We have nothing in common, my brain insisted. Her life inside the cult was so different from my childhood spent touring all the continents and playing in huge arenas. And yet there was... something. Something about her...
"Do you miss it?" I asked.
"Sometimes," she said.
I hesitated. "Why did you leave?"
She dropped the glass back onto the bar with a loud clack. "Let's go dance," she said, her voice suddenly bright again. She reached down and grabbed my hand.
"Oh no, are you feeling it? Drink some water."
"I'm fine," she huffed, exasperated. But her voice sure was louder than it had been a minute ago.
I was too wrapped up in how her fingers felt sliding across my wrist to really dwell on the fact that she hadn't answered my question about why she had left the 'community' as she called it. Around here, the word most often used for God's Chosen was 'cult.' But I wasn't about to argue semantics with her. I was too busy trying not to put my hands on her as she started to move with total abandon.
Shit. Here we were again, with her way too close to drunk for this to be okay. I felt like a middle schooler, reaching for her and then dropping my hands to my sides.
"Do you know this song?" I asked her, totally nonsensically. But I needed her to stop wiggling like... like that.
"Oh yeah!" she laughed. And then, just to prove it, she started to sing.
She may as well have punched me in the gut. Rachel... Rachel could sing. She raised her voice above the noise of the bar and started belting out the lyrics to an Ed Sheeran song in a clear, strong voice. I stood, frozen in place as I listened, feeling like she'd just revealed some deep secret that she'd trusted me to understand. I was blown away.
I was so blown away that I stepped back on my heels. Stepped back right into the path of another bar patron loaded down with beer.
A bump, a whoop and then I was suddenly showered with Bud Light as four pint glasses drenched me right down to my skin.
Rachel clapped her hands over her mouth as I turned to the stunned looking guy who'd just lost all of his drinks. "Hey, you okay? Sorry about that, let me buy you another round."
His face went from 'I will fight you' to sheepish in one breath. "Nah, it's coo. You okay? Here's a napkin."
I shook out the front of my shirt. “A napkin isn't going to cut it," I laughed. "I need a hose."
"You're not mad?" Rachel hissed as I waved to Taylor, signaling for four more beers to go on my tab.
"Why? It was my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going." I was listening to you sing.
Chapter Seven
Rachel
I fully expected to feel terrible. But I didn't.
I stood at my tiny kitchen sink and tried to keep the smile off my face. Then gave up and grinned ear to ear as I sipped my coffee and stared out at the creek. It was my first day off in eight days, and it was a bright, sunny morning filled with the rasping cries of the red-winged blackbirds over in the marshy parts. After a night of drinking, I would normally be cursing the sun and the birds and the noise of the creek. But thanks to Beau - sweet, careful Beau - I felt just fine. Good even.
Like I'd gotten away with something.
I frowned down into my coffee mug. Coffee was still a new drug for me. As was alcohol of any kind. Having fun without consequences, without guilt hanging over my head, that was new for me too. I was seized with the need for - not penitence, no, something else.
When I was little, the men would gather in each other’s homes and break the bread. Women and children were barred from this sacrament, but they pretended not to notice me and my sister as we hung quietly in the doorway and watched the ceremony. Always the men began by breaking off a little piece of the loaf - the loaf I'd helped my mother bake - and leaving it on the plate as an offering to our Savior.
An offering, then. I needed a way to say thank you. For a night filled with happiness and a morning free of pain.
All at once I knew what to offer. When it was our turn to provide the bread to the community Elders, I always whined and pushed my mother to bake something other than the usual hard brown loaves. I loved the fluffy white crumb of the potato bread that was her specialty. She'd taught me the recipe. My mother was a gifted baker whose loaves were always lighter than air. Chosen were not allowed selfishness or vanity, that was the explanation she gave me for never sharing her loaves with those outside of our family. But I liked to think it was some tiny spark of rebellion against being barred from the bread-breaking that made her keep it to herself.
She never shared it. But I wasn't Chosen anymore.
I could.
I picked up my coffee, took another fortifying sip and then started walking around the kitchen and gathering the ingredients, humming a little as I put on a pot of water to boil the potato. The song from last night with Beau was stuck in my head, the one I only knew because Juanita at work had it playing on repeat on her phone all the time. Beau had seemed surprised I knew the words. He'd been staring at me like I'd sprouted a second head right up until that guy dumped his beer all over him.
I smiled down at the potato I was peeling, remembering how funny he'd looked, standing there soaked in cheap beer. He had just... laughed. No temper, no yelling at the other man to watch where he was going. He'd even been kind enough to buy the man another round to replace the spilled one.
I dropped the potato into the water and wrinkled my nose. Chosen held themselves apart from the world, saying that secular, worldly people were selfish and lacking grace. But last night, all I'd seen was grace. Grace from a hedonistic pop star.
It didn't make sense.
Turning the flour out onto the counter, I started kneading it, pushing as hard as I could against the cool dough. This was the part where my mother always took over. With the quiet murmur of the creek in the background and the smell of the yeast filling my nostrils, I could almost be in her kitchen, helping her as my siblings ran riot through the house. She'd wipe her floured hands across her perfectly clean apron and smile at me as she rolled and beat the dough into submission. "Don't be afraid of it," she'd encouraged me.
Swallowing back an unexpected lump in my throat, I slammed the dough into the bowl, rolling it into a tight ball to start rising, then wiped the tear away from my eye before it could fall. Baking had brought my mother's presence so strongly, I could almost hear her voice.
Guilt washed over me. I could hear her voice. The community had a telephone, one line to call out if there was an emergency. If I called it, my mother might pick up.
Or one of the other seventy-five people counted among the Crown Creek Chosen. They were the ones I had left. They were the ones who had driven me out for not being whole. The rest of the community. But not my parents, and most certainly not my mother.
I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palm. My silent house, my solitary life, they were nothing like what I once had.
Hastily, I wiped my eyes again and headed over to shower while the dough rose, hurrying past Everly's shut door without looking. Once I was dressed and the bread was in the oven, I turned on Everly's TV and put the volume up as high as it went, pretending that the cacophony of voices belonged to people here in the room with me.
Since leaving the Chosen, I'd been floating like a leaf caught in a current. It took Everly to pull me out of my solitary drift and feel connected again. We were connected as friends.
My connection with Beau.
That felt... different.
The awful screeching noise of the oven timer broke through the noise of the TV and my thoughts. I rushed over and opened the oven, letting out the warm smells of home that made my heart swell too big for my chest. I wrapped it loosely in a towel, and then stood there, suddenly nervous.
Last night he'd asked me why I left the Chosen. I hadn't answered him because that reason was still too painful to speak aloud. A lot of people had asked me that question, most with their own ulterior motives, most gawking at me like I was some kind of z
oo animal when they asked it.
Beau had done something no one else ever had. "Sounds like you have some nice memories," he'd said.
That was why I had baked this. To share it. To share my good memories. But what if he laughed again? Or worse, what if he looked at the bread and saw it only as something to eat and not... not...
A connection?
I'd been brave before, I reminded myself as I tucked it into a tote bag and grabbed my keys. I'd done much braver things in my life than wait for the lumbering bus with bread in my hand and my heart on my sleeve. I'd struck out on my own, leaving behind everything I ever knew and facing down a world I'd been taught to fear, so it should have been no big deal at all to pull the cord to stop the bus and get off. I'd listened to a somber-faced doctor as he told me that surgery was the only way to keep me from bleeding to death, so it should have been the easiest thing in the world to walk past Everly's parents' house and then turn at the big yellow farmhouse on the hill.
A shadow flickered past the window as I stood there in the drive, nervously twisting the straps of the bag in my hands. I jumped a little when the front door opened and the screen door swung wide. "Rachel?" Beau called.
I let out a long breath to see him smile. "You're up," I said.
"I've been up." He looked happy to see me. My heart was soaring up like a bird. "You look well rested too."
I smiled and stepped onto the porch, then stopped and sniffed, then laughed. "Are you sure you're not hungover?" I teased. "You still smell like beer."
"Aw man, really?" He rubbed his shaggy head and then sniffed his hand. "I swear. I've already showered twice." His eyes grazed over me, leaving those trails of heat wherever they lingered. "But what have you got there?"
"Bread," I said, holding out my tote. "Potato bread."
He looked down at the bag and then up at me, clearly confused. "That's really nice but..."
"You said carbs help with hangovers, so I thought—" I stopped explaining mid-sentence, caught up in the way his grin was broadening, getting prouder. "Bread," I finished lamely and almost threw it into his hands.
He caught it easily. "Come help me eat it," he insisted, stepping out onto the porch and pushing the screen door wider.
I hesitated. From inside I could hear the sounds of people, of a family going about their morning business. Sounds of clinking dishes and shouted plans. I blinked away the stubborn tears that had been threatening to fall since I'd started baking. "Sure," I said.
And stepped into the Kings' house.
It was the first time I'd been in a secular home. I don't know what I expected. Certainly not a perfectly normal, rambling farmhouse stuffed with the clutter of family life. A wide staircase to my left, a high-ceilinged living room straight ahead. I could see through the doorway into a light-filled sunroom full of plants and over in that same corner a huge grand piano hulked, taking up half the room. "Whose piano is that?" I wondered.
"Mine." Beau wandered over to the bench and sat down, then swiveled to look at me. "Hey, I'm glad you're here by the way. I wanted to ask you something."
I licked my lips, suddenly wary. He'd given me no reason to fear him, but it was hard to go against a lifetime of warnings. "What is that?" I asked, clutching my purse to my body.
He leaned in, tilting his head as if to study me. My breath was coming in short, shallow gasps as I felt the heat of his gaze everywhere my skin was exposed. I tugged on the sleeve of my T-shirt, nonsensically trying to shield my arm.
He leaned back then, like he sensed my discomfort, and dragged his gaze back up to my eyes. "I just wanted to know. Where did you learn to sing like that?"
I gasped out a shocked laugh. "Like what?"
"Rachel," he said, leaning in again. "Don't you know? You sing like a goddamn angel."
Chapter Eight
Beau
She colored, ducked, looked away.
The smell of her bread was filling my nostrils and the sight of her here, in my house, was filling my heart up. Talking about her singing seemed to make her uncomfortable, so I stood up. "I'm starving and this smells too good," I declared, picking up her threadbare tote. "I hope you don't expect me to share this with the rest of my family or anything, because that's not happening."
"Are they around?" she asked, looking suddenly eager.
I shrugged. "Somewhere, yeah. Mom's probably in her room with a stack of biographies until she heads out to her part-time job at the library. Dad's most likely found something around the house that needs fixing, whether it was broken in the first place or not. Finn?" I shrugged. "My brother sleeps like it's his job these days, so I don't expect him to stumble down the stairs until mid-afternoon, and my sister is the only one of us with a regular job, so she's up in Reckless Falls doing whatever it is she does for that Granger Development guy." I smiled at her. "So, at the moment, your bread is completely safe." I clutched it to my chest. "Except from me."
She laughed, that big, throaty sound I'd heard last night. "Don't build it up too big in your head," she admonished me. "It probably didn't turn out that great. I'm not as good a baker as my mother."
I cocked my head at her. "You have a hard time accepting compliments, don't you?" I prodded gently.
She colored again and looked down, mumbling something I could barely hear. Something about the sin of pride. "Well I don't think it's a sin to share the gifts you were given," I said, reaching out to squeeze her arm. When she didn't stop me from touching her, I got bolder, brushing my fingers up to lift the weight of her hair off her shoulders, marveling at the length of it, as well as the silky strands. "Your hair is beautiful."
"Is that one of my gifts I should share?" she asked softly.
I looked down at her. "If you don't mind."
"I don't mind," she breathed. "And, ah. Thank you."
Feeling no small amount of triumph, I gestured for her to head into the kitchen ahead of me. She settled onto one of the stools along the kitchen island while I got out a cutting board and a knife. "What's good on this?" I asked her. "Butter?"
"It's pretty delicious just plain," she said. When I looked up in surprise, she smiled again. "Another gift," she said, somehow looking both shy and sly at the same time.
I was speechless then, and I was speechless again once the still warm bread hit my tongue. "Jesus Christ," I swore, then glanced at her and mumbled an apology. "This is fucking delicious. Sorry. But seriously, how the fuck did you bake this? Sorry again."
"It's my mother's recipe," she said, a note of wistful pride in her voice.
I heard it and that same curiosity overtook me again. "It's a gift,” I said. "As is that voice of yours."
She licked a crumb from the corner of her mouth and watched me. She wasn't saying anything. But she also wasn't ducking away.
That was progress.
I extended my hand. "Come over here with me."
"Where are we going?"
"Just to the piano. I just want to hear you again, is that okay? Without all the noise of the bar and everything?"
She hesitated and looked like she'd rather bolt out the front door than follow me. But then she let her hand slip into mine. I felt a jolt of electricity when her skin slid against mine and I was surprised by the strength in her fingers and the roughness of her palms. These hands knew hard work.
God, I really fucking liked her.
I led her back into the living room and let go of her hand as I slid onto the piano bench. I couldn't help but sigh with pleasure as I brushed my fingers over the keys. Wherever Finn and I ended up moving, we needed to find room for this, my favorite instrument. Light was streaming in through the windows, and little dust mites danced crazily in the beams. If you squinted, it was almost like we had a spotlight shining on us.
I remembered how last night she had sung to an Ed Sheeran song, so I started playing the intro to “Perfect.” But when I got to the part where the vocals kicked in, she only looked at me blankly.
"Don't know that one?" I asked.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
I shifted on the bench a little. "That's okay, you'll know this one, I'm sure." I picked out the melody of “Shape of You," and raised my eyebrows.
Her face was still blank, although a trace of anxiety had crept into her expression.
"No problem, I'm sure you know the words to this." I started playing “I Will Always Love You,” figuring everyone on earth knew that song, whether it was the Whitney version or the Dolly Parton one.
She shifted from side to side but didn't open her mouth. I trailed off, letting my fingers slide from the keys.
"Maybe I should go," she said, picking up her bag.
"No!" I said, far more loudly than I intended. She looked startled and I quickly held up my hands. "One more time. Sorry."
Turning back to the keys, I wracked my brain. Popular songs were out. She'd grown up in a different world from the one I'd occupied. I knew this on some intellectual level, but this really drove home the fact that we were speaking different languages. I had no idea what musical language she spoke, what songs would speak to her and let that voice of hers shine out again, except?
Except I did.
I lifted my fingers and started plinking out the barely remembered melody and then looked up. Rachel's face, which had been contorted in anxious confusion, smoothed out. She tilted her head, listening as I felt out the melody and added the chords.
And then she sang.
First halting as she watched me watch her. But then her eyes fell closed and the song tumbled from her lips. "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound..."
The sound was sweeter than any I'd heard before. My fingers played on their own, all my attention was wrapped up in the way her head was tilted up to the sunbeam, awash in the light. She looked like an angel, a piece of my personal heaven.
When the last chord rang out, we both stilled. The quiet lasted for one breath.
Soft Wild Ache (Crown Creek) Page 4
