Life Rewritten

by Margaret Watson

  “No way could I have found that by myself.”

  “That’s the point. I live alone in the country. I’m not going to advertise.”

  Her words hung between them as he turned into her driveway. An image of Delaney, her hair damp, her eyes closed as she sang, filled his head. She was passionate about her music. That’s what drew people to her…that’s what was affecting him now.

  Not the sense of aloneness that cloaked her. The sadness in her eyes. The hint of vulnerability beneath her outward strength.

  They emerged into a clearing with two buildings. A small, two-story house with a garage sat off to the side, and next to it stood a pole barn. The house was white, with black shutters and a bright red front door. Lights blazed both outside and inside the house and barn.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She opened the door and leaped out. Before he could follow, she had the hatch open and the drums out of the Jeep. “So long,” she called over her shoulder as she headed for the barn.

  By the time he reached her, she was balancing the drums on one raised knee while she unlocked the door.

  “Want a hand with those? I promise to be gentle.”

  Their eyes met and held, and she froze. In the space of two heartbeats, that clear, brilliant blue darkened and he heard her sharp inhalation. She held his gaze for a second longer, then fumbled with the key again and the door swung open.

  Lost in those amazing eyes, he wanted her. Just like every other man who’d ever watched her perform.

  She was Chantal. That’s what she did.

  Before he regained his composure, she’d closed and locked the door behind her.

  He glanced at the Jeep. He’d left it running so the kids would be warm. He might as well tell her now who he was. It would be easier than having the conversation in front of the kids.

  He knocked on the door and heard her footsteps approaching. When she opened it, he said, “I told you I came here to do some business. I actually came looking for you. I’m Diesel’s brother.”

  DELANEY STILL HAD HER purse slung over her shoulder, and as she stared at Sam, it slid down her arm and hit the floor with a plop. She gripped the door, staring at him as her stomach churned. “What did you say?”

  “I’m Diesel’s brother. Half brother, to be exact. I came here to talk to you.”His gray eyes were hard as stone, and cold as the lake in March. He shoved his hands into his pockets, but not before she’d seen them tighten into fists.

  The man who had just made her heart race and her palms damp was Diesel’s brother? Fate was a cruel bitch.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her hand shook as she tried to close the door, but he stuck his foot into the gap.

  “Suffering from amnesia? Funny, but it looked as if you remembered a lot of things tonight. How to play the drums. How to sing. How to…perform.”

  “Go away,” she said, clinging to the door. Her carefully constructed life was breaking apart in front of her, one piece after another crashing to the ground and splintering into a million pieces

  “Don’t you even want to know why I’m here?” He shifted closer, as if to come inside, and she slammed the door into his foot.

  “Go away or I’m calling the police.” She fumbled in her purse for her phone. Her hand shook as she tried to dial 911 while leaning against the door, struggling to prevent him from opening it farther.

  “You sure you want to do that? I’d have to tell them why I’m here. Who you are.”

  She’d punched 9 and 1, her finger hovering over the final key. He wasn’t bluffing—he wanted her to finish the call. She snapped the phone closed. No police.

  “What do you want?”

  His shoulders relaxed. “A deal.”

  “What are you talking about?” Frigid air blew in the open door, and a snowflake landed on her cheek.

  “May I come in?”

  “Do I look stupid? No, you can’t.”

  At her words, he hunched his shoulders and blew on his hands. He couldn’t handle the cold. Too bad.

  He nudged the door with his foot, widening the gap. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d already be inside. I’ll be a lot more reasonable if I’m not freezing my ass off.”

  He opened the door a little more, pushing against her weight as if it was nothing.

  She’d have to listen to him sooner or later, but she was too tired to deal with him tonight. “Move your foot first.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then withdrew. She slammed the door and engaged the lock.

  He’d go away when he got cold enough.

  She leaned against the door for a few minutes, but she didn’t hear his footsteps retreating. His truck chugged steadily in the background.

  She bit the inside of her cheeks, trying to hold back the nausea. She’d thought she was safe. No one had recognized her in three years. Until tonight.

  But Sam wasn’t a random stranger. He was Diesel’s brother. And he wanted something from her.

  She moved to the side and glanced out the window. He was still there, stamping his feet and blowing into his cupped hands.

  He’d be thinking about getting in his warm car. About his two children sleeping there. He’d decide to wait until daylight to confront her.

  Maybe not. The date of his arrival in Otter Tail wasn’t random. He’d chosen the anniversary of Diesel’s death for a reason.

  Did he think the memories would make her weaker today? Easier prey? He had no idea who she had become. And what did he want?

  She took a deep breath, then another. Closed her eyes and reached for the mental calm she’d learned from yoga.

  It wasn’t there. Even yoga couldn’t prepare her for this kind of shock. She glanced out the window again. He hadn’t moved.

  She had to face him. She wasn’t running again. She had roots here. Friends. A life. She’d have to find a way to deal with him.

  Without a word, she opened the door and he walked in.

  “Thank you.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, and his gaze swept the room. “You have a lot of furniture.”

  “Yes, I do. You insisted on coming in to talk to me. So talk.”

  His expression hardened. “Diesel had two children.”

  “I know that.” Leo and Rennie. They’d been seven and two years old when their father died. She’d never met them—she’d retained at least a shred of decency. But she’d seen plenty of pictures. Rennie had her father’s bright red hair. Leo had been blond, with Diesel’s brown eyes.

  “They haven’t had an easy life. Their mother is…a mess. They barely remember their father. They need stability in their lives.”

  “And you came to me for that?” She stared at him, shocked.

  “Of course not.” His rejection should have burned. Instead, it made her stand straighter.

  “Then what do they have to do with me?” Poor kids. The whispers about Diesel would follow them everywhere.

  “You have some CDs that Diesel made. Bootleg recording sessions of music he wrote that were never released. Music that’s different from the Redheads’ stuff. His kids need that music to be made public.”

  “What?” He couldn’t know about those CDs. No one knew about them but her and Diesel. And Diesel was dead.

  “I’m here to negotiate with you for them.”

  “There are no bootleg recordings.”

  He shook his head, as if pained by her awkward lie. “Can’t you do better than that? You could try ‘they were lost in a fire.’ Or how about ‘the record company has them.’ Or even the popular ‘you have the wrong person.’”

  “This conversation is over.” She opened the door. “Get out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SAM PUSHED THE DOOR closed. “This conversation is just beginning. I’m not going to take no for an answer.” He leaned closer, but she stood her ground. “Those tapes are Leo and Rennie’s legacy. If they were released, they’d make a lot of money. Money they need. The person who told me about them said, and I quote, ‘they wer
e friggin’ brilliant.’”

  “Someone’s been jerking your chain, Mr. McCabe.” Her fingers closed around the phone in her pocket. Maybe she would call the police. Take a chance on Sam telling them who she was. She had to get him out of here. “There’s always gossip when a musician dies. Rumors of unreleased recordings.”“Jeremy Davies told me about them. He heard you and Diesel in the studio a couple of times. He didn’t care what you were doing—he said the music wouldn’t have worked for the Redheads. He thought you were putting some stuff together for a solo album.” He edged closer. “He had no reason to lie to me.”

  Jeremy had heard them in the studio?

  Maybe he had. Her hand shook, and she released the phone. She and Diesel had been high or drunk most of the time toward the end. It wasn’t surprising they hadn’t noticed their bass player hanging around. “I may not recall everything that happened while I was with the Redheads, but if I made tapes that were ‘friggin’ brilliant’, I’d remember. Sorry.”

  She reached for the door again, but he stepped in front of it. “I’m not going away, Delaney. Leo and Rennie are…” His jaw worked. “They’re troubled kids. I want to put them in a private school, but it will cost a lot of money. Money neither Heather nor I have. I need those tapes. It’s the only way to shelter them from the media storm that surrounds their mother and the sordid parts of their father’s life.”

  One of those sordid parts being her. Delaney lifted her chin. “I’m sorry for those kids, but I can’t help them.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Can’t. Even if there were tapes, I wouldn’t give them to you.”

  He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “When you give me the tapes, you’ll need to help with publicity and promotion. Interviews. We can do a tour with the remaining band members. Jeremy is on board, and I’ll talk to Garrett and Steve. A reunion tour of the Redheads would boost sales of the CD.”

  “Publicity? A reunion tour? You’re out of your mind.” He wanted her to become Chantal again? She backed up until she bumped against a desk, gripping it for support. The edge was rough—she was getting ready to sand it. “That’s not going to happen. Under any circumstances.”

  “You could make a lot of money from this project. Why would you throw it away?” He crossed his arms. “It was clear tonight that you haven’t suddenly developed stage fright.”

  No amount of money was worth going back. “Do I look like Chantal? Do you see any resemblance to her?” Without waiting for him to answer, she said, “There’s a reason for that. I’m not Chantal anymore. And I’ll never be her again.”

  “You are Chantal.” His voice was flat. “You’ve just changed the package.”

  “I can still play the drums and sing,” she agreed. “I could dye my hair again. Get a new wardrobe, new jewelry. But I won’t.”

  “Seems like you could use the money.” He looked around the pole barn, his gaze lingering on the naked walls, the old, drafty windows, the cracked concrete floor. Then he glanced out the window at her tiny house.

  “I need a lot of things,” she said. “But nothing money can buy.”

  “Forget the money, then. You’d be onstage performing for big crowds again.”

  Her fingers hurt where she pressed them into the top of the desk, but she barely noticed. He knew which cards to play. In spite of her denial, memories of a Redheads’ concert rose up inside her. She heard the driving beat, the pounding chords of their music. Felt the lights, saw the ocean of faces in front of the huge stage. Smelled the sweat and sensed the excitement of performing.

  What would it be like to go back? To experience it again? Anticipation stirred. She could handle it. She was a different person now. She knew what was important.

  No. The rational part of her brain shoved the fantasies aside.

  She couldn’t go back. She’d spent the last three years learning hard lessons. If she became Chantal again, even for a day, she’d fall into the same traps, the same trouble she’d spent so much effort escaping. She would have wasted all the hard work that got her here.

  She was Delaney Spencer. Chantal was dead and buried. Slowly she straightened, feeling steadier now. “I’m sure. Sorry, Mr. McCabe. There are no bootleg tapes, and there won’t be any publicity or reunion tours.”

  “Leo and Rennie need this to happen.”

  “Then you’ll have to come up with the money some other way. I can’t help them. Chantal is dead.”

  His voice was hard. “Not as dead as Diesel.”

  She flinched, but his words also brought a welcome surge of anger. “I’m not the only one who’d profit from this project. Since you’re so eager to set this up, you must stand to make a lot of money from it.”

  “The money is for Leo and Rennie.”

  “But you’d get your cut, wouldn’t you? Have you made yourself their business manager? Set yourself up as their advisor?”

  “I’m their guardian,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Why? What happened to Heather?” The mother of Diesel’s children had been unstable, but she’d held on to those kids with a desperate grip. They’d been her money machine. Her little ATMs, she’d called them.

  “Heather is in rehab. Will be for a while.”

  Delaney drew in a sharp breath as the pieces fell together. “Those kids in the car. They’re not yours, are they? You’ve got Leo and Rennie.”

  “Yes. I had to drag them up here to Nowheresville because there was no one else to take care of them. I tried to hire someone, but couldn’t find anyone suitable.”

  “Pickings must be really slim, then. You left them with a complete stranger tonight, and you were going to leave them with Myrtle Sanders tomorrow. You’ve set a very low bar for suitable.”

  “I didn’t plan on bringing them with me,” he said. “I had to improvise.”

  “Those poor kids haven’t had any chance at a normal life.”

  “If you want to make things better for them, let me have the tapes. That’s their best chance for any kind of normalcy.”

  “You think a private school is the answer? What about a stable home and a loving parent?” It had taken her years of therapy to understand why she’d become a reckless, attention-starved thrill-seeker. Neglectful, indifferent parents were a quick ticket to the kind of destructive life she’d led. It sounded as if Diesel’s kids were headed down the same path.

  “There is no stable home with Heather. And ‘loving parent’? I guess she loves them, but she sure doesn’t show it.”

  “What about you? You said you’re their guardian. Can’t you give that kind of stability to Leo and Rennie?”

  “You think I should take advice from the woman who destroyed their dad?”

  She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. It shouldn’t hurt so much. “I didn’t destroy Diesel.”

  “You’re the one who got him hooked on drugs—the ones that killed him.”

  She gripped the desk harder. “Diesel was taking drugs long before I joined the Redheads.”

  A splinter pierced her palm, and she flinched.

  Sam watched Delaney jerk and raise one hand. A bead of blood formed on the fleshy part of her palm, and she brought it to her mouth.

  His gaze dropped to her hand, cupped to her mouth. Damn it. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “Diesel was straight until you joined the band.” Sam had no problem using guilt to get her to turn over the tapes.

  “And you know this because you spent so much time with your brother. Right?”

  Her barb hit its target with perfect accuracy. “My relationship with my brother is not part of this discussion.”

  “Since you have no idea what your brother was like, I think it is.” She fumbled in her bag and pulled out a dark blue bandanna, which she wrapped around her bleeding hand. “I didn’t even know your name until tonight. I barely knew Diesel had a brother. So don’t try to tell me what he was like, or when he started doing drugs. You know nothing about his life.”

  Co
ntrol of the conversation was slipping away from Sam, and he struggled to contain his anger. “I know that his kids need help. Help that you could give them. And you’re refusing.” He looked at her tousled hair and baggy jeans. “You’re living a different life now. I get it. But no one’s asking you to give that up.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Anger flared in her eyes, and she took a step closer to him. “You think I could keep this life if people found out who I used to be? You’re delusional.”

  “They’re going to find out, one way or another,” he said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He pulled the contract out of his pocket, the one his lawyer had drawn up. “If you sign this, agree to turn over the CDs and participate in the publicity for their release, no one has to know about Delaney Spencer. You can be Chantal for a couple of months, then come back here and forget about her.”

  Sam stepped closer, and was reluctantly impressed when she lifted her chin instead of backing up. “If you don’t…” He shrugged. “Everyone in the music world wants to know what happened to Chantal. I’ll write an article for Rolling Stone and I’ll tell them all about you and your bootlegs of unreleased Redheads’ songs. New Diesel Adams music.”

  “Rolling Stone?” She shook her head, but he saw fear in her eyes. “Good luck. You think they publish articles based on hearsay?”

  She had guts. He’d give her that. “They’ll take articles from writers who know how to back up a story with facts. That’s how I make my living. Trust me, they’d buy my piece.”

  She threw open the door, and the howling wind bounced it against the wall. “Get out.”

  He set the paper on the desk behind her. Her scent seemed to fill the room, and he hated the way it made his gut constrict. “I’ll leave this here. Think about it before you make any rash decisions.”

  The paper fluttered to the floor, but she ignored it. “Threats won’t work with me, you bastard.”

  “Maybe they should. Consider what you might lose, Delaney. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the motel for the next couple of days.”

  DELANEY LISTENED TO THE sound of his Jeep as it retreated down the driveway.