Table of Contents
Blurb
Sneak Peek
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
About the Author
Coming in September 2019
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Copyright
Small Town Sonata
By Jamie Fessenden
Can the trusted town handyman rebuild a broken pianist’s heart?
When a freak accident ends Aiden’s career as a world-renowned classical pianist, he retreats to his New Hampshire hometown, where he finds the boy he liked growing up is even more appealing as a man.
Dean Cooper’s life as handyman to the people of Springhaven might not be glamorous, but he’s well-liked and happy. When Aiden drifts back into town, Dean is surprised to find the bond between them as strong as ever. But Aiden is distraught over the loss of his career and determined to get back on the international stage.
Seventeen years ago Dean made a sacrifice and let Aiden walk away. Now, with their romance rekindling, he knows he'll have to make the sacrifice all over again. This time it may be more than he can bear.
“That was beautiful.”
Startled, Aiden turned toward the voice. A handsome man with short ash-brown hair was out on the porch, leaning in through the open window. He was dressed in gray overalls and a white T-shirt streaked with dirt. The bare, muscular forearm he rested against the window frame, pressed against the screen that separated them, was covered in tattoos.
Aiden softly closed the fallboard over the piano keys. “I was just… practicing.”
“Well, it sounded pretty damn good.”
“Thank you.”
“You probably don’t remember me,” he said, giving Aiden a shy smile that was kind of adorable… and disturbingly familiar. He looked at Aiden intently with soft brown eyes, and Aiden felt a thrill of recognition.
Oh God. Of course. Aiden had expected he’d run into him eventually, but he wasn’t prepared for it. Not right here on the front porch.
“Dean” was all he could say.
To all the piano instructors and music professors who put up with me in high school and college. I can still hear your words of encouragement and see your expressions of horror whenever I sit down at the keyboard.
Chapter One
COULD this be any more of a cliché? Dean Cooper wondered.
Madame de Pompadour, Mrs. Harper’s white Angora cat, sat on the tree branch over his head, looking down at him disdainfully. In a small town like Springhaven, New Hampshire, Dean was used to his neighbors interpreting “handyman” as “the guy who could fix anything,” but getting cats down from trees was a bit much, even for him.
“Shouldn’t we call the fire department for this?” he asked. “I mean, they have that ladder truck….”
Mrs. Harper snorted and waved a hand dismissively. “That Wally Turner tries to get me to give him money every time I see him—something about needing a new truck for the station. I don’t know what’s supposed to be wrong with the old one, but I already donated to the fire department at Christmas, and he’s not getting another dime out of me.”
Dean knew he was just hedging, anyway. Madame de Pompadour wasn’t more than five feet over his head. He could probably reach her with a stepladder.
He walked to his aging pickup truck and lifted the stepladder out of the open truck bed. Then, as an afterthought, he opened the metal chest where he kept his tools and pulled out a pair of gardening gloves. Madame de Pompadour had never liked him much, for whatever reasons cats chose to dislike a person—possibly because she sensed his fondness for dogs. The last time he’d attempted to pet her, she’d swiped her claws across the back of his hand. He doubted she’d be in a better mood today.
Returning to the sidewalk, he set up the ladder just underneath the branch, while Mrs. Harper cooed at the cat, reassuring her that everything would be fine. It was a gorgeous early June morning, the kind Dean loved to be out and about in—sunny, with just a hint of morning haze to soften the light. Lilac Lane was lush with green grass and blooming flower beds, including the ubiquitous pink and purple lilac bushes the street was named for. Those blooms would be fading soon, but the residents of the cul-de-sac had planted mid- and late-season lilacs to ensure the sweet, pastel scent would hang in the air for months.
But Madame de Pompadour seemed determined to spoil Dean’s good spirits. As soon as he climbed a few rungs of the ladder, the cat hissed at him and scurried farther along the branch, just out of his reach.
“Oh, come on!”
“It’s the beard,” the old lady offered, shaking her head. “She’s never been fond of men with beards.”
“I don’t have a beard, Mrs. Harper.”
“Well, it’s practically a beard,” she replied primly. “When’s the last time you shaved, young man?”
Dean restrained himself from rolling his eyes at her. Ever since his grandfather had passed away, all the elderly women in town had taken it upon themselves to mother him. He rarely went a day without being told he needed to eat more, he was probably getting too much sun working outside all the time, and he could stand to dress nicer—all said with his best interests in mind, of course, and accompanied by warm casserole dishes and cups of hot tea. And despite being in his thirties, he was still a “young man” to them.
Thank God everyone in town knew he was gay, or they’d be trying to fix him up with their granddaughters and nieces. No doubt they were on the lookout for a nice man for him, but luckily gay men were a rarity in this neck of the woods.
Well, maybe “luckily” wasn’t quite the right word….
Dean glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Harper, but I can’t chase her all over the tree. I’m expected at the Scotts’ in fifteen minutes. I’ll call Wally for you, and—”
“We don’t need to be bothering him,” she interrupted crossly. “Pom-Pom just needs to be coaxed down. Why don’t we see if she wants a kitty treat?”
She drew a small bag of cat treats from the pocket of her pale yellow slacks. The moment the cat saw it, she gave a soft meow of inquiry. Then the little beast darted back along the branch and down the trunk. She trotted up to her owner and rubbed herself on Mrs. Harper’s legs, purring.
Dean narrowed his eyes as he watched the old woman bend to deposit some of the treats on the sidewalk.
He’d been had.
“You knew she’d come running the moment you pulled that bag out, didn’t you? I didn’t even need to get my ladder out of the truck.”
“She usually does come for her kitty treats. Don’t you, Pom-Pom?”
Dean gave her a sour look. “Mrs. Harper, that’s gotta be a new low for you—using… Pom-Pom… to get me to come out here—”
> “If you’re implying I put my cat in that tree,” she interrupted, raising her chin haughtily, “I assure you, I did nothing of the sort. Do I look like a gymnast to you? Pom-Pom went up the tree on her own accord. It just seemed a good opportunity to call you.”
“But you didn’t need me!”
“Of course, I needed you. Just not for that.” She turned and walked toward her small, white ranch-style house—one of many nearly identical houses in the cul-de-sac, distinguished only by the color of their shutters. Hers were pastel yellow, not unlike the shade of her slacks. “Come inside a moment. I have fresh coffee and muffins.”
Madame de Pompadour scurried after her, no doubt hoping for more treats.
Dean groaned, then folded the ladder up as he spoke. “I don’t have time, right now. I told you, I have to get over to the Scotts’.”
“The Scotts adore you,” she said, waving him to come along. “They won’t mind if you take a few minutes to talk.”
Dean huffed out a breath, knowing she’d won. He’d had it drilled into him since childhood to always be polite to his elders, and a lot of the older people in Springhaven took advantage of that. It was like living in an enormous extended family with far too many grandparents.
He set the ladder down on the lawn, out of people’s way, and followed her up the walk.
AIDEN Scott sat on his parents’ front porch in the rattan loveseat, a cup of hot coffee in his left hand. Absentmindedly, he moved his right hand through its daily exercises—flex the wrist up, then down, then from side to side, then touch each finger with his thumb. The pain was slightly better this morning, but it was still there, just enough to throw his timing off.
The only way he could do the exercises at all without spiraling into depression was to disconnect his mind from it. He tried to force the years of painful physical therapy from his mind—the gradual drying up of offers from major orchestras, friends drifting away because he was no longer part of their world, Louis eventually giving up on him altogether….
Truthfully, that hadn’t been the hardest thing to endure. He’d always known Louis was self-absorbed and more attracted to his celebrity than to him. But he’d been cute, and good company on lonely nights. His perpetual jobless state had made it easy for Aiden to take him on tour. The guy’s tastes had been expensive, but that hadn’t been a problem.
At least, not until money got tight.
What had hurt far more than being walked out on by a vapid twink had been the job offers. When orchestras stopped courting him, Aiden knew it was over. Even if he managed to whip himself back into shape—something which seemed increasingly unlikely as the months slipped by—he no longer had a career.
Jesus. I’m doing it again.
Aiden took a sip of his coffee and tried to focus on how beautiful the day was. The porch was largely in shadow, but a sunbeam cut across the corner and warmed his feet. The soothing smell of coffee drifting up from his mug, mingled with the sweetness of his mother’s roses and the more cloying scent of honeysuckle. The only sound was the cheeping of goldfinches as a brightly colored cardinal attempted to edge his way in at the feeder.
Aiden had adapted to life in New York City, and part of him enjoyed the constant movement, the lights, the music halls and theaters. His apartment had been spacious and stylishly decorated, when he’d been able to afford it. And he’d thrown some kickass parties. Louis had been into threesomes, and some of those had been amazingly hot. Not a substitute for real tenderness and love, but Aiden had never expected that from Louis.
Springhaven was the opposite of New York. Small, quiet, and slow-paced. Everybody knew everybody else in this town. Aiden had tried to tell Louis what it was like growing up there, but the young man had grimaced and cut him off. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I would get hives just setting foot in a place like that! I think I’m starting to itch even thinking about it.”
But Aiden had missed it, even though he knew leaving had been the correct choice. Old Mrs. Martin had been sweet and a patient instructor, but she’d recognized when Aiden was twelve that his skill had outstripped hers. His parents had resisted sending him to the conservatory for a few more years, but eventually they realized it was what he needed.
A stab of pain when he touched thumb to ring finger brought him back to the present. One incautious step off the curb as a bicycle courier flew around the corner, and it was all over. He’d never play piano at a professional level again. His fingers were simply not strong enough for the more challenging pieces, and he tired too quickly.
He drained his coffee and stood. Then he walked to the door, accidentally startling the cardinal at the feeder. The scarlet bird gave out a sharp, irritated squawk and darted off as Aiden opened the screen door to enter the house.
He’d been in the habit of practicing immediately after breakfast, and he hadn’t yet broken that. It seemed pointless now, but as long as he kept up his practice, he could fool himself into thinking he’d get it all back someday—his skill, the job offers, his career….
His music.
Chapter Two
TO Dean’s surprise, Mrs. Harper seemed to be hosting a party. Her tiny, spotlessly clean kitchen smelled of coffee and freshly baked chocolate chip muffins, which were stacked on two plates on the table. A potted grape hyacinth sat between them, lending its strong floral perfume—a bit too strong for Dean’s taste—to the air. In the living room, several elderly women were gathered, chatting and laughing about something.
Esther Kelley, her silver hair tinted a faint pink today, turned her head in his direction and announced, “Here he is!”
Good God. They were all expecting him.
What have I gotten myself into?
“Have a muffin,” Mrs. Harper said cheerfully, handing him one on a napkin. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I just brewed it.”
Dean took the muffin, not wanting to be rude, but he declined the coffee. He expected he’d have to make a break for it soon, and a cup of coffee would just delay his escape. Muffins were portable.
“Come on in, Dean!” Mrs. Kelley called.
Filled with trepidation, Dean carried his muffin into the living room. There, he was confronted by a host of old ladies, all beaming at him. It was a little disturbing, but he knew them all and regarded them as friends. More or less. When they weren’t plotting against him.
Over the years—unintentionally, to the best of Dean’s knowledge—Lilac Lane had become a retirement community. As younger people moved out, older folks had moved in, until every house in the cul-de-sac was now home to elderly men and women. The men more or less minded their own business, but the women had formed a sort of ladies’ auxiliary. They called themselves the Lilac Ladies, and they occupied their time with charity work and other community projects.
Unfortunately, one of their community “projects” appeared to be Dean. There seemed to be no end to the tasks they could come up with for their friendly local handyman—setting up and decorating the town Christmas tree, building a movable stage for a theater-in-the-park performance, acting as a chaperone for the elementary school sleepover night…. All gratis, of course. To “support the community.” The Lilac Ladies seemed to think Dean could get by on the casseroles and homemade baked goods their patronage provided. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate their generosity. Some of the ladies were darned good cooks. But he still needed to pay his property taxes, buy other groceries, and put gas in his truck.
“Would you like a seat?” Mrs. Harper asked him, though that would require one of the women to stand.
Dean smiled faintly and replied, “No, thank you, ma’am. I’m comfortable standing.”
“As you like.”
“Is there something I can do for you ladies?”
“Well…,” Mrs. Kelley began, glancing at the others, as if to be sure of their support. “We’ve been talking all week long—”
“About the Fourth of July celebration,” Mrs. Turner interrupted.
Mrs. Kelley silenced
her with a look. “Yes. Mr. Stevens on the town council asked us to plan the entertainment this year, just as we have the last few years.”
Dean nodded, feigning casual interest, while an uneasy feeling grew in the pit of his stomach.
“We’re very excited about it!” Mrs. Harper interjected. “It’s always so much fun, for us and the whole town. Everyone looks forward to the celebration all year long!”
Mrs. Strickland added, her eyes gleaming, “The art show, the pie-baking contest, the three-legged race, the horseshoe tournament—”
“Yes,” Mrs. Kelley said. “But there was one thing we all missed so much last year. The band.”
They all nodded in agreement, issuing a collective sigh as their expressions turned wistful.
Dean shifted uncomfortably. He’d played clarinet in the small band Bart Robinson conducted every year at the fair. They’d been a small group, playing traditional instruments like trumpets, guitars, clarinets, saxophones, and so on—no electric keyboards or guitars—and they’d performed songs that might have been fashionable in Mrs. Kelley’s day. It had been fun. But Mr. Robinson had passed away two years ago, and that had put an end to the Springhaven town band. “Mr. Robinson was a wonderful man,” he said.
“That, he was.”
“A real credit to Springhaven. We all miss him terribly.”
There was a brief silence, as if in unconscious tribute to the man they’d all been fond of—despite his well-known love of whiskey and a penchant for flirting with married women.
Mrs. Kelley broke the silence. “Which is why we feel it’s important to keep his legacy alive. Don’t you agree?”
She looked pointedly at Dean. He cleared his throat and responded, “I… yes, I suppose….”
“I’m glad you see it our way. We simply cannot have another summer go by without our beloved Springhaven Septet performing!”
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