MUSES AND MELODIES

by Yarros, Rebecca

I admired Quinn’s shapely legs as she leaned over to stash her oar in the boat. It took surprising body strength to play the drums, and the muscle looked good on her, especially in her bathing suit and Daisy Dukes.

  My drummer and I were truly just friends. We’d met eight years ago at work in a Seattle bar. Years ago—when I was hammered on Jack Daniel’s—I once kissed Quinn, in just the kind of dumbass move that can ruin a good friendship as well as a good band.

  Luckily, after about five seconds of stupidity, we pulled back and sort of stared at each other. I’d said, “Okay, nope” at exactly the same time she’d said, “Ewww.” Then we’d burst out laughing, and never tried that again.

  Thank goodness, because I was usually too impulsive for my own good. Quinn and I would’ve never worked as a couple, anyway. Two moody artists? That’s just a bad idea.

  Besides, Quinn shied away from romantic relationships. She was happiest when she was scribbling music into her notebook or tapping out a rhythm with the drumsticks that she never seemed to put down.

  From the public beach, we made a left toward Main Street. “So…” I gestured like a tour guide. “Here you see downtown metropolitan Nest Lake.”

  The only living being in sight was a golden retriever sleeping on the sidewalk. As I began to talk, he opened one lazy eye to look at us.

  “You have your post office, which is open about a half an hour a day, but don’t bother trying to figure out when, because they haven’t updated the sign on the door since 1986. And there’s the soft-serve ice cream place, the Kreemy Kone. Open until nine. The crown jewel is here—Lake Nest General Store—where I ate dinner every single night for an entire summer, even though it isn’t actually a restaurant. And that’s it. You’ve seen the whole town.”

  Quinn raised a finger, counting the cars. “Four.”

  “This is busy, actually. A big crowd for Memorial Day weekend.”

  “Wow.” She smiled. “And your fans are about to rush you, I can feel it.”

  Right on cue, a woman came out of the general store with a gallon of milk. She dismounted the wooden stairs, turning away without giving us a second glance. Then she tucked herself into one of the cars and drove away.

  “And then there were three,” I said under my breath.

  Seeing Main Street brought me into a strange reverie. In spite of the sunshine, I felt as if I was having a very vivid dream. I’d thought about this place so often, and now I was here for real.

  Crazy.

  “I can see why you came here to write,” Quinn said. “But how did you find it?”

  “My mom used to come here when she was a little girl. One of the few pictures I have of her is on the porch of the general store.”

  “Ah,” Quinn said. And because she knew I didn’t like to talk about my parents, she left it at that.

  I’d lost both my parents when I was seven. Coming back here five years ago was a way to try to remember my life before everything had gone wrong.

  Did it work? I guess. But the cure was only temporary. Lately I’d been feeling just as lost.

  Five years ago I’d come here when my band’s new album was overdue. The record label was pissed off at me, so Maine seemed like a good place to hide from their nagging. And my glamorous girlfriend had just dumped me. A tabloid had just run a story about how I’d cheated on her. They used pictures of me with a woman that I slept with the night after we broke up.

  I was twenty-five years old and already in a slump. So I’d come to this place my mother used to tell me about. It was one of the only details I could remember about her.

  I’d needed some magic, and that’s what I’d found here in Maine.

  “God, it’s hard to believe places like this still exist,” Quinn said. “Can we go into the general store? And then I want ice cream.”

  “Lead on.” I followed her up the store’s wooden steps, through the screened porch and into the shop itself. What hit me first was the scent. It smelled exactly the same inside—musky and rich, like pickles, salami, and sawdust. And it looked mostly the same, lit by old soda lamps hanging from the ceiling on chains, with half an inch of dust on each one.

  What’s more, Kira’s father stood behind the cash register, looking just as grumpy as he had five years ago. The old man proceeded to ignore us both, because he always ignored the summer people. And yet he’d been in business forever, because there weren’t any other stores for ten miles.

  Two or three years ago, drunk and in a melancholy mood, I had finally picked up the phone to call this very store. It was a call that I’d waited too long to make, and I’d known it was hopeless even before that surly old man answered the phone in his gravelly voice.

  “Is Kira there?” I’d asked, knowing it was a long shot. No girl waits two years to hear from the asshole who’d rejected her. Besides—Kira had always said that she was going back to college after our magical summer.

  “They moved to Boston,” the old man had told me.

  Right. That’s what I’d expected. They’d moved to Boston.

  They.

  Hell, I’d expected that too. Kira wasn’t single anymore. Why would she be?

  Thousands of miles away, in a Texas hotel room, I’d hung up the phone and poured myself another two fingers of scotch. But I’d never stopped thinking about Kira. And I probably never would.

  Only one thing in the store looked truly different now. And although I’d expected this, it still made me sad. Her sign was missing. Above one of the back counters, a carved wooden plaque had once hung. KIRA’S CAFE. Her homemade specialty had been a quirky little meat pie, about five inches across. Under an artfully cut-out crust lay curried chicken, or sausage and peppers. There’d been a ham and egg version I’d particularly liked. My first week in Maine, I’d tried a different one each night. My second week, I’d repeated the cycle.

  That’s how we’d become friends. After I’d eaten her savory pastries nine nights in a row, Kira began feeling sorry for me. So she’d surprised me with some new dishes. I walked in one night to find that she’d made me a big square of lasagna. The next night, she’d grilled up a bacon cheeseburger while I waited.

  As the summer progressed, she’d gotten even more creative. The pan-fried lake trout had tasted so fresh I’d almost cried.

  “You are the most loyal customer I’ve ever had,” she’d said. By then, I’d memorized the shape of her smile and the flush of her cheek when I complimented the food.

  But I didn’t hit on her. Not once.

  At the beginning, restraint had been easy. I’d come to Nest Lake to be alone and to stop chasing women. I was still bitter about the tabloid article. I didn’t need any distractions. I was going to finish that album or die trying.

  But by midsummer, my vow of chastity had gotten a lot harder. Literally. The time I’d spent with Kira had evolved from a simple nightly transaction to a real friendship. And every night I went to bed hearing her laughter echo in my head and wondering how her skin would feel sliding against mine.

  But I was young and dumb. At the time, I’d written it off as mere horniness. Five years later, I knew better.

  Well before Labor Day, Kira’s bright smile and intelligent eyes had stolen my heart. And her curvy body turned up in all my dreams. But I never slipped up and made a pass. Not just because I’d been feeling stubborn, but there was something vulnerable about Kira. I couldn’t have told you exactly what, but still it held me back. Banging her like one of my fans would have felt wrong.

  Besides, if I’d talked Kira into my bed, there’d been a risk that she wouldn’t make me dinner anymore. And then I would have been stuck with the miserable fare that my B&B landlady referred to as “food.”

  Somehow it had all been enough to keep even a dedicated horn dog in check.

  “Earth to Jonas,” Quinn teased. “Let’s pick up a magazine or two, and then I want some soft serve.”

  I’d been staring at Kira’s old counter, memories flooding through me. But where her delicacies once sat
, there were now only scary-looking danishes wrapped in cellophane. It was no better than gas-station food.

  It was true what people said. You can never go back.

  I turned toward the magazine rack, shaking off my disappointment.

  DOWNLOAD NOW

  RIFTS AND REFRAINS

  By Devney Perry

  Chapter 1

  Quinn

  “The funeral is Saturday.”

  I nodded.

  “I know you’re busy, but if you could come, your father would . . . I know he’d appreciate the support.”

  Beyond my dressing room door, a dull roar bloomed. Hands clapped. Voices screamed. The beat of stomping feet vibrated the floors. The opening act must be on their last set because the crowd was pumped. The stadium would be primed when Hush Note took the stage.

  “Quinn, are you there?”

  I cleared my throat, blinking away the sheen of tears. “I’m here. Sorry.”

  “Will you come?”

  In nine years, my mother had never asked me to return to Montana. Not for Christmases. Not for birthdays. Not for weddings. Was it as hard for her to ask as it was for me to answer?

  “Yeah,” I choked out. “I’ll be there. Tomorrow.”

  Her relief cascaded through the phone. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. I need to go.” I hung up without waiting for her goodbye, then stood from the couch and crossed the room to the mirror, making sure my tears hadn’t disturbed my eyeliner and mascara.

  A fist pounded on the door. “Quinn, five minutes.”

  Thank God. I needed to get the hell out of this room and forget that phone call.

  I chugged the last of my vodka tonic and reapplied a coat of red lipstick, then scanned the room for my drumsticks. They went with me nearly everywhere—Jonas teased they were my security blanket—and I’d had them earlier, on the table. Except now it was bare, save for my plate of uneaten food. The sticks weren’t on the couch either. The only time I’d left the dressing room was when I’d gone to get a cocktail and a sandwich.

  Who the fuck came into my dressing room and took them? I marched to the door and flung it open, letting a rage brew to chase away some of the pain in my heart.

  “Where are my sticks?” I shouted down the hallway. “Whoever took them is fired.”

  A short, balding man emerged from behind the door where he’d been hovering. He was new to the crew, having been hired only two weeks ago. His cheeks flushed as he held out his hand, my sticks in his sweaty grip. “Oh, uh . . . here.”

  I ripped them from his hand. “Why were you in my dressing room?”

  His face blanched.

  Yep. Fired.

  I didn’t allow men in my dressing room. It was a widely known fact among the crew that, unless you were on a very short list of exceptions, my dressing room was off-limits to anyone with a penis.

  The rule hadn’t always existed, but after a string of bad experiences it had become mandatory.

  There’d been the time I’d returned to my dressing room to find a man in the middle of the space, his jeans and whitey-tighties bunched at his ankles as he’d presented me his tiny glory. Then there’d been the show when I’d come in to find two women making out on my couch—they’d mistaken my dressing room for Nixon’s.

  The final straw had been three years ago. I’d been drenched from a show and desperate to get out of my sweaty clothes. Pounding on the drums for an hour under hot lights usually left me dripping. I’d stripped off my jeans and tank top, standing there wearing only a bra and panties, and reached for the duffel I brought with me to every show. When I opened my bag to take out spare clothes, I’d found them coated in jizz.

  So no more men—short, tall, bald or hairy.

  “S-sorry,” Shorty stammered. “I thought I’d hold them for you.”

  Beyond him, my tour manager, Ethan, came rushing down the hall, mouthing sorry with wide eyes. Ethan was the peacemaker, but he’d be too late to save Shorty.

  In a way, I was glad this guy had snuck into my dressing room and taken my sticks. I needed a target, somewhere to aim this raging grief before it brought me to my knees, and this asshole had a bull’s-eye on his forehead.

  I almost felt bad for him.

  “You wanted to hold them for me?” I waved my hand, Zildjian sticks included. The crew bustled around us, keeping a wide berth as they prepped to switch out the stage configuration. “Were you also going to hold Jonas’s Warwick? Or Nixon’s Fender? Is that what your job is today? Holding stuff for the band?”

  “I, uh—”

  “Fuck you, creep.” I pointed my sticks at his nose. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I use your head as a snare.”

  “Quinn.” Ethan collided with my side, putting his arm around my shoulders. He gave me a brief squeeze, then spun me around and nudged me into the dressing room. “Why don’t you finish getting ready?”

  Behind my back, I heard Shorty mutter, “Bitch.”

  Why was a woman a bitch when she didn’t let a man off the hook for this kind of shit behavior? If a guy were standing in my shoes, Shorty wouldn’t have dared enter the dressing room in the first place.

  “He’s fired, Ethan,” I shot over my shoulder.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  I kicked the door closed and took a deep breath.

  Damn it, why was our tour over already? Why was tonight the last night? What I really needed was a packed schedule of travel and shows so that going to Montana for a funeral was impossible.

  Except there were no excuses to make this time. There was no avoiding this goodbye, and deep down, I knew I’d hate myself if I tried.

  Somehow, I’d find the courage.

  Tears threatened again, and I squeezed my eyes shut. Why hadn’t I grabbed more vodka?

  After this show in Boston, I’d planned to return home to Seattle and write music. The summer tour was over, and we had nothing scheduled for a month. Except now, instead of Washington, I’d fly to Montana.

  For Nan.

  My beloved grandmother, who I’d spoken to on Monday, had died in her sleep last night.

  “Knock. Knock.” The door inched open and Ethan poked his head inside. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” I clutched my sticks in my hand, drawing strength from the smooth wood. Then I followed him outside and through the crush of people.

  The crowd’s cheers grew louder with every step toward the stage. Nixon and Jonas were already waiting to go on. Nix was bouncing on his feet and cracking his neck. Jonas was whispering something in his fiancée Kira’s ear, making her laugh.

  “Are you okay?” Ethan asked as he escorted me toward them.

  “Change of plans for tomorrow. I’m not going to Seattle. Can you make arrangements for me to go to Bozeman, Montana, instead?”

  “Um . . . sure.” He nodded as confusion clouded his expression.

  In all the years Ethan had been our tour manager, he’d never had to arrange for me to take a break from the show lineup for a trip to my childhood home. Because since I’d walked away at eighteen, I hadn’t been back.

  “I want to leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Quinn, are you—”

  I held up a hand. “Not now.”

  “There she is.” Nixon grinned as I approached, his excitement palpable. Like me, he lived for these shows. He lived for the rush and the adrenaline. He lived to leave it all on stage and let the audience sweep us away for the next hour.

  Jonas smiled too, but it faltered as he took in my face. “Are you okay?”

  Where Ethan was the peacemaker and Nixon the entertainer, Jonas was the caretaker. The designated leader by default. When Nixon and I didn’t want to deal with something, like a Grammy acceptance speech or hiring a new keyboardist, Jonas was there, always willing to step up.

  Maybe we relied on him too much. Maybe the reason it had been so hard to write new music lately was because I wasn’t sure of my own role anymore.

  Drummer? Writer? Token f
emale?

  Bitch?

  Shorty’s damn voice was stuck in my head. “Some guy from the stage crew came into my dressing room and took my sticks. He was ‘holding them’ for me.”

  It was better they think that was the reason I was upset. Ethan wouldn’t ask questions about my trip tomorrow, but Jonas and Nixon would.

  “He’s fired.” Jonas looked to Ethan, who held up a hand.

  “It’s already done.”

  “Good luck, you guys.” Kira gave Jonas another kiss and waved at Nixon. She was a little less friendly toward me—my fault, not hers—but she smiled.

  I hadn’t exactly been welcoming when she’d gotten together with Jonas. I’d been wary, rightfully so. His taste in women before Kira was abhorrent.

  “Thanks, Kira.” I offered her the warmest smile I could muster before she and Ethan slipped away to where they’d watch the show.

  Jonas held out one hand for mine and his other for Nixon’s. As we linked together, we shuffled into a shoulder-to-shoulder circle.

  This was a ritual we’d started years ago. I couldn’t remember exactly when or how it had begun, but now it was something we didn’t miss. It was as critical to a performance as my drum kit and their guitars. We stood together, eyes closed and without words, connecting for a quiet moment before we went on stage.

  Then Jonas squeezed my hand, signaling it was time.

  Here we go.

  I dropped their hands and, with my shoulders pinned back and my sticks gripped tight, walked past them to the dark stage. The cheers washed over me. The chanting of Hush Note, Hush Note seeped into my bones. I moved right for my kit, sat on my stool, and put my foot on the bass drum.

  Boom.

  The crowd went wild.

  Nixon walked on stage and lights from thousands of cameras flashed.

  Boom.

  Jonas strode toward a microphone. “Hello, Boston!”

  The screams were deafening.

  Boom.

  Then we unleashed.

  The rhythm of my drums swallowed me up. I escaped into the music and let it numb the pain. I played like my heart wasn’t broken and pretended that the woman who’d supported me from afar these past nine years was clapping in the front row.