by Joan Kilby
Her eyes drifted closed and she tilted her face as if expecting a kiss. Not being the kind of guy who took advantage of inebriated women, he wasn’t going there. Instead, he unhooked her arms from around his neck, faced her forward, and readjusted his grip. “Gee up, little pony.”
“Aw, I’m not a pony.” She clutched the banister and staggered up another step. “Maybe a Lipizzaner. They’re beeyootiful.”
“They’re stallions.”
“Stallions, really? All of them?”
“The ones that perform are. Almost there.” He coaxed Carly down the hallway. Judging from the snores emanating from behind closed doors, at least three of the five bedrooms were occupied. “Are you in your old room?”
“Uh-huh. Down th’end.”
“I know.”
She twisted her head to peer at him. “How d’you know?”
“I used to watch your lighted window on summer nights.” He’d ridden his bike across town, from his family’s small home in a poor neighborhood to this heritage home on South Hill—which his mom called Snob Hill. Except that Irene was no snob and Carly...well, she’d never once made him feel any less than an equal because of where he lived, even though her father was an investment banker and Carly seemed to have inherited his drive to succeed in business. Finn had no problem with a good work ethic, he had one himself. But what had Irene said? Carly was pushing herself too hard, working all the time. What did she have to prove?
Her face lit with a delighted grin. “You couldn’t have seen anything. I always drew the curtains.”
“Your silhouette was very sexy.”
“Liar, I was a beanpole.”
Not any more, he thought. She was shapely in all the right places.
He opened her bedroom door and maneuvered her inside. The single bed was unmade and clothes were piled on an open suitcase balanced on a chair. He got her a big glass of water and stayed beside her while she drank it. “Do you need anything else?”
She splayed her fingers over his chest and looked up at him. “You.”
It was the alcohol talking. “Not tonight.”
Regret stabbed him for what else he’d thrown away besides the scholarship. Carly? No, that was making too much of their friendship. Her New York family came from old money, and her future was blue chip. She might have a fling with a guy like him but when the crunch came, she would run back to her own kind.
“Come on, Finn.” Her finger slid up to rest on the pulse beating in the base of his neck. “Why don’t you finish what you started back when we were teenagers?”
For a moment he was tempted despite everything. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could still have a shot at finding out if that spark they’d had could burst into flame.
Yeah...no. Better not make this any more complicated or difficult than it already was. In a day or two he’d be heading back to LA, and out of her life. Anyway, he wasn’t the guy she used to know, the talented pianist with a bright future. Back then he’d been a big fish in the small pond of Fairhaven. Now he was a guy who played on studio recordings for other artists and wrote songs at night. True, one of his songs had become an indie hit, even though Screaming Reindeer had messed around with the tempo. Ruined it, in his opinion. That aside, all his demons were here in Fairhaven, writhing and wailing, buried just out of sight. He didn’t want to drag Carly down into his personal hell.
“In you go.” He gently pushed her into bed and pretended he hadn’t heard her proposition him.
She seemed to have already forgotten anyway, flopping onto the crumpled covers still in her dress. Her stockings were full of runs and one big toe poked through a hole. Not quite as well turned out as earlier in the evening but she was softer, more vulnerable.
Yawning, she punched the feather pillow. “Where are you bunking?”
“Downstairs on the sofa.” He thought about helping her out of her clothes and then decided against it. He was going to have a hard enough time sleeping as it was. “I planned to stay at Dingo’s but it’s late and I don’t want to wake him and Marla—”
“Rufus.” Carly suddenly bolted upright in bed, eyes wide. “I didn’t see him when I went out to give him his dinner.”
“He’ll be all right.”
“I should let him in.” She started to get out of bed.
“Stay put. I’ll get him.”
“But...”
“Go to bed. That’s an order.”
“Well, okay. Thanks.” She subsided onto the pillow and closed her eyes. He was about to turn out the light when she spoke. “Why’d you give it up? Music, I mean. You’re good. Professionally-speaking.” She slurred the word professionally almost to the point of nonrecognition.
Finn’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “Who says I gave it up?”
“You used to be brilliant. You could have smashed that concert,” she said. “Could’ve had a scholarship. Could’ve played Lincoln Center by now if you’d kept at it.”
“Yes, I probably could have.” He didn’t bother defending himself. Carly was in no condition to take in his version of events. Maybe he’d tell her later but this wasn’t the moment. “I didn’t want to go to Juilliard.”
Carly’s forehead scrunched in a deep frown as if she was trying hard to concentrate. “So you aren’t playing with a symphony orchestra now?”
“No,” he said patiently. Had Irene never talked about him to Carly?
“But you’re still a musician?”
“Once a musician, always a musician.” He could tell her about the studio sessions but no doubt she’d find that incomprehensible, as well. Why would he settle for that when he could have been a concert pianist? A spurt of anger flashed through him that she thought he was a no-hoper for abandoning a promising career. Well, that was her problem, not his.
“Whatever.” She gave up and snuggled deeper into the pillow. “’Night.”
He refilled her water glass, turned out the light and closed the door. Years ago she’d sat on the window seat in the living room and read while he’d had lessons with Irene. He’d played to her even if she hadn’t known it, showing off, perfecting the pieces so she would be impressed. Was it any wonder that she didn’t understand why he gave it all up?
He paused outside Irene’s bedroom where Carly had posted a Private sign. He’d never been in here and he didn’t know what made him open the door now. Looking for absolution? He scoffed at himself. There was none to be found, not here, not anywhere.
Moonlight cast a silver glow over the room, illuminating a white-painted iron bed frame covered with a handmade quilt. An armchair with a floor lamp sat next to the window, a low bookshelf on the other side stacked high with music books. A guitar was propped in the corner and a flute case lay on the dresser.
But it was the sight of Irene’s worn Birkenstock sandals next to the bed that clutched at his chest. They looked so empty. He understood Carly’s guilt, her sense of regret. Life was short. If he’d known Irene would pass, he would have accompanied her on the Alaskan cruise himself. She’d been like a second mother to him, like his only mother given he hadn’t spoken to his mom in over a decade. He’d let people down, especially Irene. But he was damned if he would apologize, even now. He’d done what he had to do to survive. Even so, his heart was heavy as he closed the door.
Going downstairs, he walked through the darkened kitchen to open the back door and flip on a patio light. There was a clatter of metal on concrete and a pair of raccoons scattered, retreating a few paces. They’d been eating food set out for the dog, abandoning a sandwich in the water bowl.
“Scat!” He stepped forward onto the grass and clapped his hands to shoo them away. “Rufus! Here boy.”
The yard was quiet. Finn waited a few minutes then refilled the food bowl and carried out the dog bed from the kitchen and placed it against the outside wall. Not much more he could do tonight.<
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He went back inside and through to the living room. The sofa was wide and long enough to be comfortable and the cashmere throw would keep him warm. He started to pull the curtains when his gaze fell on the piano, the richly polished surface gleaming softly in the glow of the moon.
Seating himself he ran his fingers softly over the keys. No one was around to hear. He began to sing a song he’d composed but hadn’t offered for sale because he couldn’t bear to give all his songs to other musicians.
Turning thirty earlier this year had felt like a big deal, as if he’d arrived at adulthood. He’d just sold a couple of songs to a famous artist and to celebrate he’d thrown a huge party, rocking on into the night. Now, only a few months later, that success felt hollow. Being estranged from his family, especially his mother whom he’d been so close to, was hard. And since Irene died, he’d been waking in the small hours, staring up at the dark ceiling wondering, what had he done with his life? Where was he going? Was this all there was, writing songs for other people to sing?
Maybe his indie hit would turn out to be a fluke. More singers were writing their own material these days. Anyway, songwriting was an up-and-down business at best.
Even though Irene had never said so, he knew she’d been disappointed in him, not for messing up at the concert but for giving up performing. She’d been his conscience, and though he’d deliberately ignored her advice at times, he would never forget all she meant to him and had done for him. And while she might be gone, there was no escaping himself. Or the fact that his mother, equally devoted to his musical education, was still around but might as well be dead for all the contact he had with her.
He switched to a lighter piece, trying to shake off the negative vibe that had stolen over him. He was doing what he loved, that was the main thing, right? He missed that connection to an audience but he had a life that many musicians would kill for. He wasn’t making a fortune but he had enough to live comfortably. He had friends and a career that was challenging and satisfying. Wanting more would just be greedy.
Accolades didn’t mean much to him, anyway. And he knew he would hate the media attention that came with fame. He was happiest like this, the words and music pouring out of him, gritty and real, but hopeful. Moments of feeling down aside, he’d never lost his core optimism, and he clung to it harder than ever now. If he only ever sang his songs for himself it would be enough. It had to be.
* * *
CARLY’S EYES OPENED in the dark. Faint sounds came from downstairs. Head spinning, she sat up and listened. Piano music. Finn singing. Stumbling out of bed, she crept out of her room and down the stairs to peer around the doorway into the living room. One look at his face and she changed her mind about going into the room. His eyebrows were pulled together, his expression intensely focused. She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.
Nor did she want to cause him to stop. The piano notes were riffs upon riffs, complicated and mesmerizing. The words were tender, coaxing, laughing. His husky voice held a yearning tremor that hit her right in her gut. And her heart. The music was powerful in a way she’d never heard from him before. She tiptoed back to the landing and sat on the step, shivering, not with cold but with the force of his voice.
Yes, he was still a musician. The question was, why was he keeping such a treasure hidden?
CHAPTER THREE
CARLY BURROWED DEEPER beneath the covers, trying to shut out the noise of a bird cheeping one note over and over, like a tiny jackhammer to her frontal lobe. Giving up, she pulled down the blanket and squinted into morning sun streaming through the undrawn curtains. Full consciousness hit her like a smack in the face as the previous day came back to her. Irene’s funeral, drinking way too much, singing, and talking till she was hoarse. Finn practically carrying her upstairs.
She gulped water from a glass beside the bed that she didn’t recall putting there.
Finn must have done it. Finn... Had she really put her arms around his neck and rubbed her body against his, inviting him to finish what he’d started as a teenager? Groaning, she pulled the covers over her head again. She would never have done that in her right mind. Sex with Finn wouldn’t be finishing something they’d started. It would be starting something they could never continue. She was going back to New York and he’d return to Los Angeles and never the twain shall meet.
Suddenly she remembered hearing him singing in the middle of the night. Had she dreamed that? He’d sounded unbelievably good. Was that real or had she still been tipsy?
Her phone rang. She scrabbled for it on the bedside table. “’Lo?” she rasped.
“Carly? Are you sick? You don’t sound well.”
Oh no. Leanne, her boss Herb’s personal assistant. Leanne was only twenty-two and looked like a Vogue model if models were five foot nothing. She was terrifyingly efficient. Just plain terrifying, really. How did she get her makeup that perfect?
“I’m just...” Hungover. Nope, couldn’t say that when it could get back to Herb. Carly struggled to a sitting position. “The funeral was more...intense than I’d expected.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry about your aunt.” Leanne’s voice softened and there was a brief pause before she went on. “I hate to bother you at such a sensitive time but there are a couple of things I need to take action on.”
Carly gulped more water. “Fire away.”
“The senior partners are expecting you for their annual forward planning meeting on May eighth,” Leanne said. “I’ve been asked to confirm your presence.”
“Oh, I’ll be there.” She had to if she wanted to be included when the partners were divvying up the big accounts. She’d been courting the Wallis Group, trying to bring the large financial investment company into the fold for weeks. They had offices on three continents and getting their recruitment business would be a coup, both for the firm and for her, personally. After she’d done all the legwork she was damned if she was going to let another consultant snag the account out from under her.
Carly flipped through her phone for the calendar app. May eighth was two weeks away. She only had a few more days’ leave anyway. Since Peter was executor there was nothing left for her to do in Fairhaven now that the funeral was over. “No problem. Lock it in.”
“Excellent,” Leanne said. “Second item. I’m writing up a furniture order. Do you want a credenza or a bookshelf? You can’t have both.” There was a touch of the field marshal in her tone, as if Carly had asked for an entire suite of furniture.
“Um...” Carly tried to picture how best to fit her books and personal things into her new office but her brain was too fuzzy to think. “It’s Sunday, Leanne. You shouldn’t be working.”
“Well, I did try to get these things cleared up on Friday before end of working hours but you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Sorry. I was busy with funeral arrangements.” In between crying jags and looking through albums for photos of Irene to put on display.
“So...?” Leanne prompted.
Carly massaged her throbbing forehead. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Bookshelf or credenza.”
“Bookshelf.”
“Most of the other recruitment consultants chose a credenza.”
“All the more reason to take a bookshelf,” she said with a weak laugh. Silence. Carly scrunched her eyes shut as her stab at humor fell like a lead balloon.
“If you say so.” Keyboard clicks came down the line. “One final thing. Everyone’s getting new business cards. Do you want a serif or sans serif font on your cards?”
“Whatever is the house style will be fine.”
“The basic format is the same for everyone but Hamlin and Brand allow their employees small touches of individuality.”
Very small touches, Carly thought drily. “I honestly have no opinion on fonts. I’ll be happy with whatever you choose.�
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“It should be your decision,” Leanne insisted. “I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. Get back to me by Wednesday.”
Carly bit down on her fist to suppress a groan. “Serif,” she blurted.
“No, don’t choose like that. You want to project the right image. I’ll send you some examples to look at.”
“All right. Fine. Goodbye, Leanne.” Carly clicked off her phone before the PA could say anything else.
She flung herself back on the bed, an arm across her eyes. Everything would be better when she felt stronger and more in control. Picturing her own office with a bookshelf and a new box of business cards on her desk made her feel a little better. In future she would be very firm with Leanne and not allow the woman to bully her. The Wallis Group account—if she got it—would represent another quantum leap on her trajectory from high school counselor to human resources officer and now international recruiting consultant with her own accounts. The prestige, the salary package, the boost to her curriculum vitae, all a huge step up. She’d better not blow this opportunity.
Until then, she had guests in the house and she needed to make sure Rufus was okay. Ignoring the lurch of her stomach, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, taking half the covers with her. Disentangling her feet from the bedding, she went to her suitcase for clean clothes but found only dress slacks, work skirts and silk blouses. Clearly she hadn’t been thinking about comfort when she’d packed. Turning to the closet she dug through her old things until she found a pair of leggings and a flannel shirt. Clutching the clothes, she stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.
Having a shower made her feel marginally better. The non-seductive clothing would send a distinct message to Finn. She had a suspicion she’d cried on his shoulder, too. That was acceptable though, right? After all, she’d just lost her aunt.
