Sing to Me (The Highlands Book 1)

by Ali M. Cross

“O-M-Gee! You’re really here!” A high-pitched, utterly unmistakable voice called out. Fiona’s best friend from high school, Katie, rushed in, Jack and Gavin trailing behind.

  She wanted to hear what the boys had to say, but Katie pulled her to her feet and into a hug that threatened to break Fiona in half. “I wish I’d known you were coming! I would have planned the best welcome home party eh-vah! I know Jill and Michael will want to see you. Jameson too, if you could handle seeing him. Oh! There’s this great club here now! You would totally love it. It’s like a karaoke bar, but it’s open to all kinds of talents. Like last week, Suzie Miller juggled! And she was GOOD! And O-M-G, you have got to meet the owner. He. Is. Hawt. If I wasn’t already married I’d totally make a move on him. And he’s soooo nice. You’ve gotta let me introduce you. His name’s Nix and he’s got this warm, sultry voice and this silky-looking hair—” Katie stopped short when she noticed Fiona staring over her shoulder. Katie looked back at Gavin, towering over her. “What?”

  “When do you breathe?” Gavin asked. He scowled as he glanced over Katie’s shoulder at Fiona, still trapped by Katie. “Fiona? Do you have something you want to tell us?”

  Fiona felt the dread she’d been stifling blossom over her skin. “Uh.” She knew what Nix would have told them. But how could she own up to the truth?

  “Is it true? You were crying and Nix was just trying to help?” Gavin normally had a lazy way of speaking, so when he enunciated every syllable everyone knew he was flat out mad.

  “Fiona? Crying?” Katie scoffed. Her pretty, plump face was still formed into a bright smile as she looked from one MacDonald sibling to the other.

  Fiona plopped down into her chair. She nodded her head, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

  Gavin stormed out of the room. Fiona knew he was furious with her. She’d allowed him to believe something bad about a man he thought to be good. She’d allowed him to go charging after her “attacker,” to put himself on the line for her. And she’d allowed him to be made a fool of. There were three things Gavin held above all others: truth, doing good, and his integrity. Fiona’d barely been home an hour and she’d managed to insult all three.

  “You should have told us, Fi.” Jack placed his hand on her head, but stopped himself from mussing her hair—he’d learned long ago that doing so was nigh unto a mortal sin as far as Fiona was concerned. Jack called the dogs to him and left the house through the back door, leaving silence in his wake.

  “What the heck?” Katie said after a moment. “Is somebody gonna tell me what I missed? And,” she turned to face Fiona, “why’d you let me go on and on about Nix when you’ve obviously already met him? And I thought you just got here—how in the world did you meet him before I even knew you were home? But O-M-G, tell me what you thought. Don’t you just love him? Isn’t he the cutest?”

  Katie had been a part of the family since she and Fiona were born just one day apart. Their mothers had made a pact while in the hospital together that their girls would be the best of friends, just like they were. The girls had loved each other from the start. Even though they were complete opposites, it seemed to work. But right now, Fiona wished Katie would just stop talking.

  “Katie,” Lindsay said, “would you put on a pot of tea? Chamomile?”

  Katie opened her mouth as if to protest, but then said, “Uh, sure.” She took one last look at each of them before moving into the kitchen and running water into the kettle.

  Lindsay leaned forward in her chair and put a hand on Fiona’s knee. “Okay, Fi. You’re gonna have to tell us about it. You don’t have to tell Katie if you don’t want to, but you know she’s like a dog with a bone—she won’t stop until she knows what she wants to know.

  “I love you, but what happened with Nix—that’s not okay. I don’t know how many ways you’ve changed since you’ve been gone, but none of us here will ever be okay with you treating others like they don’t matter. And if things are bad enough that you’re crying—you crying—well, we want to know that, too. Because we’re your family. No matter how long you’ve been gone or how much you’ve changed, that never changes. Okay?”

  Lindsay looked up and Fiona could feel Katie hovering behind her chair, feel the questions billowing out around her like Marilynn Monroe’s dress. The kettle started to whistle and both Katie and Lindsay went to the kitchen, giving Fiona a moment to breathe and to think.

  But her mind was a muddled mess. She wished she’d never come home.

  FIONA WANTED TO ESCAPE TO HER OLD ROOM, BUT Lindsay informed her with some chagrin that it had become a catch-all over the years. She fussed and hurried and worried, moving boxes, bossing Jack around and apologizing every two seconds.

  “Are you booked? Because I could just stay in one of the cottages.” Fiona mentally crossed her fingers, hoping Lindsay would jump at the chance to save herself the trouble and let Fiona leave the house. Growing up, every one of the MacDonald children had tried to get permission to stay in the cottages during slow times, or even to build their own, but their mother had always forbidden it.

  “As long as you live here, you live with the family,” Lindsay said absently, repeating word for word the line Mom always said.

  Katie, meanwhile, cleared herself a spot on the bed, sat, and chattered away. She gave deeply personal updates filled with way too much information on every person from their graduating class—and their siblings, parents and animals. Fiona stood against the wall, the safest place she could find, and tried to stay out of the way.

  Her throat burned. Her eyes burned. She had a headache the size of the Rocky Mountains. She was desperate for escape, but where could she go? She had no friends but those in this very house, and despite everyone’s careful avoidance to mention anything about her false accusation against Nix, or the fact that she’d practically disappeared for the last six years, it hung thick in the air like New York smog.

  Just leave, she thought. Please…just let me be alone. She needed time to think. To process everything that had happened. To figure out how to get out of this mess.

  “Fi.” Lindsay stood directly in front of her, her hand on Fiona’s arm. “You okay?”

  She blinked and felt the traitorous tears prick her eyes again. What in the world was wrong with her?

  “Yeah.” Fiona managed to take a breath. “Just tired.”

  Lindsay gave a decisive nod and turned on Katie. “Think you can manage to clear off the bed, Your Royal Highness?”

  “Hey, I was just giving her an update. It’s been a while, ya know.”

  Lindsay grabbed a Beanie Baby off the dresser and lobbed it at Katie.

  “Gah!” She flopped to the bed as if shot, then popped right back up, scooping everything on it into her arms. “Slave driver!” she said as she scooted past Lindsay to the hall.

  Lindsay followed Katie out, but called, “I’m not done yet!” before Fiona could get the door closed. She returned with fresh bedding, so Fiona set to stripping off the old. She and Lindsay worked in silence for a few moments, then Lindsay said quietly, “Are you gonna tell me about the Met? Is that why you were crying?” She kept her hands moving, her eyes focused on her work. Fiona stilled as the memories, always hovering around the edges of her mind, seeped through her mental barriers. The man’s heavy weight. The hands reaching around her throat…

  “I’m not quite ready to talk about it,” she finally said.

  Lindsay did stop then, waiting for Fiona to meet her gaze. “But we’re family, Fi. You have to tell someone.” When Fiona didn’t respond, Lindsay sighed and returned to work. “Just know I’ll listen when you’re ready.”

  They finished quickly—a lifetime of working on the family’s ranch, changing out sheets and cleaning up after guests had taught them the fine art of speedy bed-making.

  Lindsay gathered up the dirty bedding and stopped at the door, looking back at Fiona. “You’re different, ya know. And I think it’s more than just you feel weird being back after so long.” She smiled softly and thos
e blasted tears started to burn behind Fiona’s eyes again. “Is it your voice? I mean, it’s just worn out, right? If you rest it’ll be good as new and you’ll be able to go back to work.” She peered at Fiona’s face, her eyebrows drawn together. “Right?”

  Fiona looked away and sighed.

  “I know, I know. You said you’re not ready to talk about it. I get it. It’s just…well. You seem sad, and I hate that. Just…just remember I’m here for you, okay? Whenever you need me.”

  She turned to go, obviously not expecting a response, and Fiona didn’t plan to give one. But before Lindsay closed the door, Fiona managed a “thank you” just loud enough she was sure Lindsay would hear.

  She listened to Lindsay’s quiet words with Katie in the hall, then their footsteps as they moved downstairs. She crawled onto the bed and pulled the crocheted afghan Lindsay had folded at the foot of it. She recognized Mom’s handiwork. She’d long ago created her own pattern and aside from color and size, she pretty much didn’t deviate from it. She said it was more enjoyable for her that way.

  Across from the bed was a poster of the Met stage, with Kathleen Battle standing in the middle of it, her arms outstretched as she gave herself to the music. Fiona still couldn’t believe she’d lost everything. What was she if she didn’t have her dreams anymore? What had been the point to any of it? She rolled over, and concentrated on not crying again.

  Nix finished putting down the chairs around the tables in the club, flipped the switch to the neon Variety sign outside, then propped the door open. He stood at the entry to his club and surveyed the room. The stage was set with a bright white baby grand piano, a drum kit, a stool and mic stand in the center, with several others in the wings. The lights were off, with the exception of one spotlight on the center stool and mic.

  A piece of him yearned for that spotlight, but that’s not what he was about these days. Not what he wanted to be about. It was his sacrifice, his offering to God. He would only sing for Him, now. His family had been so lost in the music scene that they barely saw each other while Nix was growing up. Once Nix was fourteen and had his first hit single, he was never around either. He’d been too busy to make it home for Christmas last year, the one time his family had always tried to make a tradition of—though a couple last-minute Christmasses over the years, thrown together by random assistants, hardly made “tradition.” He hadn’t been there and so he’d missed seeing his mom one last time. His dad, too.

  It wasn’t until after the funerals, when he went home to his family’s penthouse suite, that reality hit and the tears came. He’d had a family his whole life, but it wasn’t until then, at twenty-four, that he appreciated them. He’d always loved them, but he’d been born into a rocker’s life so he didn’t know any different. But now he did. Now he knew that all the concerts, the fans, the music, the money—none of it was worth more than his family. And now it was gone.

  He hadn’t picked up his guitar since. Except to move it to River Mile, of course.

  “Hey, boss,” Kipper said as she came from the back room. “What we got tonight?”

  Nix shrugged out of his dark mood to smile at Kipper. “Karaoke, mostly. Maybe Suzie will stop by and do some juggling.” Kipper laughed obediently.

  “Hey don’t knock it. I hear she’s pretty good.” Nix grabbed up a pair of salt and pepper shakers and tossed them quickly between his hands.

  Kipper stared at him, a blank expression on her face. “You realize you’re spraying salt and pepper all over the place, right?”

  Nix plunked the shakers down a split second later, throwing Kipper a sheepish look. “Oh. Right.” He swiped the granules off the bar top and scuffed his feet to disperse those on the floor. “No biggie.”

  Kipper threw him a withering glance. “I see you’re volunteering for floors tonight.” Nix chuckled as he made his way into the back office to prep the books. He settled in at his desk, jiggled his mouse to wake up his laptop, then opened his accounting app to enter the inventory he’d earlier recorded in his phone. But doing that reminded him that he’d been interrupted during his chores by the MacDonald brothers.

  “Shoot,” he whispered to himself as he looked at the incomplete numbers on his phone. He should go do a quick inventory now, before it got busy. But with the computer open in front of him, a niggling curiosity became a burning need. He hadn’t even known the MacDonalds had another sister, but the circumstances around her return had definitely piqued his interest.

  He opened a browser window and searched MacDonald family, River Mile, Colorado. Of course, the first few pages were filled with articles on their adventure ranch, the Highlands, their services, reviews, and so forth. He spent time at the ranch a few times each week, visiting his horse Sailor and taking lessons. He’d been impressed the first time he saw it—it rivaled any of the resorts he’d been to in his lifetime, and even somehow managed to make a nod to the real highlands, which he’d seen a couple times, with its granite and gardens of heather. It occurred to him that maybe they could incorporate Variety into a special package deal or something. He made a mental note to talk to Lindsay about it—after he was sure they no longer suspected him of attacking their sister.

  He pushed such thoughts out of his mind as he returned to the search bar. “What did he say her name was?” He pictured Gavin’s face and intimidating posture, then distinctly remembered him saying that Fiona didn’t cry. Little did he know, Nix thought. Then he typed in Fiona MacDonald and pressed enter.

  Nix felt a little thrill as the screen filled with articles and links, images and videos of Fiona MacDonald. She was twenty-four years old and was expected to be the most remarkable soprano to step on the stage since Joan Sutherland. Her talent had been discovered at college, and she had lived up to every expectation since. She’d risen to the top during her year as a Met resident-in-training. She’d won her first principal role in Lakmé and was expected to debut this September. Nix knew the piece; it was one of his favorites.

  The sweet, lyrical tones of one of the Lakmé arias began to dance through his mind as he clicked on a picture of Fiona. And then another. And another. He saw in those photos a sharper, clearer image of the woman he’d met in the parking lot. She had seemed like a ghost of this stunning beauty staring back at him from his computer screen. He knew something about that—the stage lit up a person, like the stage’s spotlight wasn’t enough, they had to be lit from within as well. He didn’t have a single photo of himself, from any number of parties or dates or benefit appearances that showed him as happy, as alive, as those taken of him on stage. He thought he was seeing the same thing here.

  Fiona MacDonald, the opera singer, was a force to be reckoned with. She was destined for greatness. Even at her debut, insiders were calling her a star. He couldn’t imagine what must have gone down to get Fiona to leave the Met when she’d obviously been on a very straight track to that very end.

  He clicked on the next picture and saw Fiona in her large, dark shades, head down, leaving the Metropolitan Opera. This Fiona he recognized. He enlarged the image, staring for a long while at her pale skin, the splotchy red cheeks, at her bottom lip sucked into her mouth, and a wide scarf wrapped thickly around her neck.

  He followed the link to the article attached to the photo and read.

  Fiona MacDonald, Metropolitan Opera’s much heralded preeminent young performer, set to debut in this season’s performance of Lakmé (Delibes) resigned her role yesterday with very little explanation from either the Opera or Miss MacDonald. Though both parties refused to comment on the star’s sudden departure this close to opening day, the NYT acquired this photo of Miss MacDonald as she left the Met on Sunday afternoon.

  In a press release issued by the Metropolitan Opera’s public relations department, we were told, “The Metropolitan Opera deeply regrets the departure of Fiona MacDonald. It had been our pleasure to nurture her and prepare her for her debut performance.

  “However we are proud to announce that Jeanine Nowak will assum
e the role of Lakmé. Jeanine was a peer of Miss MacDonald’s and will delight audiences with her unique interpretation of the famed role. Ms. Nowak has worked diligently and is unquestionably prepared for her debut.”

  Below the article was a picture of an ambulance parked in front of the Met, with the caption, “Late night mugging leaves one victim in the hospital and the attacker at large.”

  Nix examined the photo some more. He was familiar with the layering of clothes as a way to hide from the press—and he’d never wanted to hide more than when he felt ashamed or embarrassed.

  He finally leaned back from the computer, picturing the woman he’d met in his front lot. It had been cool outside, so he hadn’t thought twice about the scarf around her neck. Plus a lot of women wore scarves all year long these days. But he hadn’t noticed her wearing a scarf in any of the photos prior to the announcement of her resignation.

  His gut twisted as he realized she must have damaged the nodes in her throat. Maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe the damage had been permanent. It happened to a lot of young singers; they overworked their voice until they had nothing left. As he skimmed the articles detailing Fiona’s rise in the music world, his sorrow for this woman he barely knew grew. She’d almost had that golden ring within her grasp, only to have it ripped away by damage to her voice—no wonder she’d been crying.

  It didn’t explain why she’d freaked out when he tried to help her, though. Unless she was one of those women who was highly strung. He’d known a few of them in his life—his manager had been one of them and she was the best in the business. Still, that didn’t seem to explain Fiona.

  Why she’d scrambled away from him like she couldn’t get away fast enough. Why she’d even called the whole thing an attack.

  He stood so quickly his chair rolled back and hit the wall, knocking over a statue of a clown juggling teddy bears—a gift from a particularly attentive girlfriend a couple years ago. He grabbed his jacket off the hook on the back of the door and walked into the club. A silent movie of Albert and Costello played on the stage, while 1930s jazz filled the room. The tables were about half-full, but it was still only seven and since they only offered light menu items, they didn’t usually get a crowd until nine or so.