A Love Song To Cherish: A Sweet and Wholesome Christian Novella (Cherish Series Book 1)

by Josie Riviera

  “Thanks, and you’re still pretty as a supper of cherry pie.” He chuckled, leaned forward, and greeted her with a cheek kiss. He almost reached up to tip his baseball cap before realizing he wasn’t wearing it. He grinned. Southern habits die hard. “Ten years goes by fast,” he added.

  “And you abandoned your hometown for a fine career in Europe.”

  “Italy is where the opera opportunities are, ma’am.”

  She tied a royal-blue silk kerchief around her hair and the breeze sent her kerchief fluttering. “Are you joining us for dinner tonight?”

  Ryan took in everything—the stately church steeple, the stained-glass windows reflecting Mrs. Addyson’s well-taken-care-of Southern features. When his father had died, she’d come to his house bearing kind words and a funeral casserole. When her husband had passed not long afterward, he’d attended the service—the last time he’d set foot in a church. Since then he’d looked for a sign from God, an invitation to return. The more he searched, the quieter God had become.

  Ryan returned her gaze. “The Garden Terrace’s restaurant at eight. I received the memo and I’m looking forward to seeing Nicholas and Alice.”

  “We can thank the good Lord for bringing us all back together.”

  With sublime effort, Ryan forced himself to nod in agreement and entered the church. The scent of incense and candles and musty hymnals made him pause. He exhaled and pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. Yes, too many memories.

  Lifting his music bag, he went through the contents and frowned. In his preoccupation to prepare for his agent’s phone call, he’d forgotten the “Ave Maria” back at the inn.

  No matter. He’d read off Dorothy’s music, assuming she’d brought all the pieces her brother and his fiancée had chosen.

  As Ryan shrugged off his charcoal-gray pea coat and headed up the stairs to the choir loft, he expected to hear the sound of the piano. Beethoven’s “Fur Elise,” perhaps, or “Pachelbel’s Canon in D.” Instead, a beautiful woman sat curled up in a wooden chair with her legs tucked beneath her. Her ear was pressed to a cell phone, her voice sounded strained. She held up a finger to Ryan and mouthed, “One minute.”

  Dorothy Thompson.

  Spirited and lovely as a teen, she’d also been elusive, which was one of the many reasons he’d admired her. He’d watched the way she’d dealt with her friends. She’d listened to their over-the-top compliments with a grin that was part amused skepticism and part gratefulness.

  His breath caught. He simply stared.

  Nature had partnered with the years. Her lovely face had realized all of its teenage potential. Thick black lashes fringed vivid eyes which changed from emerald-green to deep Scottish thistle depending on her mood. Her figure was still slim and had filled out in all the right places.

  She’d abandoned her black high heels, set neatly on the floor beside a quilted jacket. With her hair pulled off her forehead into a gleaming braid cast over one shoulder, and preferring to go barefoot, she presented a captivating contrast between innocence and maturity.

  His little Dorothy had grown into a gorgeous woman, breathtaking with shimmers and sparks.

  Nope. Don’t go there.

  He stopped in mid-stride as cold reality slapped his chest.

  He was still reeling from an expensive divorce and a cheating ex-spouse, one performance he had no interest in repeating. Involvement with another woman, any woman, wouldn’t be happening again, at least not in his lifetime. Women weren’t trustworthy, and achieving a successful career was most imperative. He wouldn’t be derailed a second time.

  He wanted to be successful. He would be successful.

  Besides, his conscience annoyed, Dorothy was Nicholas’ kid sister.

  She talked quietly into the phone, and Ryan grew more impatient when one minute turned to two, then three.

  “Are you almost finished?” He glanced at his wristwatch and cleared his throat. “Our rehearsal was supposed to begin at one and I have another appointment at three.”

  She extended a “thank you, Dr. Gantori,” into the phone and clicked off. “And our rehearsal would have started at one o’clock if you were here,” she said. “Kindly don’t blame me for your tardiness.”

  He stared into her stormy face, and his lips twitched as her gaze searched his features. “Ryan?” She touched her fingers to her lips. “You’ve changed.”

  “For the better, I hope.” He leaned back to appraise her shapely form as she came to her feet. “The last time we were together you were doing your best to butcher Mozart’s Sonata in C Major.”

  “And you had perfected an Italian art song, or was it a French mélodie? At any rate, you were preparing to go off to music school on a full scholarship.” She cocked her head and smiled. “Oberlin?”

  “Juilliard.” His gaze flitted over the classical music she’d piled on the piano. “You?”

  Her smile wavered. “I’m one of those people who went through high school sporting one image while secretly wanting another.”

  “Meaning?”

  “My mother tried to polish me up to study broadcasting in a prestigious college and marry a rich guy, preferably a billionaire who owned a TV station and several tropical islands. Instead, I practiced my scales and got into a state college. I majored in piano performance.”

  “You were always so determined. I’m impressed, my love.” He’d used that endearment often when they were young, and it just slipped out again, as natural as can be.

  Her gaze darted toward the piano. “Was I?” she asked softly.

  “I recall you plunking out melodies on Musically Yours’ fifty-year-old upright piano.”

  “You encouraged me … you can say it now … my scales required a lot of work.” Her smile was quiet. She waited a fraction, seeming to struggle to find the right words. “I got better and learned to read music.”

  Good. Wisely, he didn’t share that thought aloud, wondering how in the world she’d been able to get into a music college. She hadn’t begun formal music training until she’d entered high school. However, she’d exhibited remarkable perseverance and had never given up on anything once she’d set her mind to it.

  “Well, we’re burning daylight when we should rehearse,” he said.

  With a firm swallow, she pulled on her black high heels and moved slowly toward to the piano.

  He set down his music bag. “I brought every piece of music on Nicholas’ list except the Ave Maria. In my hurry I forgot it in my room.”

  Dorothy ran her hand along the curves of the grand piano. “You forgot to bring the only piece you’re singing?” She plucked a piece of sheet music from her stockpile and took a seat on the piano bench.

  “I’m a busy man.” He pulled an empty chair from the corner and came to sit beside her. “Do you know the chords for the Ave Maria?”

  “No. Do you?”

  In the past, her lovely eyebrows would have arched with a look daring him to dispute her. That look would have been preceded by a list of reasons why he should abandon his practice schedule for an impromptu Frisbee toss in her backyard.

  Not this time.

  “Can’t you improvise?” he countered.

  “Perhaps.” Rolling her shoulders, she blew out a short breath and looked down at the closed piano lid. “What do you want to rehearse first?”

  He massaged his temples. “’The Ave Maria.’”

  “Of course.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh and seemed to withdraw into herself. “What are we waiting for?”

  You, he wanted to say. He glanced at his wristwatch, then at her lovely downturned profile.

  “Unless you’d like to begin with another piece,” he added.

  She placed the music for “The Lord’s Prayer” on the piano. “Can you sight-read this?”

  “I’ve learned a lot in ten years, Dorothy. I’m interested in hearing what you’ve learned.”

  Her lips pressed together, and she didn’t reply.

  With a decisive snap
, he lifted the piano lid and propped it up. “Shall we begin?”

  With a slight nod, she placed her hands on the keys.

  Now why, he pondered before pulling his gaze toward the music, were her hands shaking?

  Chapter Three

  Ryan’s voice was extraordinary.

  Dorothy kept her head down and feigned busyness as she closed the lid of the grand piano. He was a gifted artist, and she was moved by the nuances in his deep bass tone and his incredible vocal range. She’d tried not to glance behind her shoulder and gape while he’d sung the moving lyrics of “The Lord’s Prayer.” His warm breath had grazed the back of her neck, his rich, dark timbre creating a poignant setting for praising God.

  And yes, his virtuoso range had flustered her while she’d played, and she’d halted more than once. Who wouldn’t be flustered accompanying a soon-to-be household name in the world of opera? If he’d noticed her hands shaking, he’d politely ignored it.

  At eighteen, Ryan had been on the lean side of slim and wiry. Now at over six feet tall, his jaw was firmer, the angles of his cheekbones more pronounced. Gaiety had dimmed from his dark-eyed gaze after his father had died. Afterward, Ryan had become more rebellious, hardly spending any time at the home he’d shared with his drunken grandfather.

  She glanced at him, idly wondering if his dark brown hair still took on splashes of gold from the hot South Carolina sun in the summertime.

  She’d resisted the impulse to massage her aching right wrist while she’d played and had tried not to grimace whenever she’d reached an octave. Under no condition would she have a panic attack in front of Ryan. She still recalled his admiring glances when they were younger.

  His dark eyebrows had lifted whenever she’d held in a moan. She’d controlled her shallow breathing and focused on the impressive vocal range of his bass voice. He made it look so easy.

  “Are you sure you’re not sick?” he’d asked more than once. “Perhaps you’re tired after your long flight from New York.”

  “I lifted my suitcase in and out of the rental car one too many times.” She’d forced a cool dismissal and kept her hands poised on the keys. “Shall we continue?”

  His forehead had creased although he said nothing else.

  Now that their rehearsal was finished, she grabbed the water bottle from her purse and took a sip, pondering how long it would take to shop for a few groceries at Cherish Country market—beginning with a box of herbal tea, fresh fruit and a bottle of ibuprofen. Probably not enough time, she amended, glancing at the choir loft clock. Check-in at the inn was four o’clock, and then she needed to get ready for the pre-wedding party dinner.

  She twisted the cap back on her water bottle and nixed groceries altogether.

  With a quick push to her feet, she went to grab her briefcase. She rounded the corner of the piano bench and let out a gasp when she slammed into Ryan’s hard chest.

  His cell phone was pressed to his ear.

  Quickly, he pocketed his phone. His large hands caught her forearms. “Sorry, Dorothy. I wanted to be sure I hadn’t missed a call from my agent.” The warmness of his long fingers tingled her skin. She stared back into his intense dark eyes and lowered her lashes. If she were honest, he’d completely disarmed her since he’d walked into the choir loft.

  She gave herself a stern reprimand. She was being both imprudent and fanciful, much like when she was a dreamy-eyed teen. A couple years back, Nicholas had mentioned that Ryan had gotten married, although she hadn’t noticed a wedding band on Ryan’s finger.

  “No worries, Ryan. Or should I call you Mr. Edwards?” Her voice lowered a fraction. “You’re a celebrated artist now.”

  “Someday, perhaps, if I continue to work hard.” His smile came easy, along with a lazy warmth in his gaze. “Here in Cherish I’m Ryan, your best friend. Remember when you’d race me to the Cupcake Escape for a salted triple-caramel cupcake?”

  “And you used to let me win.”

  “And then we would share a cupcake, my love.”

  My love. Best friends. A million years ago.

  He’d departed for college and never contacted her again. Did he know he’d taken a chunk of her adolescent heart with him?

  “You’re too fancy for any dare now. Look at you, wearing your well-fit clothes, sporting your Rolex watch.” She laughed a little, bantering. “Nicholas told me your wife’s father owns a large hotel chain all throughout Europe.”

  “I’ve been divorced for over a year.” Ryan lifted a palm with a “who cares” attitude. “And if I ever become uber-rich, it’ll be because of me and my merit.”

  Some part of her brain processed his information, and she lingered, feeling strangely comforted. He was no longer married.

  “I didn’t mean to rush up from the piano bench,” she continued. “I was thinking about going to the market for groceries, then checking into the place I’m staying and taking a quick shower before dinner.”

  She felt her face heat as she pushed a reasonable explanation into her voice.

  Ryan’s grip on her forearms tightened. “We’re having dinner at The Garden Terrace tonight, right?”

  “Yes. I assume you’re invited, too.” Unable to stop her steps, she moved a little closer and stared up at him.

  The air between them stalled, the seconds beating a steady pulsing rhythm.

  “I’ll walk you outside.” He hesitated before releasing his hands. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Cherish Hills Inn. You?”

  “Me too.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He threw back his head and laughed, then opened his arms. She collapsed against him with a chuckle, her cheek pressing against the solid thudding of his heart.

  He’d worn a gray cotton polo shirt and black fitted jeans to the rehearsal. His dark-brown hair curled to the collar of his shirt, and her fingers were restless, wanting to brush her hands against his hair. He was the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

  She pulled out of his arms and stepped back.

  What on earth was she thinking?

  The last guy she’d dated, an egotistical violinist, was so vain that she’d been surprised he didn’t break his arm patting himself on the back after a successful performance.

  No more self-centered musicians, she’d vowed. Especially one who was an obvious rising star.

  Was that the reason Ryan’s marriage had failed? Was his high-profile career worth more to him than his personal life?

  She gave herself a strong mental shake. Neither was any of her business and she wouldn’t pry. She wasn’t waiting for a relationship with a man to feel worthwhile because she’d learned to rely on herself. Besides, her feelings for him in the past were best left in the past.

  Deliberately, she pressed any further thoughts of Ryan Edwards from her mind.

  Chapter Four

  The conversation level at The Garden Terrace’s restaurant dimmed to a murmur when Ryan and Dorothy strolled in. Ryan was the main draw, the local celebrity, though he seemed oblivious to any commotion he was causing. He looked impossibly good-looking in black pants, a button-down white sport shirt and a gray pea coat that hugged his broad shoulders.

  She sniffed appreciatively as he helped her off with her jacket. Scents of grilled chicken and smoky, fall-off-the-bone barbecued ribs smoked over mesquite wood tempted her.

  “Smells good, doesn’t it?” He drew her hand through the crook of his arm “I’ll check our jackets at the coat-check. I assume we’ll go back to the inn together.” He covered her hand with his warm fingers and winked. “Thanks for giving me a lift to the restaurant tonight, roomie.”

  “We may be at the same inn, but we’re not roomies,” she corrected. “I’ll drive you back if you promise to treat me to a piece of The Garden Terrace’s sugar-free lemon cake.”

  “You brother is treating tonight. I’ll take a raincheck.”

  She nodded, still shaking her head they’d rented rooms at the same inn, on the same floo
r. There wasn’t an abundance of rentals in Cherish, and despite the fact her brother had offered his apartment, it was small and cramped.

  Across the crowded dining room, she noted that Nicholas had pushed from his chair and was starting toward them.

  Tears sprang to her eyes when her six foot, blond-haired brother reached her. He was a source of inspiration, a true believer in God, and his faith through their daily phone calls while she’d been ill had empowered her to persevere through the nightmarish days of her withdrawal—the vomiting and insomnia and night sweats.

  “Don’t worry about your career. Your true calling will show up where you least expect it,” he’d reassured her. “Your realizations are within your reach.”

  She hadn’t figured out what those realizations were yet, although she’d checked herself into a residential recovery program in New York City the following day.

  “It’s been too long,” Nicholas was saying. “Dorothy, how’s the pain? I was beyond worried and prayed hard for your recovery.” She couldn’t help noticing the husky emotion in his voice.

  Beneath her fingers, she felt the muscles in Ryan’s forearm harden.

  “What recovery?” he murmured.

  Evading Ryan’s inquiring gaze, she replied to Nicholas, “Prayers are always appreciated.”

  She pulled her hand from Ryan’s arm and scanned the busy restaurant—the wood-beamed ceiling, the various kinds of deer antlers lining a wall, a South Carolina flag hanging across another wall, the waiters and waitresses carrying heaping plates of brisket and onions. She’d always loved the down-home, rustic interior of The Garden Terrace.

  “Nicholas, where’s Alice?” she asked.

  “An emergency at St. Luke’s hospital caused her to work later than expected. That’s been happening a lot. We’re getting married and I hardly see her. I’ve been in charge of most of the wedding planning.” Nicholas pressed his lips tight, then took Dorothy’s fingers in his. “In the meantime, I’ll introduce you to the wedding party. The wedding is small—a Best Man and the Maid of Honor. Alice’s five-year-old daughter is the flower girl. After the ceremony we’re having a small reception in the church’s basement.”