“Meghan? Why Meghan? She can’t play an instrument.”
“Have you heard her sing? She’s got an amazing voice. If nothing else, she can sing all your songs.”
“Yeah, she does have a great voice.” While his words were praising, his eyes darkened with renewed hurt from Meghan leaving with another boy.
Cecelia scrambled to keep him distracted. “Um . . . I know it’s during your birthday, Glenn, but I hope you’ll come?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t miss it. I can help with some of the stuff in the recording studio. And I can help drive people around.”
“Great,” said Cece with a grateful squeeze on his arm. “Now, we just need to finalize some of the details.”
Glenn nodded. He looked at the flyer listing the time and date of the concert and said, “I’ll go hang these at a couple businesses, if that is okay with you? Places the kids all go. I would put one up at school, but they don’t let us hang stuff up. But I can announce it on the morning announcements. I can hand some of these out to people I know who might be interested in coming to the show afterward.”
“That would be great,” Cecelia said, relieved that he had volunteered to help her get the word out. “And Glenn, I am so glad you want to come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. It’ll give Meghan and me a chance to do something without Romeo—Laine—interfering.”
Glenn left with the flyers to hang some around town.
Cece looked down at the sign-up sheet she had on the counter and saw one more name had been added on the list.
Uh-oh, she thought when she saw the last name, this might be trouble.
Laine Greenhill was written below Meghan’s name.
The Sands of Time
(Brett Rhys-Falwyck solo album: Oceans)
Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck
Lazy Sunday morning
rain on the windowpane
and I let myself go
I let myself go
Whispered conversations
told in the rustlings of sheets
secrets unfold
secrets unfold
Time passes like sand
in the hourglass
silence breaks
silence breaks
Sighs fall like leaves
before winter snow
waiting
waiting
Chapter 10
Not for the first time, Brett wondered what he was thinking, then he wondered if he had time for a drink. Reluctantly, he turned from the airport bar with its tantalizing cornucopia of liquor on shelves set against the back wall to the bottle of plain water he set on the table in front of him.
Things were progressing with the lawsuits, and he’d told his lawyer he was going out of town for a few days to work on a music camp with some high school kids, something the lawyer said would be great publicity and make him look good in the eyes of the court, so he approved the trip. Not that he needed his lawyer’s approval to know he was doing the right thing, but it still made him feel a little better that at least there was some action going on. Doing something was better than doing nothing, as his mother used to say.
Fueled by the memory of his mother, he’d left his house with little trepidation, but now that he was actually here, he was having second thoughts. And third thoughts. And fourth thoughts.
Brett wished his lawyer had stopped him from going. What if he hated it there? It was Colorado, after all. And it was April. How crazy did a California guy have to be to go to a state like Colorado during a time when the weather could be so unpredictable?
“Pretty darn crazy,” he muttered as he took a long swallow of the cool water. It soothed his throat, and he found he didn’t even miss the harder stuff he’d gotten into the bad habit of drinking lately. His mother would be proud of him.
He smiled, a slow grin that spread across his face, lightening his mood considerably. A woman, dressed for business in a dark pantsuit and white blouse, looked over at him with a welcoming grin, thinking his smile was for her. He ignored her, turning instead to look at a harried mother with three children tugging at her clothing as she tried to pay for their fries and chicken tenders.
Her panicked expression as she looked through her bags for her wallet touched him, and he stood up, not realizing what he was doing until he got there. He took out his wallet, handed the guy behind the counter his card, and paid for her food.
“Oh, thank you,” she said with a grateful expression. “I know my wallet is here someplace, but . . .” She spread her hands to her three children who were now standing close to her, eyes wide and curious, as if for protection from the stranger.
“Here you go,” the guy said, handing Brett the tray and his card.
“Oh, here, I’ll take that,” the woman said. She was rooted to the spot by her children, all of whom continued to stare at him with those silent, wide-eyed stares that reminded him of the Precious Moments statues his mother used to collect.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” he said with a gentle smile. He walked toward one of the larger tables with several chairs and set the tray of food down.
“Enjoy,” he said as he walked back to his table, where he’d left his briefcase containing his laptop and some paperwork he needed to finish for the lawyer. Energized by his act of charity, Brett felt a lot more lighthearted than he had just moments before.
The woman who’d smiled at him got up as a flight was announced. He realized with a start that it was his flight, too. He followed the woman toward the gate. She slowed her steps until he caught up. He was so lost in thought, he barely heard her speak.
“That was very kind of you,” she said with a flip of her hair as she stepped beside him. She matched her steps to his, and they arrived at the assigned gate at the same time.
He didn’t answer. Her approval wasn’t needed for his gesture of generosity, and he honestly didn’t want to stand out. He nodded, handed the flight attendant at the entrance to the plane his ticket, and stepped inside the plane.
“You’re Brett Rhys-Falwyck, aren’t you?” said the woman.
He started, turned, and looked at her.
“No,” he said, regret in his tone. “I wish I was.”
He ignored her puzzled expression at his abrupt answer and took his assigned seat near the window. A few minutes later, a woman took the seat beside him. She was grandmotherly in appearance, with fluffy white hair and a large bag, which he helped her store in the overhead bin. She sat down and pulled out a book, promptly ignoring him.
Brett looked out the window, thoughts everywhere but where he was. The plane took off with relatively little effort, inertia pushing him back into his seat. In a few minutes, he was asleep, his dreams chaotic.
“Sir. Sir, would you like a drink?”
Brett jerked awake. Opening his eyes, he blinked a few times to bring himself back to the present.
“No, thank you,” he mumbled to the attendant, who was waiting for an answer.
She moved on to the people in the rows behind him. He could hear the squeaking wheel of the cart fading as she moved farther down the aisle.
“You okay, dear?” the old woman asked. She set the book down in her lap, pulled her glasses down her nose, and turned slightly to look him in the face, reminding him immediately of Mrs. Simkins, his third-grade teacher. She’d been his favorite teacher, taking extra time with him whenever he needed help.
And then she shifted, her face changed, and for a second, he was sure he was looking at his mother’s face. Same blue eyes, same trick with the glasses, and same way of looking at him like whatever he had to say was the most important thing she had to hear that day.
He was instantly at ease with this stranger, which was probably why he started talking and couldn’t stop. Keeping his voice low, he told her about the dream, about the trouble his band was in, and about this strange offer to teach a music camp in a town he’d never heard of and couldn’t find on any map.
“I’m not sure why I’m even
going,” he finally admitted. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed and tired, before continuing. “I’m not even sure where I’m going. For all I know, some crazy fan has set this whole thing up like something out of a Stephen King book. I wouldn’t mind it so much, but not finding the town on a map is kind of worrisome to me.”
“Oh, you will find your way, I’m sure,” the woman said with a chuckle. She slipped her finger between the pages of her book to hold her place, and he silently applauded her for not dog-earing the page—he hated when people damaged books like that. She leaned in closer and whispered, “Havenwood Falls is a delightful town. You will like it very much. Are you a skier?”
Her expression hadn’t changed from its former kindness, but he could see she wasn’t thinking of him as a skier by the way her tone rose slightly.
“No,” he said with a chuckle. “Not my thing. I’m going there just for the music camp I’m running.”
“Oh, that will be nice, dearie,” the woman said. She seemed reassured he wouldn’t be skiing, and he was almost offended by her certainty he couldn’t do it. “Well, be sure to stop by Coffee Haven and try their blueberry scones.”
She gave him a wink, then leaned back into her seat and picked her book up again.
“Are you from Havenwood Falls?” he asked.
She glanced at him with a blank look in her eyes. “Never heard of it. I’m from Telluride.”
And with that, she went back to her reading.
Behind them, Brett heard a group of people talking about skiing and their plans when they arrived at the airport in Telluride, where Brett was to meet his ride to Havenwood Falls. It appeared almost everyone on the plane was going to the same place. The fellow behind him stood up and reached over the seat to slap Brett on the shoulder.
Not too much later, the fasten seatbelt sign lit up, and the attendants began to prepare for descent as an announcement came over the loudspeaker.
“Hello, this is your captain, Brad, speaking. The temperature is a balmy twenty degrees in Havenwood Falls, the ski slopes have a nice new coating of powder, and I hear the beer and hot cocoa are flowing at the resort. Be sure to stop by Coffee Haven and have one of their specials for me. And a famous blueberry scone. Just remember to stop at just one, or you might need to buy new pants.”
“The pilot must really like Havenwood Falls—and those scones,” Brett said with a chuckle.
“Do you mean Telluride?” the old woman asked. “I didn’t hear him talk about any place else.”
Brett, certain he’d heard the pilot say Havenwood Falls, was beginning to think this woman had lost her mind. Kind of like the guy in the elevator back in LA. Maybe it’s me losing my mind, Brett thought. Shaking his head, he took a deep breath, a sudden giddiness overcoming him. Something about this was setting all his nerves on fire, and he couldn’t wait to get there.
“Havenwood Falls, here I come,” he whispered. And he liked the sound of it.
Thoughts of the band, legal troubles, and missing his mother disappeared into the back of his thoughts as he settled into his seat for the landing.
“Sir? Are you Mr. Falwyck?” a polite voice at his side drew Brett’s attention from the luggage return. He was waiting for his suitcase to make its way around the carousel to where he stood with a very excited group of skiers and others. The woman in the business suit had been met by an equally professionally dressed man and left with him, tossing him a backward glance as if saying, “Sorry, you lost your chance,” but little did she know, what she offered was old news to him, and he wasn’t interested in flings anymore, no matter how nice the legs were.
“Rhys-Falwyck,” he said out of habit. For some reason, people had a problem with the hyphenated name all the time. “Better yet, just call me Brett.”
He turned, hand held out to shake the hand of the small black man standing before him with a clipboard. The man was smiling, his dark eyes warm and gentle as they met Brett’s. He wore a name badge that proclaimed his name as “Brad.”
“Are you ready? The bus is about to leave,” Brad said as he checked off Brett’s name. Brett noticed the list contained about twenty names and his was the last.
“Yep,” Brett said as he grabbed his guitar case and suitcase, which had finally made their way around to him. “Lead the way.”
When he felt the cold blast of air that felt more like winter than spring, he was glad he’d worn his thick leather coat and scarf. He shuffled his bags in both hands and strode quickly behind the man to the bus. Handing over his suitcase, he held on to his guitar, refusing to slide it into the luggage compartment under the bus.
“Okay, everyone,” Brad said from the front of the bus once everyone was loaded. “Havenwood Falls welcomes you to what will probably be the last ski runs of the season. Be safe and have fun! The trip from Telluride is about an hour around the mountains, so sit back and enjoy the views.”
A few whistles and comments were heard from the back of the bus, where a very enthusiastic group of skiers were seated. The noise level on the bus rose as they left the airport and headed toward their destination.
Brett watched the scenery pass by, mostly white and very pretty with tall mountains and quaint houses and farms dotting the landscape as they drove toward Havenwood Falls.
He saw a sign that proclaimed they were about six miles away when his eyes were caught by movement in the nearby woods that sandwiched the road on either side. He could have sworn it was a wolf, but by the time he scanned the forest for confirmation, the animal, if he’d ever even been there, was gone.
As they pulled onto the town’s main street, Brett’s breath caught in his throat. It was beautiful. A coating of white powder, snow still gently falling, covered all the buildings and sidewalks. The center of town was a large square space he assumed was green when not covered with snow. It contained a beautifully built gazebo, and the buildings that surrounded it were quaint and definitely intended to attract tourists.
He saw signs for Whisper Falls Inn, a bookshop, gift and jewelry stores, and an herbal shop. Coffee Haven looked popular, and he noted several people holding paper cups and small packages, in which he assumed were some of those famous blueberry scones. Everywhere he looked, most of the people were smiling and laughing. Skis leaned haphazardly against the sides of buildings like a windblown fence. Outside seating areas were occupied by people sipping hot beverages or wine in spite of the cold weather. Brightly colored coats worn by people walking around the area only added to the festive air of the town.
Brad stood up and clapped to get everyone’s attention. “We’re here. If you need help finding anything, let me know. The inn is directly behind the bus, the coffee shop is that direction as you leave the bus, and your luggage will be on the sidewalk in just a minute. Please do not reach into the luggage compartment on your own. I am happy to do that for you.”
In a few minutes, every bit of luggage was unloaded and waiting to be claimed. Brett reached for his just as the older woman who’d sat next to him on the plane reached for hers.
“It was nice to meet you, dearie,” the woman said. She waved to a woman and child who were waiting for her. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“I think so.” Brett pulled a paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. It had instructions on where he was to meet Cecelia, and then she would arrange transportation to the cabin he would rent while he was here.
He was to start the camp in two days. She wanted to give him time to get acclimated, and for that, he was grateful. Especially as he breathed in the crisp, cool air, and was reminded of the thinner air at this altitude. He’d certainly have to adjust his breathing before trying to sing.
There was something wonderfully refreshing about Havenwood Falls, and he was suddenly excited about the prospect of exploring it.
“Where do you need to go?” she asked as he walked with her toward her family.
“To Havenwood Falls Music & More,” he said, reading from the paper.
“Oh y
es, that’s just over there. See it?” She pointed down the street. “Right across from the gazebo.”
“Thanks,” Brett said, seeing the shop’s sign. Shouldering his guitar and grabbing his suitcase, he started walking in the direction she indicated. The smell of coffee was intoxicating as he passed several people holding the paper cups. He slowed, looking around the street in surprise. There was something about the town’s atmosphere that was so heavy, it weighed on him like a wool coat, comfortable and familiar, and yet so strange, he shivered.
It felt like home. He mentally shook off the feeling. How could it feel like home? He’d never been here before.
In a few minutes, he found himself in front of the place he was looking for. On the front, a neon orange light announced the store was open for business. Through the windows, he could see stacks of records, CDs, and signs proclaiming different departments. He saw customers browsing through items in the store. On the back wall, a few guitars were hung, gleaming in the dull light. His hand closed over the strap to his gig bag, where his own guitar rested.
He saw a young boy, about seventeen with broad shoulders and a big smile, chatting with a pretty dark-haired girl. He saw a woman at the counter, her back to him as she rang up the purchase of a customer. Outside the store, a couple of high-school-aged girls hung around, watching the boy inside with hungry eyes.
He wanted to put this moment in a song. Grabbing his ever-present notebook, he took out the pen he had attached to the spiral binding and wrote a few sentences, humming a tune as he stood there.
Invisible man, he wrote, standing on the corner of the rest of his life. He paused, the pen poised over the page as he considered where to go next. Not sure which way to turn. One way and his life will change, the other way and it will stay the same.
Rock Me Gently_Havenwood Falls Novel Page 9
