by Jae Dawson
I winced. Gramps saw the paper the day after I met with Bella and Mr. Kelley. I didn’t want to rehash that moment right now. The shame I felt for crashing his antique pickup was hard enough without having to face him for drinking and driving. He lost his son to a drunk driver. I lost my father and mother.
The headache behind my eyes began to pound.
So, I ignored him and asked, “Chinese leftovers or grilled cheeses?”
“Son, I’ll be fine. Deloris—”
“Candlewick Retirement Center called. No openings.” I grit my teeth and looked anywhere but at Gramps.
He sighed and removed his glasses. “I’m not moving.”
“Who’s going to help you when I go on tour again?”
“I’m not leaving, Cade. A man only has his memories at the end and this home has every memory I cherish.” A kind smile deepened the wrinkles of his face.
I turned away, unable to keep my grief from spilling over. “Grilled cheese it is.” And, with that, I marched out of the room toward the kitchen. But a knock at the door halted my steps. I had forgotten to cancel with Deloris.
She let herself in, waving at me from the door as she stepped into the foyer. Then she laughed as her eyes traveled to my hair. “Just roll out of bed, hun?”
“Nah,” I replied, relaxing my body. I smiled in return, combing my fingers through the tangled strands. “Just trying not to pull my hair out.”
“Well, it’s cute.” She walked over and ruffled my hair like I was a little boy.
Cute? I peeked at my hair in the entry way mirror and groaned. Not that it mattered. I was staying home.
“You got something on your mind?” she asked me.
I sighed. “All the retirement centers are full. Not that I’d even be able to convince him to go, if I found him a spot.” I lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “He can be stubborn.”
Deloris chuckled. “Part of being old, darling. Getting stuck in your ways. I’ll talk to Frank. We have some friends who have moved into Maple Lane and are having a grand old time. I’m sure it will all come together.”
“I hope so. Today was a tough one, so I’m staying in tonight.”
“No, you’re not.” With a stronger-than-expected shove from her petite frame, she pushed me toward the door. “Time for school, young man.”
I rolled my eyes. “But—”
“No buts.” She wagged her finger at me playfully. “Now go and see that young lady of yours.”
“She’s not my anything.”
Deloris grabbed my hoodie off the hook by the door and shoved it into my hands. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She ended with a wink and then closed the door before I could protest.
“What won’t you do?” I yelled from the other side of the door, grinning. The lock clicked and I laughed out loud. That minx.
Well, my options were to knock furiously on the door and look like an idiot before all the neighbors or begin my four-mile trek to Hartwood High.
I slipped the hoodie on, covering my hair, then lowered my head while cursing the misting rain.
The kids were busy working on Audrey II, the man-eating plant, when I rolled into the school theater. Nobody noticed my presence, not even Bella. Jeremy, however, greeted me with a single up-nod before returning his attention to a Yamaha guitar. A mini guitar, actually. I considered getting a Baby Taylor for convenience when on the tour bus. But I only had eyes for Bob and Bob alone.
“Hey,” I said as I stepped behind the sound booth. “What are you playing?”
Jeremy lifted a single shoulder in a shrug. “Just messing around.”
“Can I?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I accepted the guitar from Jeremy’s hands and then strummed a chord. The low E was slightly flat, so I leaned in toward the guitar and tweaked the tuning. After a quick test, I let my fingers fly across the strings. A grin stretched across Jeremy’s face. I let the melody carry me a few more minutes before handing the half-sized guitar back to the blue-haired young man.
“Let’s hear what you got,” I encouraged.
“I’m not good. Just started learning.” Jeremy shrugged again. “Mainly use a MIDI pad for sampling. When I can use my friend’s laptop, that is.”
“DJing?”
“One day.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Play me an A chord.” Jeremy fumbled around, working his fingers into position. The high E string on the third fret was correct, but . . . “Your index finger goes on the second fret of the G string. Yeah, like that. Now strum from the low E string all the way down.” The young man guided his pick down the strings then looked up at me with another large grin. “You’ll be playing Stairway to Heaven in no time,” I said with humorous wink.
“Jeremy.” Bella walked up the center aisle. “Can you cue Suppertime? We have Audrey II ready.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes but started cueing up the song on the laptop and fiddling with the sound board.
She studied me curiously. “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“Walk with me.” Bella gracefully twirled on her heel then waltzed down the slightly sloped aisle.
I slid Jeremy a mock-disgruntled look before sauntering after her. “I can’t walk with you, Ms. Pagano, if you’re several paces ahead.”
She paused to peer at me over her shoulder, an eyebrow arched. “You could walk a little faster, Mr. Owens.”
A smile teased the corners of my mouth. “I could.”
“Why were you late?” She threw her hands up into the air, as if she were done with me already. But I saw the mischievous glint in her eyes. She wanted to play. But I wasn’t really in the mood to fight with Bella, even if we flirted while fighting and fought while flirting. Which, weirdly, had been happening more and more lately.
I stopped before her, taking in the sweep of her dark hair, the way shadows lined the fine curves of her face. “Can’t promise it won’t happen again.”
The two students who played Audrey II were now secure inside the massive foam and papier-mâché puppet, the telltale form of the show’s trademark man-eating plant. And Paloma, who played Audrey, was on the opposite side of the stage, next to an old-fashioned dial telephone. The music started up. Jeremy must have confused Bella’s hand gesture with impatience to begin.
“And why is that?” she asked, ignoring the music. But her voice was softer and her brow furrowed as she studied my face once again.
Was I really that obvious? I stewed all the way here, angry at myself, at Corinth Records, at Devon, at Gran for dying on me, dying on Gramps. My heart panged with an ache that was becoming increasingly familiar and stronger with each passing day.
She placed a hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
“My grandfather needs assistance. It makes me nervous to leave him. But I . . . I need to be here and then eventually back on tour. I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh.” Her lips curved downward. “I had no idea. Have you tried any of the retirement—”
“All of them.” I interrupted her, shuffling on my feet. “No openings.” The sadness etched into each beautiful feature of Bella’s face was about to become my undoing. “They did a great job.” I pointed at Audrey II, hoping the distraction worked.
But Bella’s eyes remained fixed on me, her head tilted to catch my averted gaze. “I have a friend who works at Maple Lane Assisted Living.”
“No openings there. But thanks.”
“I’ll give her a call anyway. Your grandfather must be pretty special. I can tell how much you love him.”
Audrey screamed in the background as the man-eating plant attempted to make her his meal. Still, Bella watched me. A smile fluttered across her lips—kind, vulnerable, even a touch inviting. Another ache squeezed my chest, but this time for entirely different reasons.
She was definitely going to be my undoing.
Chapter Ten
Bella
So, maybe Tuesdays and Thursdays weren’t
terrible. I had almost begun to tolerate them.
The musical was coming along really well. I had a great group of kids—talented, enthusiastic, cooperative. The holy trifecta. And miracle of miracles, the cast’s eager excitement was seeming to rub off on Jeremy. He was a natural with the AV equipment and, I swore, half the time I looked toward the sound booth, the kid was smiling. Well, sort of smiling. It looked like a happy grimace. But that was a lighter form of Jeremy. Community service seemed to be genuinely helping him.
Cade, however, was harder to read.
I had to give the guy credit, though. As a rock star who had fallen from grace, he was taking his licks with a fair amount of class. I had expected him to spend half the rehearsal time regaling the students with inappropriate stories of his glamorous life, and the other half on his phone. But other than a few stories the first day, he seemed truly invested in the show. He had even showed up for our set party last Friday and ordered pizza for everyone. If the kids hadn’t adored him already, that had clinched the deal.
For a while now, I knew something was bothering him beyond his reckless night and the following charges. But he had opened to me about his troubles—caring for his aging, grieving grandfather. That sort of stress would make anyone crazy. I’m not sure I’d ever have to worry about something like that. When it was Mamma’s time, I half expected she would just perform some elaborate ritual, turn into an owl, and then disappear into the night, never to be heard from again. She would live for some dramatic shit like that. No slow decline for her.
I shouldered my jacket on, flipping the lights off in the auditorium. Rehearsal had been fun today.
My phone buzzed in my purse, and I rummaged around random contents that probably didn’t belong in a boutique Bettie Page bag—earrings I hadn’t worn since New Year’s, a watch (I don’t even own a watch), and a support carabineer for the curtain’s pully system—from last spring’s production, no less. I needed to get the curtain fixed. And I really needed to clean out my purse. My fingers finally brushed along my phone. Mamma. Of course. The woman somehow always knew when I was thinking of her.
“Ciao Mamma,” I answered.
“Belly!” she crooned on the other end. “You’ve been avoiding me, cara mia.”
“I’ve been busy with the musical.”
“You’ve been busy with that beautiful man.”
I shook my head as I strode toward my car. “No, I told you. We’re just working together. Strictly professional.”
“You summoned him with the potency of your magic, and now you just throw him to the wolves? I raised you better than.”
I looked to the heavens. This woman! “What wolves, Mamma?”
“The metaphorical wolves. This man literally fell into your life and what have you done to claim him? Nothing! In my day, if a man like that had fallen from the heavens into my lap, I would make sure we didn’t leave the bedroom for days.”
I made a little retching sound. “Do you remember the last time I claimed someone the Universe dropped into my life? The bastard left me three days before our wedding. It nearly broke me. Not again, Mamma. No more frontmen and rock stars.”
“Cade is not Jason, cara mia.”
“They look the same from where I’m standing,” I grumbled.
From beneath the pickup and drop off overhang, I glared at the spitting rain. Apparently, my life wasn’t dramatic enough. I pulled up the hood of my raincoat.
“I’m at my car,” I lied. “Got to go.”
“Put me on the—the handsfree device—”
“Bye, Mamma!” I jabbed the red button then dashed into the deluge.
That woman would be the death of me.
I slid into the driver’s seat of my car, shaking off the rain. The weather in Hartwood Falls had taken some serious getting used to. At least, it didn’t snow as much as it had in New York. I wasn’t a fan of shoveling.
In the heavy rain, I barely noticed someone walking down the sidewalk, hood up, hands shoved into their pockets. A student? They shouldn’t have to walk home in this. I pulled my car over and rolled down the window. “Excuse me—” The words left me. Cade. Clearly, already drenched to the skin through his cotton hoodie. “Need a ride?”
He peered my way beneath his rain-dripping hood, indecision warring in his blue eyes. His male ego obviously was telling him to turn down my offer, but his practical side was no doubt reminding him how far he had to go.
“I’ll even let you pick the Spotify station.”
That seemed to clinch it. Cade hurried over and hopped into the passenger side. He pulled down his hood and shook his head like a dog, sending water droplets showering over me.
“Hey!” I held up my hands to block the spray, a useless gesture.
“Sorry,” he grinned. And my heart did a full-on backflip. God, it wasn’t fair how handsome he was. He held out a hand. “Fork it over.”
I huffed and tapped in my passcode before handing over my phone. Our fingers brushed against each other—his were like ice. I cranked up the heat to full blast. “Take off that wet sweatshirt and throw it in the back.”
His grin widened. “You want me to undress, Ms. Pagano?”
I hoisted my hands toward the heavens, the kind of gesture that showed how I was pleading with God to take him right then and there. “You’re welcome to walk.”
“Thanks for the permission.”
“How far is it to your house, anyway?”
His grin faltered. “Four miles.” He unzipped his sweatshirt and peeled it off.
I put the car in gear and resisted the urge to say more—especially something snarky. Things had been copacetic between us the past two weeks, and I didn’t want to upset that.
Cade turned his attention to finding a good Spotify station, and I turned my attention to trying not to stare at Cade out of the corner of my eye . . . I mean, driving. The way that wet, faded-black vintage band tee was clinging to his pecs was downright criminal. So was the heat pouring into my core. I couldn’t look away. Several wet strands brushed his cheek, his lips reddened from the cold. Damn my body! I didn’t want to feel anything toward him. Especially arousal.
Cade apparently found something he was content with––completely unaware of my struggle to draw breath. He set the phone down in the center cup-holder.
A familiar guitar riff floated out of the speakers and I froze. “You can’t be serious.”
“What, you don’t like The Surprise?”
A grim smile crossed my face. “No, I didn’t particularly like the surprise when Jason Stone broke off our engagement three days before our wedding.”
Cade let out a disbelieving laugh. “No freakin’ way.”
I slid him a quick glance. “Yes freakin’ way.”
“You dated the lead singer of The Surprise?”
“Engaged to him,” I corrected. “And our torrid romance did not end well.”
Cade sat back, combing long fingers through his still-dripping strands. “This explains so much.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you hate rock musicians.”
“I don’t hate rock musicians.” I hesitated. “I just think they’re shallow, narcissistic assholes who forgot how to treat other human beings with decency.”
“I stand corrected. Doesn’t sound like hate at all.” Cade snorted.
I looked sidelong at him, and then we both started laughing.
“Okay, I may not think all rock stars are like that,” I admitted. “Music is just . . . such a pure art form, you know? I hate how it gets twisted into corporate marketing and dollar signs.”
“Me too.”
“Wait. What?” I peered over in surprise.
“Yeah, I didn’t start a band to become famous. I did it because I loved music and I loved playing music with my friends. It pisses me off that the best songs I write usually don’t make the A-side cut, while the vapid but catchy drivel I’m forced to write ends up at the top of the Billboard charts. And that it’s more import
ant how I look, what my branding image is, than how I play. And that every person I meet wants a piece of me because my record label contract somehow makes me a demi-god of entertainment. It’s . . . exhausting.”
Cade had tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The hot air blowing from the vents was tousling his wet, curling hair. I never thought I would feel bad for Cade Owens but, in this moment, I did.
“Well, I don’t want anything from you,” I said with forced levity. Even though I was starting to think that was a lie. “Except for you to show up at rehearsal on time.”
His eyes snapped open. “Damn. I’ve been on time to every rehearsal—”
I raised an eyebrow.
“—Almost every rehearsal.”
The innocent grin he threw my way was so obnoxious, I laughed.
“I have to admit, Mr. Owens, I had my doubts when this all started—”
He put a mocking hand to his chest. “Wow.”
I rolled my eyes. “But, I think it’s been good for everybody.”
“Including you?” He regarded me with more scrutiny than was strictly comfortable.
“Yes, including me. It’s nice to have another adult in the room.”
“Even a shallow, narcissistic one?”
I grinned now. “Exactly.”
“Do you ever sing or play outside of teaching? You’re really talented.”
His compliment caught me off guard and I could feel the tips of my ears heating. “Not much. I play at home sometimes. There aren’t a lot of opportunities.”
“You’re classically trained, right?”
I smiled his way. “I double-majored in musical theater and music theory. Emphasis on piano and opera. Minor in dance. Basically, the least marketable combination of majors known to man. So, I pursued a Masters in performing arts and education.”
“Ah, so that’s why you teach instead of perform.”
I grimaced. “Maybe not for long.”
“What do you mean? Oh—take a left here.” Cade pointed.
I followed his instruction, turning down Main Street, which bustled despite the weather. Then I busied myself by fiddling with the vents and defroster on the dash. Finally, I said, “the school board is going to cut arts funding to the district unless we wow them at the musical this year and prove arts still have relevance. I’ll be out of a job.”
