Читать книгу Meant To Be Hers - Joan Kilby - Страница 11
ОглавлениеWHERE WAS FINN? Carly Maxwell scanned the funeral guests clustered around her late aunt Irene’s living room for the tall, dark-haired musical prodigy. Finn Farrell had been Irene’s star pupil, his family’s greatest hope and Carly’s teenage crush. He should be here. He’d disappointed her aunt enough during her lifetime. Did he have to add to it after her death?
Carly moved among the guests, pouring tea from a huge earthenware teapot, trying to hold herself together when all she wanted to do was curl up under the covers and bawl her eyes out. It didn’t help that she was still on New York time and jet-lagged.
“More tea, Brenda?” Carly paused before her cousin, a comfortably plump blonde in her early forties who had sunk deep into soft sofa cushions.
“Yes, please.” Brenda’s blue eyes were sympathetic as Carly poured unsteadily into a hand-thrown pottery mug. “You’ve been on your feet since early this morning. Can I take the tea around for you?”
“Thanks, but no,” Carly said. “If I stop moving I might never get going again.”
In fact, she hadn’t stopped the entire week, from the moment she’d heard about Irene’s death. Finn’s Facebook message had popped into her work inbox like a Molotov cocktail, exploding her crammed diary into shards of missed meetings, unreturned phone calls and hurried apologies. Rushing back to her apartment, she’d listened to voice mail messages from her aunt’s neighbor, Frankie, who was worried about Irene’s dog, and Irene’s lawyer, Peter King, who said her aunt had listed Carly as next of kin.
Carly had caught the red-eye from New York to Seattle, rented a car, and driven up to Fairhaven, Washington, an historic district at the south end of Bellingham. Grief-stricken and in a daze, she’d arranged for a celebrant, put notices in the newspapers and on Irene’s social media, organized the funeral home and the caterers. After the service Carly had invited everyone to Irene’s three-story Queen Anne home on South Hill for the reception.
Now here they all were. With barely a moment yet to shed a tear she had a feeling she would look back and think the organizing and activity was the easy part. Dealing with her grief was going to be harder.
“Sit down a moment, at least.” Brenda patted the taupe cushion next to her. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”
Carly sank onto the couch, cradling the warm teapot against her navy suit jacket. “Could you hear me okay when I was giving the eulogy? I wasn’t sure if I spoke loudly enough.” She’d choked up, every painful pause thick with sorrow. Several of Irene’s friends and music students had also spoken. One young girl broke down completely and had to be led off by her mother.
“You were great.” Brenda clutched a damp, shredded tissue. “I couldn’t have done it.”
Carly blinked away the salty moisture burning her eyes. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Only fifty-eight.”
“Fifty-eight going on eighteen,” Brenda said with a watery smile. “She was so much fun.”
“Thank God she isn’t alive to witness her own funeral.” Carly glanced around at the somber faces. A girl drooped over the keyboard of the Steinway grand piano, softly picking out minor chords. The gloomy atmosphere was at odds with Irene’s uproarious house parties in happier days. “She would have hated all this weeping into hankies.”
“Everyone’s shell-shocked,” Brenda said. “Irene was so full of life, it’s hard to believe she could die so quickly. I guess that’s what can happen with a brain aneurysm.”
“Is it?” Carly asked dully. “I have no idea.”
“I Googled it,” Brenda said. “Sometimes people survive but have brain damage. Sometimes they go like that.” She clicked her fingers.
“Don’t, please,” Carly begged. “I can’t help thinking that if someone had been with her, she might have survived.” And not just anyone—her. If she’d accepted Irene’s invitation to go on the Alaska cruise, her aunt might be alive today.
“You shouldn’t torture yourself. That’s an impossible question to answer.” Brenda sighed and patted Carly’s arm. “It’s good to see you, even under the circumstances.”
“Are you staying in town long?”
“I have to go back to Portland tomorrow. Work.”
“I should be going back to work, too, but there’s too much to do here.” Carly chewed the inside of her cheek, tasting blood. The timing of Irene’s death couldn’t have been worse from her perspective. Her high-pressure job as a recruitment consultant for executives had started only a few months ago and already she’d had to ask for time off.
But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Irene had been like a mother to Carly after her own mom died when Carly was nine years old. An only child, she’d spent every summer after that, and sometimes Christmas, with her aunt. At any rate, there was no one else to organize the funeral. Irene had never married and had no children. Her brother, Brenda’s dad, was on a sailboat somewhere in the South Pacific. He’d been notified by ham radio but it would be weeks before he could get back. Carly’s father, who might have helped, or at least been a support, was in London on business.
Where was Finn? If anyone should pay his respects to Irene, it was him. As far as Carly knew he hadn’t set foot in Fairhaven for twelve years, not since he’d fled town after his disastrous performance at that year-end concert. But she and Finn had been friends, good friends, or so she’d thought. Although what kind of friend ran off to Los Angeles and never contacted a person again?
She roused herself to put an arm around her cousin’s shoulders in a quick hug. “We should stay in touch. Come and visit me in Manhattan sometime.”
“I will,” Brenda promised. “And you’re always welcome in Portland.”
Rising, Carly glanced out the bay window overlooking the quiet residential street. A vintage red Mustang had just pulled in to the curb. Her heart leaped as a man, easily six foot three, unfolded himself from behind the wheel. He ran a hand quickly through his wild dark hair and straightened the long black waistcoat beneath the slim-cut, asymmetrical suit jacket in ebony satin.
Finn Farrell, at last. Carly saw him glance at the house and his mouth drew down, tight and sad. She could feel his grief from here and her own chest grew heavy. Then he took a deep breath, unclenched his hands and started purposefully up the front path. He was almost at the steps when around the side of the house, a dog barked. Rufus, Irene’s ditzy Irish setter. Finn changed direction and headed for the side gate, disappearing from view behind a camellia bush in bloom.
Carly carried on dispensing tea but her gaze kept drifting to the hall from which Finn would appear if he entered by the back door. She accepted condolences and offered hers in return. Her generous, loving aunt had touched so many lives.
A warm, furry body nudged the back of Carly’s thigh. Rufus had been distressed all week, restlessly searching the house for Irene and whimpering outside his mistress’s closed bedroom door at night. Now he bumped Carly’s hand, his red, silky body wriggling for attention, already forgiving her for banishing him to the backyard during the reception.
“Where did you come from?” she said, even though she knew Finn must have let him in. “I’m sorry but you have to go—Rufus, no!” The dog rose on his hind legs and planted his front paws on her chest. Tea jostled out of the pot onto her silk blouse. “Rufus, get off! Help, someone!”
“Down, Rufus. Sit.” Finn grabbed Rufus’s collar and hauled the dog off. He looked at Carly, his dark eyes connecting with hers. The years apart dissolved in a moment of shared grief. Then his gaze turned curious as he took her in, cataloging the changes, no doubt. Her blond hair a shade darker, and shorter, just brushing her shoulders. A few extra pounds. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes. He had those, too, as well as laugh lines around his mouth.
Coming as she did from Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Carly had once thought of the poor-but-talented Finn as a modern-day combination of Byron and James Dean—sexy, poetic and tragic. Naturally, she’d grown out of that silly fantasy. Poetic and sexy he might be but he wasn’t tragic, just unreliable.
“Take him out.” She dabbed at the wet splotch on her blouse. “Please.”
“Sorry I missed the service.” Still holding Rufus’s collar, Finn leaned in to kiss her cheek. His warm breath stirred old memories, which she ruthlessly shoved away. “I wasn’t thinking. As soon as I heard, I just got in the car and drove. Should have taken a plane.”
“Irene would have understood.” No matter how badly Finn had let Irene down, she’d always forgiven him. Carly wasn’t quite so generous. She didn’t mind for herself, but her aunt deserved better treatment. She forgot now why she’d wanted him here so badly. He caused ripples, disturbed the equilibrium. People were glancing over at the dog, at the larger-than-life figure Finn cut, shaken out of somnolence.
“How’ve you been?” Finn’s gaze searched hers, oblivious to everyone but her. “You look terrific.”
“Good. Well, not so wonderful at the moment obviously.” She felt her cheeks heat, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his face, drinking in the thick straight slashes of eyebrows, the curling bow of his upper lip, the sexy mole on his right cheek. The eyes that saw everything. Despite his trendy suit, he had a slightly disreputable air about him. How could she possibly feel a tug of attraction after all this time, and everything that had happened between them? Or rather, hadn’t happened.
“Help yourself to food.” She gestured to the dining room through the arched doorway where the table groaned with sandwiches and cakes. “Do you want tea? Or there’s coffee.”
“Yeah...no.” Finn’s gaze skimmed her classic dark suit and discreet heels. “You’ve gone all corporate. When did that happen?”
“When I grew up and got a real job.” The day she’d signed her current work contract she’d gone on a shopping spree to upgrade her wardrobe and was still paying off the resulting credit card bill. She gave him the same once-over. “You’ve gone all Hollywood.”
“Camouflage. It helps to look the part.” He swiveled to survey the clusters of dispirited guests. “Irene would have hated this. So hoity-toity, so stuffy.”
Even though he echoed her earlier comment, she was irked. Was that a judgment on her? “It is a funeral.”
“It should be a celebration of her life. She found something positive in every situation, no matter how dire. She brought people joy.” Finn’s eyes narrowed a moment and then he snapped his fingers. “I know. We’ll have a wake. A good old-fashioned Irish knees up. I know where she kept her good whisky.”
A trio of Irene’s women friends standing nearby—an older woman in a long skirt, a well-dressed businesswoman and a grandmotherly type—turned, their faces brightening.
Finn winked at them. “These gals are up for it.”
“Behave yourself,” Carly protested, biting back a smile. Typical Finn, he managed to fluster, annoy and amuse her all at the same time. “For Irene’s sake.”
“This is for Irene’s sake.” He removed the teapot from her hands and passed it to the woman with the expensive haircut. “Take care of that, please. We’ll be back.”
With one arm around Carly’s waist and the other hand in a firm grip on Rufus’s collar, he steered them out of the living room, across the entrance hall and down the corridor into the kitchen. Deciding it was useless to protest, Carly allowed herself to be led. It was a relief to get out of the gloom.
Finn shooed Rufus into the yard. “Sorry, boy. It’s only for a couple of hours.” Then he put his hands on Carly’s shoulders and gently pushed her into a chair at the long oak table in the middle of the country-style kitchen. “Sit down before you fall down. You look as if you’re about to break into a million pieces.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. She wasn’t, of course, far from it, but she wasn’t going to spill her guts to Finn. They’d been too long apart. She didn’t know him anymore.
“Now let’s see what we’ve got.” He rummaged through the cupboard above the fridge and took down a bottle of Glenmorangie. Grabbing a pair of water glasses he poured triple shots. Handing one to Carly, he raised his glass. “To Irene.”
Carly swirled her glass. She didn’t usually drink hard liquor but the smoky amber liquid beckoned. Still, she hesitated. “The guests...”
“We’ll get them a drink in a minute.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She took a tentative sip. Silky smooth and fiery, the scotch burned her throat and set up a warm glow in her empty stomach. As if by magic, her frayed nerves calmed. She took another swig. And another. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and thrust her glass forward.
Finn poured another two fingers of scotch. “Careful, don’t get plastered. This is sipping whisky. Have respect.” He gazed into his glass, a thumb rubbing the rim thoughtfully. “Did my parents come to the funeral?”
“No. I invited them, of course, but they couldn’t make it.” Carly paused, having gathered from Irene that this was a delicate subject. “Have you seen your mom lately?”
He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. “Not in twelve years.”
Carly sipped her scotch, grateful for the numbing haze as questions tumbled around in her head. How could he have stayed estranged from his mother for so long? What had he been doing all these years? Why had he stood her up?
She settled for the more immediate question. “How did you hear about Irene?”
Finn took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. “I Skyped with her last week. She told me about her hiking expedition to Mount Baker.”
Carly passed a hand over her eyes. “I still can’t believe she went by herself.”
“She was very fit, why shouldn’t she?” Finn said. “But I asked her to email me when she got back so I would know she’d gotten home safely. When I didn’t hear from her, and she didn’t respond to my phone calls, I asked Dingo to check on her.”
“Dingo? Is he your Aussie friend from high school?”
“Yeah, the ne’er-do-well who introduced me to rock music.” Finn’s grin flashed and then he sobered. “He told me Irene’s death had been reported in the local news that night. She was found on the trail by another hiker.”
Until this moment Carly had avoided forming a mental image of Irene at the scene of her death. Now she staggered to her feet and across the tiled floor to lean over the sink, her stomach contracting convulsively. It was wrong that her aunt should have died alone, possibly in pain, without anyone to even hold her hand. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Finn was instantly at her side. “I had no idea you were such a lightweight drinker, Maxwell. Do I need to take you to the bathroom and hold your hair?” He spoke lightly but his hand on her back was steady and comforting.
“No.” She swallowed, willing the wave of nausea to subside. Then she splashed cold water over her face. Finn handed her a towel to dry herself. When she’d recovered, she said, “Irene asked me to go on an Alaskan cruise with her this month. If I’d said yes she might still be alive. She and I could be watching humpback whales together right now. If something went wrong I would have been with her.”
Finn took her by the shoulders, forcing her to focus on him. “You couldn’t have known she was going to have a brain aneurysm. Her death wasn’t your fault.”
Maybe not. But she wished she’d made time for her aunt instead of chasing that Wallis Group account. An account she still desperately wanted. Carly dragged her sleeve across her damp eyes. “Did she know anything was wrong with her health? She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Nor to me.” He rubbed Carly’s arm. “Don’t beat yourself up. She had lots of friends. She could have asked someone else to go on the cruise. Or to go hiking with her. Even then there’s no guarantee she would have survived.”
“I know.” Carly filled her glass with water from the tap. Through the window she could see the backyard and the new leaves on the trees. A pile of tomato stakes rested against the fence next to the shed. April was the month Irene started to dig the garden beds for planting vegetables. Carly could picture her getting tools from the garden shed in the corner of the yard. Trundling wheelbarrow loads of compost over to the beds. Instead, the garden was overgrown with weeds and the grass needed cutting.
“Carly?” Finn said. “Are you okay?”
“I haven’t eaten much today.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “The scotch is hitting me hard.”
“I meant, in general.” He paused, his gaze searching. “I got the impression Irene was worried about you. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
Carly closed her eyes at the rough caring in his voice. She’d had a massive crush on him for years when she was a teenager, but though he’d been friendly and teasing, he hadn’t seemed to notice her in “that way” until the summer after he’d graduated high school.
He’d invited her to the year-end concert put on by Irene’s students and to the party afterward. That night he was to perform part of the repertoire he was using for his live audition for the Juilliard School of Music the following week. She’d bought a new dress and sat in the first row next to Irene, her palms damp and heart racing, not sure if she was more excited about his first major public performance, or what might happen afterward.
The concert was held in the high school auditorium and was open to the public. All his schoolteachers and classmates, his friends and their parents, and all of Irene’s other students’ families had been in the audience. Everyone knew of his talent and was rooting for him to be awarded a scholarship to the prestigious music school. The anticipation had been building for weeks and was a fever pitch by the night of the concert.
And then, disaster. Finn’s performance was a shambles. His fingers stumbled over the keys, he forgot whole passages, he stopped midbar and skipped notes. It was so unlike him. Then someone in the back booed and Finn stalked offstage without finishing. Irene had been gray-faced, speechless. His parents, Nora and Ron, had hurried out, their heads hanging. Every single person in the audience had felt some combination of shock, betrayal and disappointment. What should have been a jubilant celebration had turned into a debacle. Finn hadn’t gone to New York for his Juilliard audition, nor did he pursue what should have been a stunning classical career. A week after the concert he left town, never to return. He’d not only stood Carly up for the party, he hadn’t contacted her or answered her calls. She’d never seen him again until today.
“Why was Aunt Irene worried about me?” Carly asked. One more thing she would never be able to ask her aunt. It was hard to comprehend the fact that she was gone. That Carly could never again pick up the phone and hear her voice.
“Just that you were working too much,” Finn said. “I could have misinterpreted. Aren’t you a high school guidance counselor?”
“That was years ago,” she said. “I switched to human resources. Recently I got a job with an international head hunting firm.” She had loved counseling teenagers but one day she’d looked around and realized that her friends were leap-frogging to the top in their various professions whereas she was stagnating. Now or never, she’d told herself, and started applying for jobs that would make use of her dual major in business and psychology. She’d worked her way up the ladder and had recently landed a plum position at a prestigious company.
“Sounds like a big change,” Finn said. “Do you like it?”
“Love it.” Mostly. Irene was right about working hard. Most weeks she logged upwards of sixty hours. Kind of put a cramp in anything else she might want to do, like have a life. But the payoff would be worth it when one day she got that corner office and the word partner after her name.
“Irene told me you live in Los Angeles,” she said, changing the subject. “What do you do there?”
“Drink too much,” he said cheerfully and raised his glass.
“She had such high hopes for you.” The words fell out of her mouth and hung in the air between them.
“My life isn’t over yet.” Their eyes met and his smile faded at the reminder that Irene’s was.
Cursing her lack of tact, she touched his arm. “Sorry.” She couldn’t begin to understand what had been going through his head at that concert or why he’d blown off a chance for a place at Juilliard. Such a waste of talent.
Finn poured himself another shot. Seeing his long, tapering fingers on the bottle—a pianist’s hands—brought back the memory of their first, and only, kiss. The stuffy heat in the third-floor turret of this house, his hands anchoring her hips, the slide of his tongue against hers. Remembering, a pooling warmth settled in her belly that had nothing to do with the scotch.
He raised the bottle. “Hit you again?”
She pushed her glass closer. He held her wrist to keep the glass steady and sloshed in another two fingers’ worth. Then he clinked glasses. “Here’s to you, Carly Maxwell. Long time, no see.”
This time when she looked into his eyes, a rush of boozy affection washed over her. With his black hair brushed back from a high tanned forehead and his rakish grin, he looked like a pirate in a designer suit. “To the good old days.”
He smiled and gave her a wink that made her heart skip. “What might have been may still be yet.”
Peter, Irene’s attorney, entered the kitchen looking for someplace to put his empty coffee cup. He set it next to the sink. “Carly, while I’m thinking of it, come see me at my office next week for the reading of Irene’s will. I’m her executor.”
Carly had been so busy organizing the funeral and calling people that she hadn’t had time to think about what was going to happen with Irene’s property and personal effects. She hoped Irene had remembered how much she loved the seascape that hung in the dining room. It reminded her of their beachcombing expeditions. “I’ll call first thing Monday to make an appointment.”
Peter spied the bottle of scotch. “Is that alcohol? I sure could use a drink.”
“What’ll you have?” Finn went to the cupboard over the fridge and started pulling down liquor bottles. “There’s also bourbon, gin, vodka and brandy.” He handed the bottles to Peter, who lined them up on the table. “Carly, are you okay with dipping into Irene’s stock of liquor?”
“Of course,” Carly said. “She liked her guests to enjoy themselves.”
“To Irene.” Finn raised his glass. “An awesome teacher and a good friend.”
“To Irene,” Carly and Peter chorused.
“Now,” Finn said. “It’s time to pay tribute to the lady.” He headed back to the living room. Carly heard him announce, “Booze in the kitchen, folks. Help yourselves. Then come and sing.”
People began to stream into the kitchen. Carly helped them find glasses and ice then left them to it. She wandered back to the living room and stood against the wall between the fireplace and the bay window. Outside, the sun was setting spectacularly over Bellingham Bay.
Finn organized Irene’s music students, past and present, coaxing a red-haired man to pick up a guitar from the stand in the corner of the dining room. A fortysomething woman in sleek black pants and a pullover took the cello from the same stand. A teenage boy produced a tenor saxophone and a twentysomething woman a clarinet. The rest Finn arranged into a choir circling the piano where so many of them had honed their singing skills.
He sifted through bundles of sheet music and selected a piece. Then he sat on the bench seat. The instrument was a full concert grand in a richly gleaming mahogany. He ran his long fingers softly over the ivories. Around the room, heads turned and conversation hushed. Carly held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t play anything sad that would make her cry.
With a ripple of notes and a flourish of his hands, Finn launched into a popular Gershwin show tune, one of Irene’s favorites. Startled, her aunt’s former students glanced at each other, then smiled. One woman began to sing, then another. One by one, the other instruments joined in and soon the pickup orchestra and choir were in full swing.
Carly kicked off her high heels and took off her suit jacket, relaxing for the first time in days. The other guests drew closer, their gloomy expressions turning to smiles. Others hurried back out from the kitchen with drinks in their hands. Before long, the whole room was rocking, just as it used to when Irene threw a party. When the first song was over, Finn quickly got them started on another, pounding out the notes, embellishing with his own improvisations. Voices lifted in a rousing tribute to the woman they’d all loved. Music had been Irene’s life and Carly was grateful to Finn for transforming the tragic occasion into one of celebration.
Bottles collected on the coffee table. Booze was poured directly into teacups.
Carly drifted back to the kitchen. There the non-singers had gathered to drink shots and exchange anecdotes about their absent friend. The somber mood had evaporated and laughter outweighed the tears. Carly learned tidbits about her aunt that she’d never known as a youngster only coming for summer visits. About how Irene had been a breath of fresh air in the stuffy garden club, how she’d baked dozens of loaves of her special sourdough bread at Christmas for the homeless, how she’d done the limbo at the animal shelter fund-raising party.
“Remember when she got Rufus?” Frankie, the next-door neighbor, had spiky black hair and an impish grin. “He was from a pet hoarder’s home and was skinny and mangy. He had so many issues no one wanted him. But she took him and worked with him and now he’s a beautiful dog.”
Rufus. Carly squinted at her watch. Nearly 7:00 p.m. and the dog hadn’t had any dinner. She got to her feet, grabbed for the back of the chair and ended up clutching Frankie’s shoulder. Whoa. Getting a bit tipsy. The room swayed as she crossed to the laundry room where her aunt kept a big plastic bin of kibble. Carly scraped the bottom with the plastic scoop and got only half a cup. That didn’t seem like enough. She added a couple of egg salad sandwiches from the platter on the counter and carried his bowl outside.
Dusk was falling. The sky glowed with the last light of day but the long backyard was full of shadows and the cedar trees along the back fence were a blur of black.
“Dinner, Rufus. Here, boy.” She set his bowl onto the concrete patio.
The dog didn’t come bounding up as she’d expected. Maybe he was patrolling the back fence, saying hello to the neighboring spaniel. Or digging in the soft dirt beneath the cedars. He was probably fine but she should check. Now where had she put her shoes? Her stockings were already ruined but even so, she didn’t fancy crossing the darkened lawn in what amounted to bare feet.
“Carly?” Beneath the patio light, Brenda’s cheeks were rosy and her blond hair ruffled. “D’you know if Irene has more mixer anywhere? I couldn’t see any in the pantry.”
“I’ll have a look.” Carly took one last quick scan of the yard, saw no sign of Rufus, and went inside.
She found more tonic water and cola. Then the opening bars of “Happy Talk” from the musical South Pacific drew her back to the living room where the singers stood four and five deep around the piano. At the town’s summer solstice party every year Irene led the Fairhaven choir in this upbeat song. Carly had no musical talent herself but she knew all the words to all the tunes in her aunt’s record collection. She belted out the song, secure in the knowledge that her flat notes would be drowned out by the well-trained voices.
Finn caught her eye and a moment of wordless joy passed between them. Maybe alcohol was making her brain fuzzy but it was wonderful to see him again. For years she’d put him to the back of her mind, never quite forgiving him for that summer. Whatever friction remained between them, he was probably the only other person in the world who had known her aunt as well as she did—and would miss her as much. Tears welling in her eyes, she smiled as she sang.
