Watching Meghan greet Glenn when he finally was able to join them made her smile. The two heads—hers dark, his blond—leaned together, and she heard Meghan laugh as Glenn took a sip of the hot beverage and immediately gasped as the liquid burned his tongue. The two of them grinned together as she kissed him lightly on the lips, and Glenn seemed to forget about the pain.
Perhaps I’m wrong, Cece thought. Perhaps the image was an innocent one. Perhaps she got a bloody nose, or fell and hit herself in the face. Maybe someone sent a snowball laced with ice at her. Cece made a quick sign of the cross before returning her attention to the coffee. Its strong milky-mocha scent calmed her.
Narrowing her eyes, Cece watched Meghan a few more minutes before the elderly couple approached the desk, asking for help in finding a piece of sheet music. Smiling, Cece helped them find what they were looking for before sending them out the door hand in hand, sweet smiles on their faces. She was good at that—making people feel better after being with her—and she loved being able to make folks happy.
A couple hours later, Cece caught Glenn at the back of the store restocking the CDs that had been moved about by customers in the shop. He appeared deep in thought as he held the Pink Melon CD distractedly in the air, not putting it into its assigned spot marked by the plastic alphabetical tabs.
“What’s up, Glenn? Something wrong?”
“No, nothing.” Glenn’s tone implied he was not telling her the truth.
“Want to talk about it?” Cece said gently, giving him a chance to unburden whatever was bothering him.
“I . . .” Glenn sighed and set the CD down on top of the case instead of in its slot. A sure sign that the boy, who was usually very organized and methodical, was really distressed about something.
“Meghan and I have been seeing each other for a couple of months now, you know?”
“Yep,” Cece said with a grin, “I know.” She couldn’t help but know. The two teens were constantly smiling and touching each other.
“I really like her,” Glenn confessed.
“Well, that’s good . . . isn’t it?”
“No, I mean . . . yes, it is good, but . . .”
“But?” Cece prompted.
“But I saw her laughing and joking with this kid at school the other day. They were talking about music, and I heard him tell her he plays the guitar and used to be in a band back home, before he moved here to Havenwood Falls.”
“Oh? So you think she likes rock stars?” Cece teased.
“Yeah, I think she does.” Glenn sounded so dejected that Cece took pity on him.
“Does she know you play guitar?”
“Yeah, she does, but I don’t play in a band. I just play a little guitar at church, nothing as fascinating as being in a band.”
Cece frowned. She really didn’t want to get involved in the romance between these two teens, but Glenn looked so sad that all her instincts to heal came out and she said, “So, what do you think we can do to fix things between the two of you?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe something with music that could be fun for both of us. Something kind of big that catches her attention. Like, we could invite a rock star to Havenwood Falls for a concert. Or, I know, to teach a music camp we could both go to! Maybe this guy would do it.” Glenn picked up the Pink Melon CD and waved it excitedly in her face before putting it in its slot.
He walked off while Cece stood there with a slow smile spreading across her face.
A music camp! What a great lure to bring him here and maybe figure out what she was supposed to do about that darkness within him. Several days of music instruction and a workshop, a small group of students or adults working with a real rock star—that sounded pretty intriguing. Maybe they could even put on a small concert at the end of it, with songs they’d written themselves.
Hmmm, thought Cece as she stood looking at the CD, maybe that’s not such a crazy idea. I wonder how you make that happen?
Returning to the front of the store with the CD in hand, Cece read the back cover for the information she needed and fired up her computer. After typing up a letter, she printed it, signed the bottom, slipped it into an envelope, stamped it, and put it in the basket for outgoing mail. She also sent an email just to be sure. No sense leaving things to chance, she thought as she hit send.
Looking up, she said, “The rest is up to you,” before returning her attention to the day’s receipts and shipping notifications.
Never Say Never
(Pink Melon: One Time More)
Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck
Never is a long time, baby
Nothing but time, baby
No matter how you long to change it
Time is gone before you know it
Never say never
Time is forever
What you wished once
can only be possible once
Opportunity doesn’t always knock, baby
Sometimes you have to kick the door down, baby
Take life into your own hands
Find joy with your own hands
Never say never
Time is forever
What you wished once
can only be possible once
Don’t turn your back on love, baby
Don’t turn away from love, baby
There is little in this life to love
When you don’t look for love
Never say never
Time is forever
What you wished once
can be possible more than once
Chapter 3
Brett rolled over, shielding his face from the sun that blinded him as it poured in from the large windows facing the ocean. He’d left them open again, and now everything felt damp and smelled of salty ocean. Sitting upright, he rubbed his face, reassured by the glance around the room that he really was back in his own bed in California and not lying in a field of fresh grass, watching an angel again flying off into the sunrise.
That dream had been a steady diet lately. He wished, and not for the first time, that he understood what it meant. Was he going to die? Was the angel a metaphor for his life? Did he need to set himself free?
If so, from what?
From the band? From the music that filled his life with purpose?
From thoughts of his mother and her recent death? No, that was not something he wanted to think about, not now. Not when he couldn’t even remember what day of the week it was, let alone do any deep thinking about his feelings regarding his mother’s death. He winced as if in pain. His mother’s face swam before him. She was smiling, but her eyes were sad. She looked disappointed. He knew she wasn’t real, that her image was just a figment of his imagination, but that reality didn’t make her death any easier to cope with.
He needed a drink. His mouth, dry as a bone, smelled of dead things. He reached down beside the bed and found a nearly empty bottle of champagne. Taking a long swallow, he ignored the small voice that told him this was not the way to handle his grief.
Tossing the bottle to the other side of the room, he winced when it struck the wall and rolled across the floor until resting against a chair. He shut his eyes tightly and told the voice, in a husky whisper fans wouldn’t recognize, to go fuck itself.
Brett ignored the unshed tears that burned at the backs of his eyes. He knew grief could take time, but this constant ache in his heart was killing him. She wouldn’t want this for him. In his mind, he knew she would want him to move on, to live his life as well as he could. But the guilt always hushed that voice. Not being there at the end was killing him inside, leaving him empty and adrift.
Brett moved, taking the sheet with him as he went, covering his naked body with it. In the bed, a lump mumbled and burrowed deeper under the cover, pulling the sheet from him even as he walked away, leaving him naked.
He glanced over, surprised to see a long slender arm reach out and disappear back under the covers. The fingers tipped with long red nails gave him no
clue as to who his bed companion was. Mandy? Amanda? Mindy? He racked his brain, trying to remember whom he had invited into his bed last night.
The smell of their lovemaking lingered in the air, its musky scent mixed with salt water reminding him he needed a shower. What was that all about? He never brought anyone home. Only his bandmates had ever been inside his refuge. His life was slowly spiraling out of control, he knew it. He just didn’t know how to get off the merry-go-round. And to be honest, he wasn’t sure he wanted off. If he had to actually think about why he was acting this way, he would have to remember the reason for the pain and guilt. He didn’t want to do that.
Every day he woke unaware of where he was or what he was doing. He was lost in an ocean of indecision and choices, none of which he felt prepared to make.
Thank God I don’t do drugs, he thought, or this could be really bad.
As the water coursed over his toned body, he leaned against the cool wall of the shower and let the tears flow. Salt mingled with the warm water and shampoo. So lost in thought was he that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt fingers sliding down his back, followed by the pressure of a body pressing against him. Her form was as cool and soothing as her fingers.
“Hello, big boy,” she purred, turning him around to face her.
Steam surrounded them, shrouding her face in shadows that ebbed and flowed around her, obscuring everything but a vague estimation of her form. He was distracted by her hands, which were sliding up his chest to the back of his neck, pulling his face down to hers, where she hungrily pulled his tongue inside her moist mouth. He grabbed her hair, and long blond tresses wrapped around his hands as he held her captive, finding that he couldn’t get enough of the taste of her.
His body reacted, and he pulled her closer, still not sure whom he was caressing until she whispered against his lips that the bed might be more comfortable, and he realized this must be his lover from the night before.
With that, she slipped from the steam-filled shower and was gone before he even opened his eyes.
Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and knotted it around his middle. When he padded into the bedroom, a silly grin on his face, he found his bed partner still sleeping in the same position he’d left her just moments ago.
Twisting back to look at the shower, he watched as the petite footsteps of the ghost lover disappeared in front of his eyes as if they’d never been there. Turning back to the woman in the bed, he shook his head to clear it. How was that possible? The footsteps were going away from the bed and toward the door to the deck. He followed them outside, but there was no one there, and then the prints vanished. What was going on? He looked over his shoulder at the bed.
The covers had slipped from the sleeping form just enough to reveal auburn hair spilling down the side of the mattress to just above the carpet. This was not the woman who’d been in the shower with him. Rubbing his face in confusion, he wondered, what the hell? Who was I just kissing?
Brett breathed a sigh of relief. Amanda, the girl who’d shared his bed last night, had finally left with a few giggles and thanks for a great night and hints that she wouldn’t mind doing it again. Brett smiled, let her cling to him while they waited for the Uber driver to arrive, and then escorted her to the car with no firm promises.
He paid the Uber driver double the fee to keep his address a secret, then went back inside his house, his thoughts already on his next problem—trying to figure out what happened in the shower that morning.
The woman in the shower had felt so real, so warm, and so solid in his arms. She’d fit into his embrace like she’d been there before. Her kiss—his hand went to his lips, fingers tracing where she’d pressed her own to him so firmly—still resonated in his mind. His heart raced once more just thinking about her. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he ever actually held her. On second, thought, judging by the way his body immediately reacted, he was pretty sure he did know what would happen if she were ever really in his arms.
She’d tasted sweet and salty all at the same time. Like an ocean wave, she’d bowled him over, leaving him gasping for air. And yet, he couldn’t have kissed her, the woman of his dreams. The only woman who’d been in his house had been Amanda, a redhead, not a blonde. Unless it had been some kind of wet dream that had manifested itself into reality, the encounter in the shower never happened. Right? Never happened. Yep, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, Brett thought. But the way his body still craved her belied his protests.
An hour later, he was still pondering this encounter when his doorbell rang. He let the noise echo, not moving from his seated position on the deck overlooking the ocean. He was fascinated by the waves, their ebb and flow pulling sand and stone and sea debris out to sea, or depositing it back on the shore. He was remembering beach trips with his mother when he was a little boy. He’d had a bright red pail and a yellow shovel and one of those sifter things that went with him every time they’d managed a few hours in the sun.
Running against the waves had been his favorite summer activity. That and splashing his mom, who’d squeal with feigned annoyance at his antics, and then hug him until they both were laughing so hard, they couldn’t stand up and would collapse into the sand just as a big wave came up to splash the gritty material from their bodies. He remembered the tug of the waves as they tried to pull him from his mother and how she’d hold onto him, wiping his tears with a salty hand as she promised him she’d never leave, would always be there for him.
He took a swallow of his tea, then leaned his head back, letting the sun hit him full in the face, its warmth making a mockery of the coldness in his heart that was all he felt these days. The sound of the ocean was its own rhythm. Gentle and relentless, it roared in his mind like an oncoming train. He couldn’t get off the tracks, knew the train was going to run him over, and even though it was only metaphorical, he wanted it to end his pain. Between worry about the band, the upcoming Grammy Award show appearance, the weird dreams he was having lately, and his mother’s death, Brett didn’t think he had it in him anymore to get up out of the chair. He just wanted to stay there and not think, but the thoughts wouldn’t stay away.
The ocean was soothing with its endless and repetitive comings and goings, yet he could find no comfort in it anymore. Every day it was there to greet him, stormy gray or robin’s egg blue, depending on its mood. The ocean never apologized, never sought to be anything it wasn’t. The ocean was always the same, and yet ever-changing.
Just like he was.
He took another sip of his tea, wincing at the coldness of it. This was his third cup, and each one had gone cold while he stared from his deck out to the ocean. He set the cup down on the deck floor next to his chair and sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that took all his breath.
“Are you aware you have exactly one hour before the car comes to pick you up for the airport so we can fly off to our mother-effin’ Grammy appearance? I bet you haven’t even packed yet, have you?”
“Cooly,” Brett said flatly. Standing up, Brett stretched and then leaned down to pick up the cup he’d set on the floor.
“Brett, I’ve been trying to call you. You aren’t answering your phone these days?” When Brett ignored him, Cooly continued. “First, we gotta get you ready to go, and then we gotta talk.
Cooly pointed toward the door leading back inside.
With a final glance toward the ocean, sun sparkling on the tips of the waves turning them a rosy gold, Brett followed Cooly into the cool interior of the house. In the kitchen, Brett offered tea or coffee to his friend, but Cooly turned them both down, opting instead for a beer from the fridge. Popping off the top, he downed the Heineken in three swallows, then reached for a second beer.
“Slow down there, cowboy,” Brett said with a chuckle. “You aren’t planning to drive when you leave, are you?”
Cooly took a slow swallow and set the beer down. Wiping his mouth, he turned and looked at Brett with an expression of such sadness tha
t Brett’s breath caught on his next words.
“What’s going on with you these days, man? If I’d known the band taking a break was going to hit you this hard, I would’ve waited until after the Grammys to bring it up.”
Brett sighed. He didn’t want to talk about it. Walking toward the fridge, he reached inside and pulled out a beer for both of them. They drank in silence.
Brett finally said, “I just have a lot to think about these days. I’m trying to work through some things.”
“We all do, man.” Cooly placed the half-drunk beer on the counter. Looking at his phone, he said, “We have about forty-five minutes before the cab gets here. Go take a shower and pack your bags. Get the gear you need. We’ll talk more on the plane.”
Brett nodded. He knew his friend was right—he needed to focus on priorities.
“Yeah, okay. You’re right,” he said.
“Whatever happened to that ski trip you were talking about taking?”
Brett shook his head, “Nothing happened. I was just joking. Funny thing, though, I got a brochure from that place.”
He waved his hand toward the counter where his mail had piled up, unopened and unlooked at. The brochure for Havenwood Falls was on top of the pile, along with a letter.
“What’s this?” Cooly held up the envelope.
Rock Me Gently_Havenwood Falls Novel Page 3
