Читать книгу Meant To Be Hers - Joan Kilby - Страница 12

CHAPTER TWO

“THAT’S THE WAY, one foot in front of the other.” Finn put his arm around Carly’s waist to guide her up the staircase, no easy task given she wasn’t in full control of her limbs. He pretended he didn’t notice her left breast moving against his rib cage.

Outside a taxi sounded its horn, ready to take another group of guests home or to their hotel. When Finn had realized the party was getting out of hand he’d insisted drivers hand over their car keys. Brenda had purred at him as she put her keys in the bowl, evidently under the mistaken impression she was participating in a seventies-style, sexy free-for-all. He hadn’t seen her for a while and assumed she’d found a bedroom upstairs and was sleeping it off.

As he paused at the landing, Carly slithered out of his grasp and sat abruptly. She gazed blearily up at him, her blond hair mussed and her sky-blue eyes smudged with mascara. The top three buttons of her tailored white blouse were undone, exposing the curve of a creamy breast.

“Ya know,” she said, slurring her words and stabbing a finger at him. “Ya might be a screwup but you’re awesome. You turned a stuffy funeral into a f-fiesta. Irene woulda been proud.”

“She deserved a good send-off.” A screwup? Was that how Carly thought of him? True, he’d passed up a chance at a music scholarship after working his ass off for years. But at eighteen he’d changed his mind about wanting to be a classical pianist so it was no loss.

“How come you’re not drunk?” Hiccupping, Carly lolled against his leg, stroking the fabric of his suit.

“Didn’t feel like it.” He’d restrained himself when he realized Carly was going on a bender. Partly because he owed it to Irene to watch out for her. But also because his own emotions—grief over Irene’s death, his feelings for Carly, plus ambivalence about being back in Fairhaven—were too big and complicated to drown and too scary to unleash.

Tonight Carly had been like a tightly coiled spring with the pressure released, springing in every direction, out of control. Something was up with her, as Irene had alluded to in their last conversation. He’d like to know more, but he wasn’t going to get a meaningful answer in her present condition.

He grabbed her under her arms and tugged her gently to a standing position. “Ready to go?”

She swayed into him, draping her arms around his neck and plastering herself against his body, meltingly soft and warm. “Man, I am so ready.”

Her breath held a not unpleasant aroma of aged scotch and her hair gave off a perfumed scent he wanted to bury his nose in. His hands slid of their own accord down her back and settled on the flare of her hips. His gaze dropped to her full, pink mouth. Did she taste as good as he remembered from that time in the tower?

A few years ago he’d looked her up on social media, but she didn’t share anything publicly except a few photos of herself with work colleagues, and cute animal videos. His finger had hovered over the Add Friend button then he’d decided that even if she wasn’t still pissed off at him, he couldn’t bear to field questions about “what are you doing these days?” Followed by polite silences when she found out. Although he didn’t know why he thought that way. Everyone he knew in Los Angeles thought he was doing pretty darn good. And he was, only not in the way folks in Fairhaven had expected.

Her eyes drifted closed and she tilted her face as if expecting a kiss. Not being the kind of guy who took advantage of inebriated women, he wasn’t going there. Instead, he unhooked her arms from around his neck, faced her forward, and readjusted his grip. “Gee up, little pony.”

“Aw, I’m not a pony.” She clutched the banister and staggered up another step. “Maybe a Lipizzaner. They’re beeyootiful.”

“They’re stallions.”

“Stallions, really? All of them?”

“The ones that perform are. Almost there.” He coaxed Carly down the hallway. Judging from the snores emanating from behind closed doors, at least three of the five bedrooms were occupied. “Are you in your old room?”

“Uh-huh. Down th’end.”

“I know.”

She twisted her head to peer at him. “How d’you know?”

“I used to watch your lighted window on summer nights.” He’d ridden his bike across town, from his family’s small home in a poor neighborhood to this heritage home on South Hill—which his mom called Snob Hill. Except that Irene was no snob and Carly...well, she’d never once made him feel any less than an equal because of where he lived, even though her father was an investment banker and Carly seemed to have inherited his drive to succeed in business. Finn had no problem with a good work ethic, he had one himself. But what had Irene said? Carly was pushing herself too hard, working all the time. What did she have to prove?

Her face lit with a delighted grin. “You couldn’t have seen anything. I always drew the curtains.”

“Your silhouette was very sexy.”

“Liar, I was a beanpole.”

Not any more, he thought. She was shapely in all the right places.

He opened her bedroom door and maneuvered her inside. The single bed was unmade and clothes were piled on an open suitcase balanced on a chair. He got her a big glass of water and stayed beside her while she drank it. “Do you need anything else?”

She splayed her fingers over his chest and looked up at him. “You.”

It was the alcohol talking. “Not tonight.”

Regret stabbed him for what else he’d thrown away besides the scholarship. Carly? No, that was making too much of their friendship. Her New York family came from old money, and her future was blue chip. She might have a fling with a guy like him but when the crunch came, she would run back to her own kind.

“Come on, Finn.” Her finger slid up to rest on the pulse beating in the base of his neck. “Why don’t you finish what you started back when we were teenagers?”

For a moment he was tempted despite everything. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could still have a shot at finding out if that spark they’d had could burst into flame.

Yeah...no. Better not make this any more complicated or difficult than it already was. In a day or two he’d be heading back to LA, and out of her life. Anyway, he wasn’t the guy she used to know, the talented pianist with a bright future. Back then he’d been a big fish in the small pond of Fairhaven. Now he was a guy who played on studio recordings for other artists and wrote songs at night. True, one of his songs had become an indie hit, even though Screaming Reindeer had messed around with the tempo. Ruined it, in his opinion. That aside, all his demons were here in Fairhaven, writhing and wailing, buried just out of sight. He didn’t want to drag Carly down into his personal hell.

“In you go.” He gently pushed her into bed and pretended he hadn’t heard her proposition him.

She seemed to have already forgotten anyway, flopping onto the crumpled covers still in her dress. Her stockings were full of runs and one big toe poked through a hole. Not quite as well turned out as earlier in the evening but she was softer, more vulnerable.

Yawning, she punched the feather pillow. “Where are you bunking?”

“Downstairs on the sofa.” He thought about helping her out of her clothes and then decided against it. He was going to have a hard enough time sleeping as it was. “I planned to stay at Dingo’s but it’s late and I don’t want to wake him and Marla—”

“Rufus.” Carly suddenly bolted upright in bed, eyes wide. “I didn’t see him when I went out to give him his dinner.”

“He’ll be all right.”

“I should let him in.” She started to get out of bed.

“Stay put. I’ll get him.”

“But...”

“Go to bed. That’s an order.”

“Well, okay. Thanks.” She subsided onto the pillow and closed her eyes. He was about to turn out the light when she spoke. “Why’d you give it up? Music, I mean. You’re good. Professionally-speaking.” She slurred the word professionally almost to the point of nonrecognition.

Finn’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “Who says I gave it up?”

“You used to be brilliant. You could have smashed that concert,” she said. “Could’ve had a scholarship. Could’ve played Lincoln Center by now if you’d kept at it.”

“Yes, I probably could have.” He didn’t bother defending himself. Carly was in no condition to take in his version of events. Maybe he’d tell her later but this wasn’t the moment. “I didn’t want to go to Juilliard.”

Carly’s forehead scrunched in a deep frown as if she was trying hard to concentrate. “So you aren’t playing with a symphony orchestra now?”

“No,” he said patiently. Had Irene never talked about him to Carly?

“But you’re still a musician?”

“Once a musician, always a musician.” He could tell her about the studio sessions but no doubt she’d find that incomprehensible, as well. Why would he settle for that when he could have been a concert pianist? A spurt of anger flashed through him that she thought he was a no-hoper for abandoning a promising career. Well, that was her problem, not his.

“Whatever.” She gave up and snuggled deeper into the pillow. “’Night.”

He refilled her water glass, turned out the light and closed the door. Years ago she’d sat on the window seat in the living room and read while he’d had lessons with Irene. He’d played to her even if she hadn’t known it, showing off, perfecting the pieces so she would be impressed. Was it any wonder that she didn’t understand why he gave it all up?

He paused outside Irene’s bedroom where Carly had posted a Private sign. He’d never been in here and he didn’t know what made him open the door now. Looking for absolution? He scoffed at himself. There was none to be found, not here, not anywhere.

Moonlight cast a silver glow over the room, illuminating a white-painted iron bed frame covered with a handmade quilt. An armchair with a floor lamp sat next to the window, a low bookshelf on the other side stacked high with music books. A guitar was propped in the corner and a flute case lay on the dresser.

But it was the sight of Irene’s worn Birkenstock sandals next to the bed that clutched at his chest. They looked so empty. He understood Carly’s guilt, her sense of regret. Life was short. If he’d known Irene would pass, he would have accompanied her on the Alaskan cruise himself. She’d been like a second mother to him, like his only mother given he hadn’t spoken to his mom in over a decade. He’d let people down, especially Irene. But he was damned if he would apologize, even now. He’d done what he had to do to survive. Even so, his heart was heavy as he closed the door.

Going downstairs, he walked through the darkened kitchen to open the back door and flip on a patio light. There was a clatter of metal on concrete and a pair of raccoons scattered, retreating a few paces. They’d been eating food set out for the dog, abandoning a sandwich in the water bowl.

“Scat!” He stepped forward onto the grass and clapped his hands to shoo them away. “Rufus! Here boy.”

The yard was quiet. Finn waited a few minutes then refilled the food bowl and carried out the dog bed from the kitchen and placed it against the outside wall. Not much more he could do tonight.

He went back inside and through to the living room. The sofa was wide and long enough to be comfortable and the cashmere throw would keep him warm. He started to pull the curtains when his gaze fell on the piano, the richly polished surface gleaming softly in the glow of the moon.

Seating himself he ran his fingers softly over the keys. No one was around to hear. He began to sing a song he’d composed but hadn’t offered for sale because he couldn’t bear to give all his songs to other musicians.

Turning thirty earlier this year had felt like a big deal, as if he’d arrived at adulthood. He’d just sold a couple of songs to a famous artist and to celebrate he’d thrown a huge party, rocking on into the night. Now, only a few months later, that success felt hollow. Being estranged from his family, especially his mother whom he’d been so close to, was hard. And since Irene died, he’d been waking in the small hours, staring up at the dark ceiling wondering, what had he done with his life? Where was he going? Was this all there was, writing songs for other people to sing?

Maybe his indie hit would turn out to be a fluke. More singers were writing their own material these days. Anyway, songwriting was an up-and-down business at best.

Even though Irene had never said so, he knew she’d been disappointed in him, not for messing up at the concert but for giving up performing. She’d been his conscience, and though he’d deliberately ignored her advice at times, he would never forget all she meant to him and had done for him. And while she might be gone, there was no escaping himself. Or the fact that his mother, equally devoted to his musical education, was still around but might as well be dead for all the contact he had with her.

He switched to a lighter piece, trying to shake off the negative vibe that had stolen over him. He was doing what he loved, that was the main thing, right? He missed that connection to an audience but he had a life that many musicians would kill for. He wasn’t making a fortune but he had enough to live comfortably. He had friends and a career that was challenging and satisfying. Wanting more would just be greedy.

Accolades didn’t mean much to him, anyway. And he knew he would hate the media attention that came with fame. He was happiest like this, the words and music pouring out of him, gritty and real, but hopeful. Moments of feeling down aside, he’d never lost his core optimism, and he clung to it harder than ever now. If he only ever sang his songs for himself it would be enough. It had to be.

* * *

CARLY’S EYES OPENED in the dark. Faint sounds came from downstairs. Head spinning, she sat up and listened. Piano music. Finn singing. Stumbling out of bed, she crept out of her room and down the stairs to peer around the doorway into the living room. One look at his face and she changed her mind about going into the room. His eyebrows were pulled together, his expression intensely focused. She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.

Nor did she want to cause him to stop. The piano notes were riffs upon riffs, complicated and mesmerizing. The words were tender, coaxing, laughing. His husky voice held a yearning tremor that hit her right in her gut. And her heart. The music was powerful in a way she’d never heard from him before. She tiptoed back to the landing and sat on the step, shivering, not with cold but with the force of his voice.

Yes, he was still a musician. The question was, why was he keeping such a treasure hidden?