Adele had nothing to do in the saloon, no job at all. She was just there, watching a country band play for an old wooden bar full of people. Okay, maybe full wasn’t the word – there were a dozen, at most fifteen people – surely more would show up later? It was Friday night, after all. The few who were there, though, were singing along to the songs they obviously knew and loved. They were good songs, too. On the surface, they were lightweight, standard country fare, but each song had a second hard punch on the way back. The bottle leaves me lost, empty, untrue, and baby, it still don’t act as bad as you. The songs were original – she knew that much. She would have known if they were covers.
There were only three members in Dust & Rusty. Samantha pointed at the drummer. ‘That’s Mack.’ He was a skinny man with dark sunglasses, full-sleeve tattoos and a thick dark moustache. ‘He looks a little scary but he’s actually a third-grade teacher.’
Mack grimaced furiously and hit a double-stroke roll.
‘He looks like he could eat a live chicken.’
‘Well, he has chickens, so I guess that’s possible, but he treats them all like his babies, so I kind of doubt it. He raises Buff Orpingtons and helps out with the chicken section of 4H. Don’t ask him about egg production unless you want your ear bent right off your head. He never shuts up about them. And that guy there, the bass player, that’s Scrug Watson. He’s a strawberry farmer, got a place about four miles out of town.’
Scrug didn’t look anything like a farmer from his neck down. He wore a grey suit and a button-down shirt so white it gleamed almost blue under the spotlight. A wide burgundy tie was tacked in place, and his black wingtips shone. But from the neck up, he was all agriculture – wide, wind-burned cheeks, eyebrows blond from the sun, and a red John Deere baseball cap.
They were good. They had a clean traditional sound, Scrug doing most of the singing with Nate and Mack backing him on tight harmonies. Their third song was about a pick-up truck and a blonde, and while they were the ultimate country song clichés, something about the tune worked. She was impressed. Scrug could really sing. Mack could really drum.
Nate could play, yes. He played damn well, but beyond that, no one on God’s green earth should be allowed to have that much natural charisma. Adele couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. Onstage, under the bright light, his scowl turned less cranky and more sexy. He wore a blue T-shirt and jeans that fit his long legs just right. He’d been good-looking enough in the backward-facing baseball cap he’d worn earlier, but he was completely devastating in the beat-up brown cowboy hat that he wore now. When he tilted his head to glance at the fretboard, shadows leaped along his strong, broad jaw. The way his left hand skated up and down the strings made something in the pit of Adele’s stomach twist. He kept those loose legs that the good players had, his knees slightly bent, his jeans tight over his thighs.
He made playing look easy, and Adele knew from years with her own guitar that the things he was doing were anything but. Damn.
She needed another drink. Or a water. Or maybe just a break from staring at the guitarist. What was she, eighteen?
At the bar, she ordered a sparkling water from Dixie, the woman with the short brown curls. She was pretty, built like a sexy fire hydrant – short but curvy, the slants of her body exaggerated. She wore a tight black low-cut top that showed off her cleavage, and her lower curves meandered out of the hem of her jeans shorts.
‘We seem to be fresh out of the sparkling stuff, sorry. I got soda water or Coke.’
‘Soda water. Twist of lime?’
Dixie nodded and when she turned back with the drink, she said, ‘You know we never have the sparkling stuff. Right?’
‘Uncle Hugh was always a stick-in-the-mud when it came to mixology.’
Dixie snorted. ‘Mixo-what? You know, one night a guy came in here and tried to tell Hugh his Old-Fashioned recipe was wrong, that he needed to heat the sugar cube before dropping it in.’
Adele could only imagine. Hugh had a big heart and a short fuse. ‘And?’
‘He made it just like he always did, ignoring the asshole as he whined, then carried it to him around the bar. He was seated right where you are now. Hugh held it over his head, and the best part was the guy just looked upward, like he had no idea what was coming next.’
‘He dumped it.’
Dixie grinned. ‘All over him. The guy threatened to sue him for the damage to his clothes, and that’s when Hugh threw him and his three friends out. Physically. You know how he could roar into grizzly bear mode? That version of Hugh came out to play. I swear the guy was almost sobbing. We laughed for weeks over that one.’
Adele squeezed the lime into the soda water. ‘You could insult him just about any way you wanted to, but you couldn’t insult the way he ran the bar.’
Dixie nodded in satisfaction. ‘Exactly right. Hey. My sincere condolences to you. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be back without him here to greet you.’
Was there a concealed barb in the words? A cloaked judgement for not getting there in time?
But nothing seemed to hide behind Dixie’s words, nothing except clear and rather heart-twisting sympathy in her eyes. For the first time since pulling into town Adele felt like crying, felt the heat behind her eyes that told her if she didn’t do something and quick, she’d be blubbering in the saloon she’d practically grown up in.
She glugged some of the soda water, grateful for its coldness. ‘So, how long did you work for him?’
‘Me? Not that long. The last year and a half, I think.’
Adele pushed her hair back and looked over her shoulder at the band. They were playing a sweet ballad about when to call your sweetheart and what you should call her when you did, and Nate took a short solo on the chorus. His voice was strong, his words clearly enunciated. Gravel lined his low voice, and he was perfectly on pitch.
His voice was so good it was almost annoying, and his playing was even better.
She hadn’t expected this.
With a little more effort than it should have taken, Adele turned back to Dixie. ‘Yeah? What brought you here?’
‘What else? Love.’
‘Always a good reason to go somewhere,’ said Adele.
‘Not always the best reason to stay, though.’
‘Mmm.’ Adele sneaked another look over her shoulder at Nate. She couldn’t help saying, ‘He’s good. He’s really good.’
‘Yeah. I hear that a lot from women on your side of the bar.’
Adele started. ‘Really?’
Laughing, Dixie pulled a beer for a guy in an improbable corduroy blazer and then came back. ‘Yeah. You know. He gets a lot of that What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?’
Adele nodded. She could see that. And she couldn’t help wondering how he answered.
Samantha and Hank were slow-dancing on the small floor occupied by a few other couples. Samantha’s head was on Hank’s shoulder, and they moved like they were listening less to the music than to each other’s bodies. Did Nate ever slow-dance like that with anyone? Was there a girl he regularly danced with?
‘Hey, I just have to say –’ Dixie leaned over the bar, displaying even more friendly cleavage. ‘Your first album? That one was my favourite. Everyone liked Take It Slow on the Curves best, but the first one, even with its rough production, that one got me through some rough times, you know? Oh, man.’ Dixie clapped a red-nailed hand over her mouth. ‘I shouldn’ta said that. I love the production on it. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, I swear.’
‘The production on that one was rough. We did it in our parents’ garage with equipment we borrowed from a college kid who lived down the block. When we first recorded it, we didn’t even have a band name. It wasn’t till we came to Darling Bay that summer that Uncle Hugh came up with it.’
Dixie nodded, looking satisfied. ‘He never stopped bragging that the name had been his idea.’
‘The Darling Songbirds’ was fine for what they were back then
. But now it was as old-fashioned as the town itself. Earlier, when that old album had been playing on the jukebox, Adele had had to swallow the urge to sing along with ‘Honey and Honky-tonk’. She hadn’t performed with her sisters in eleven years, but she could sing those songs in her sleep.
The slow song ended. Nate stepped out of the light. Hank and Samantha came off the floor. Samantha said something to Dixie in a low voice that Adele couldn’t hear, and both the women laughed. It wasn’t about her, was it? Fresh nerves jumped through her.
Hank held his hand out to Adele. ‘Dance with me while they gab?’
With relief, Adele said, ‘Love to.’ As long as it had been since she’d hung out in a country saloon simply listening to music for the fun of it, it had been even longer since she’d danced on a bare-wood floor.
The next song was a two-step. Adele had forgotten how reliable a dancer Hank was. He had the rhythm, and what he lacked in panache he made up with sheer good-heartedness. When the band broke into a slower song in three-quarter time next, he held on to her and they moved into waltz steps. ‘You’re the same guy,’ said Adele, ‘only happy. You didn’t used to be that.’
‘You only knew me when I was hung up on a certain girl.’
Adele laughed. ‘You mooned over Samantha, and she never saw you. I totally remember that. You were the most sentimental thing I ever met. But if you haven’t noticed, these days that certain girl seems pretty hung up on you, too.’
‘Yep,’ said Hank simply. ‘We’re happy.’
Adele, unable to help herself, glanced at the three men onstage. Nate had a slight grin, and he was looking down at his guitar as if it were the love of his life, and maybe it was. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘What about you? Did you cart a man along with you into town, or is he coming along behind you?’
‘No man,’ Adele said lightly as Hank wheeled her carefully around an elderly couple who were dancing with a steady but glacial pace. ‘Just me.’
‘I thought I read that you were hooked up with that singer.’
‘I was in Nashville. I’m a songwriter. Singers happen.’
‘Hey, now.’ Hank pulled away and looked at her. ‘You okay?’
How was it possible to feel these two ways at the same time? She was so happy to be here, to be dancing with Hank on the wooden floor she’d loved sliding across in socks when she was a kid and the bar was empty. At the same time, she was devastated that she’d missed saying goodbye to her uncle. ‘I’m okay.’
She glanced again at Nate. And for one second, as he strummed a D minor 7th, he smiled at her. Their gaze tangled, and she lost her breath, and then Hank was turning her again, and she had to look into his face to stay steady on her feet.
‘What are you going to do about Nate?’
‘What?’ Did it show that much? Was she really that obvious? She used to be smoother than that when she was checking someone out in a dark bar, but it had been a long time.
‘Keep him? Fire him? Are you selling the place?’
‘Oh. That.’
‘Because you should sell to him, you know.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m glad you’re back – don’t get me wrong – I really am. But Nate loves this place, and he tried so hard to buy it off your uncle. I hate that he didn’t get the chance, and now he might not get to.’
‘He wants to buy it?’
‘He’s been saving for years. I know the bank loan came through again more than a year ago, but Hugh was in one of his phases where he thought he might redo everything here and start over. You know how he was.’
Bigger than life. Adele’s father had always said his brother could talk a whore into saying the rosary. ‘Why does he want it? And if he wants it, why didn’t Uncle Hugh just sell to him?’
‘Not really sure. From a couple of things Nate has said, I think Hugh might have been using this place as bait.’
‘For us.’ But they’d never come.
Hank gave a quick nod. ‘Maybe. I just hope you think about giving Nate a chance.’
Adele was suddenly suspicious. ‘Did he put you up to this?’ Nashville had been like this. There was always someone ready to sweep you off your feet so they could try to get what they thought they needed from you. But she hadn’t expected that kind of thing here.
‘Of course not. I’m just curious for his sake. He’s a good friend, and I don’t want him to go anywhere.’
‘I haven’t actually talked it out with my sisters – not yet – but we obviously can’t keep this place.’
‘Yeah.’
Hank pushed her into another spin, and she landed against him with a more solid thud than she’d planned. ‘It’s a wreck,’ she said.
‘Totally.’
‘Trashed.’
‘He showed you the rooms?’
‘What’s not burned out is dry rotted.’
‘Yep.’ Hank nodded amenably.
‘And this saloon is as run-down as they get.’
‘Surprised the boards aren’t dropping us to the dirt below right now.’ Hank gave a satisfied stomp with his boot.
‘And the café is defunct.’
‘Has been for years. Old and mouldy.’
‘But the coffee. Remember, people came from miles around just to get a cup to go? And the barbecued oysters, still fresh from the water every Saturday? And those fries? I’ve literally dreamed about those fries.’
‘Too much for him to take care of. He couldn’t possibly do it all himself.’
For a moment Adele forgot they were talking about her uncle and looked again at Nate. His fingers were moving fast and smooth on the strings, but his body stayed still, those long legs of his slightly bent. Ready to catch that guitar if it fell. Or a woman.
‘So you and your sisters …’
Adele almost stumbled. ‘Yeah. We’d never be able to fix this place up.’ Even as she said the words, she felt herself fighting against them in her mind. Fixing? What couldn’t she fix, when it came right down to it? Her whole job had been fixing. People wrote songs, and they paid her to fix them, to make them better. It was good, dependable money.
And she was great at it. She fixed her friends’ love lives, cushioning the blows of bad break-ups and setting them up with people who were better for them. She fixed the things that broke in her old apartment (the toaster, the washing machine), perennially pissing off her ex-boyfriend, who thought that if he couldn’t fix a pipe (and he couldn’t) that they should hire a plumber instead of letting her work on it.
‘Not many people would be able to set a ship like this to rights. It’s already basically sunk,’ said Hank. The song slowed to a close, and Hank gave her one last spin before drawing her back. ‘Good crowd tonight, though. His band really gets them in.’
It took a moment for Adele to realise he was serious. He thought the dozen people in the bar listening was a good turn-out.
He gave a short bow and winked. ‘Don’t underestimate Nate. He’s the real deal.’
Adele gave a silly, awkward curtsy. They clapped for the band.
Nate ducked his head and stepped backward, giving the spotlight to Scrug.
And even though she tried – she really tried – Adele couldn’t help the fact that her eyes still strained to see him through the darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
Adele didn’t think she’d ever kicked so much in her life. She woke in Nate’s borrowed bed – no, the hotel’s bed – with her legs aching as if she’d been running all night. The mattress was too thin. Or too old. Or maybe it was too firm. Her broken sleep surely didn’t have anything to do with its normal occupant, and the way she’d kept waking up with Nate’s image walking through her dreams. No.
She thought with longing of her old bed in Nashville. It had been just right: a queen, soft on top but firm underneath.
She’d sold it along with almost everything else she owned, which, after the huge garage sale she’d had before leaving Nashville, wasn’t all that much. She still had fou
r boxes of Darling Songbird memorabilia, and her mother’s hutch, the one she’d carted along with her no matter where she’d moved. All the rest of Adele’s possessions had fit in a tiny storage unit, with room to spare.
If only she’d gotten the messages about Uncle Hugh in time.
She knew it didn’t sound plausible, and if she’d been to a funeral to which no family member showed up, she wouldn’t believe a single excuse. There wasn’t a good-enough justification in the world.
But that was the truth – she hadn’t been home to get the first crushing message from the coroner (apparently he and Uncle Hugh had been fishing buddies, and the coroner’s voice had cracked as he spoke to her voicemail). She still hadn’t been home when the second message landed from a man with a low voice who said, ‘I need to know if your uncle wanted a memorial, and if he did, what kind, ’cause I have no clue what would be best.’ He’d left a number but not a name.
She’d been absolutely unreachable, and God, how she wished she hadn’t been. For the previous six months, she’d been dating a race car driver, Mitch, who was blond and funny and good in bed. They were equally semi-famous. Neither of them minded when they went out to dinner and people tilted their heads but couldn’t quite figure out who they were. It wasn’t until they hit the second mile of a fourteen-day backpacking trip in Cumberland Gap that she’d also realised he was a very bad planner. And he wasn’t much of an actual hiker, either. Adele had been training since Mitch had invited her to come along. She’d been hiking with cans of soup in her backpack on Mitch’s race days, and she’d been studying how to find water. She’d bought the smallest, most portable water purifier on the market. She read Wild and had seen the movie, too.
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