evolve. Your knowledge, patience and energy are inspiring on and off the mat—Namaste!
Keep reading for an excerpt from the first Love & Steel novel
LOUDER THAN LOVE
Available from InterMix
Wednesday Warriors
“I’m telling you, you need to get rid of that bed.”
“Why? It’s a perfectly good bed.”
I watched as Marissa repeatedly slapped two packets of sugar against her palm, like a cop beating the confession out of her suspect—me.
“Look, I totally respect your memories with Pete and all. But you should take into consideration the possibility of some bad mojo hanging around your marriage bed should you decide to bring someone else into it.”
Her frosty manicured nails hovered over her coffee like it was a steaming cauldron. Any moment I expected an incantation to brew forth from her lips, meant to make me forget my broken heart. Or to at least get me laid for the first time since changing my area code from 212 to 914.
“It’s been almost four years, Tree. And you want to move forward,” Liz added. She detached the crumbly streusel, my favorite part of the coffee cake, from her slice and offered it in consolation.
I hastily sipped my latte, earning a scalded tongue to go along with the aforementioned broken heart. “So what should I do with it? The bed?”
“You could donate it,” Karen suggested. “St. Greg’s is having a rummage sale after Easter.” She gave me an encouraging smile, quickly looking to the others for backup.
Recently established in Lauder Lake with her shiny new family in their shiny new eco-friendly house, Karen was never quite sure how to blend in with my high school posse. Her knowledge of my situation was understandably less than that of my lifelong girlfriends. Not that I held it against her, of course. We met after Abbey and I had fled Manhattan, the wreck still rubbing me raw each waking morning and spurring me on to put some miles between us and the pain.
Home could not be where Pete had existed one day and not the next. So the place where I had existed before I met Pete became home once more.
“I suppose that’s a good plan,” I managed. The steam arm on the espresso machine behind me hissed and sighed.
Marissa gave me the sympathetic-best-friend-of-the-poor-widow nod as the other girls murmured their agreement; my very own Greek chorus clad in Lucky Brand jeans.
I turned and glanced out the window of Starbucks. It was odd to see almost the exact same view of the Main Street from my youth. Like walking through a dream, where familiar things are altered by the tiniest tweaks.
There was the hardware store, the post office, my dad’s
antique shop. The flavor of the day, dime-a-dozen coffee shop we were now sitting in had once been Colby’s Five and Dime Store. Marissa and I used to spend our hard-earned allowances there on Lemonheads and Cow Tales when we were nine; it was where we had perfected our methods of shoplifting chocolate bars at age eleven.
“I’ll bet Leanna can come help. Ed’s got that truck.” Marissa threaded her arm through the maze of cardboard cups and squeezed my hand.
“Where is she today?” Karen asked.
“Therapy,” I explained. “Ed finally agreed to go with her.”
Liz scraped her chair closer. “I’ll help feather your new love nest.” She gave my shoulder a bump. “You need a single chick’s eye, not these yapping yentas trying to Martha Stewart you to death.”
“Tree doesn’t need a love nest, Liz. She needs a sanctuary,” Marissa insisted. “Just a peaceful place for herself to enjoy and maybe . . . JUST maybe . . . a certain blond-haired, hazel-eyed ex-cornerback might coming knocking.” She let her great dark Sophia Loren bedroom eyes emphasize her point with a blink and a wink.
I laughed. “Give it a rest, Falzone!”
Marissa’s brain had gone to mush from watching too many sappy Lifetime original movies and saw my bliss in the form of Grant Overhill, my first serious crush (for two long years) and my first steady boyfriend (for two short months) in the ninth grade. He also happened to be the man who took over my family’s antique business when my dad retired five years ago. And he was single at the moment. It was all too much for Marissa to bear; she loved to torture me with the prospect, and I, in turn, loved to drive her nuts with my indifference. Not my type. Sloppy kisser. (Or at least he was at fifteen.) Sort of smelled like my dad, now that he worked in the shop. Like wood and old books. Yick.
“Oooh, I saw him in Wild Oats the other day, he’s a hottie,” Karen enthused. “He helped me get a box of quinoa off the shelf from the tippy-top.”
Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) Page 33
