by Jan Moran
Fianna dragged her attention back to her friends.
Verena’s expression dimmed with disappointment. “Niall sure seemed taken with you. What did he say this morning?”
“He didn’t need to say anything.” She shook her head in disgust. “I saw a portrait of him and his wife in the living room. He’s married.” How could she have found herself in such a situation? She was always careful to avoid the jerks, but this one had slipped through her defenses.
Dahlia drew her finely arched brows together. “No, you’re mistaken.”
“He even called me by her name. Laila.”
Verena and Dahlia traded looks, and Dahlia went on. “Fianna, Niall was married. But his wife passed away three years ago.”
“Are you sure?” Heat gathered around her neck, and now she felt like an idiot. She’d lashed out at him without fully understanding the situation. But then, he hadn’t told her, had he? She rubbed her temples. “How do you know?”
Dahlia motioned to the newspaper. “I read the papers.”
“Since when do you read the obituaries?” Fianna asked, bewildered.
“When they’re on the front page of the Entertainment section.”
Verena motioned to Johnny to bring more juice to the table. “It was everywhere on the news and social media. Surely you remember.”
Fianna ran a hand across her brow. Why did everyone seem to know Niall but her?
Dahlia’s bow-shaped lips parted in surprise. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Niall is.”
“He said he writes music.” Fianna rested her chin in her hand, remembering the sensuality in his rich voice.
Verena laughed. “Just a little.” She shot a look of disbelief to Dahlia. “I forgot. You don’t listen to rock music, do you?”
Fianna shook her head. Jazz, opera, classical—she’d picked that up when she lived with Davina. She’d never been a celebrity fan either. She’d met plenty of them in her store and had become accustomed to their eccentricities. Some were lovely, normal people, like Maude Magillicutty, a 1960s siren who’d invested in Bow-Tie, but others, like the recently indicted Gina “Fleur” Georgopoulos, who’d once been a law client of Scarlett’s, had let fame go to their heads.
“Unbelievable.” Dahlia swung her dark hair over a shoulder. “Niall Finley managed to find the only woman in town—and an Irish woman, at that—who doesn’t know who he is.”
“Then enlighten me.” How could she be so out of touch? She’d been working nonstop in her business for years, immersed in fashion. She certainly didn’t have time to stay abreast of the latest gossip or television shows. Or rock stars, evidently.
“He was the lead singer of Finley Green.” Dahlia explained. “The day his wife died, he walked out.”
“Well, I doubt he’ll ever want to see me again.” Fianna remembered how she’d left him; she recalled the despairing look on his face in her rearview mirror. Maybe she’d been wrong about him. But a dead wife didn’t make him a saint.
Fianna winced at her thought. She wasn’t really that callused. What was she thinking? She twisted her napkin. She’d been protecting her heart for so long that her shield had become nearly impenetrable.
“Ladies, your fresh-squeezed, ruby red grapefruit juice.” Johnny filled their glasses with a pitcher and sat down. “I hope you’re hungry. Lance is whipping up a new recipe, and Scarlett’s mother is experimenting with a new empanada: Asian fusion.”
“Yum, sounds good. I’m starving,” Dahlia said. “Johnny, can you believe Fianna had no idea who Niall was?”
Fianna drew a hand over her face, slightly embarrassed.
Johnny looked quizzically at her. “That’s right, you’re the Enya fan. And opera.”
“I’m afraid I might have insulted him.” Fianna blinked at the memory. She often spoke before she thought. She was working on that.
“He’s had a rough time of it.” Johnny ran his knuckles against his dark, day-old stubble. “Decked a paparazzi at his wife’s funeral, as I recall. Practically became a hermit after that.”
“I don’t blame him,” Fianna mumbled. Last night, trapped among the rocks in the black raging water, he’d been willing to give his life so she could live. Niall was far more complex than she’d given him credit for.
“He used to stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel and take meetings in the Polo Lounge,” Johnny said. “That’s how I got to know him. He’s a really good guy.”
“It figures, doesn’t it?” Fianna twisted a wavy red lock of hair around her finger, guilt consuming her. I mistreated a man who offered to give his life for me. And I wouldn’t even listen to him before I roared away. Should she call and apologize?
“Hola, mi amor.” Scarlett walked up behind Johnny, slid her hands across his broad back and kissed him. “Smells like Mama is in the kitchen.”
Johnny rose and hugged her, ruffling Scarlett’s coppery blond hair. “I’ll see what’s ready back there. Take over for me here.”
Fianna grinned at Scarlett, who’d become her business attorney. “You look like you’ve been at the beach.”
“I had a long walk this morning,” Scarlett said, rubbing her bare arms, bronzed from the sun. “It was warmer than I thought it would be.”
Verena and Dahlia quickly filled in Scarlett about Niall and Fianna.
“That’s enough,” Fianna said, laughing in protest. “I just met the guy, and knew him for what, ten or twelve hours, at the most?” She tossed her twisted napkin on the table.
“You’re right, let’s change the subject,” Verena said. “Fianna, with the exposure in the newspaper, it might be a good time to call the buyers from Saks and Barney’s. I know them, so you can use my name.”
Scarlett nodded. “Verena’s right. If you can get your line in the stores, even a few pieces on consignment, that will go a long way in forming the licensing program we’ve been talking about. With your red carpet exposure in magazines, you have a good publicity foundation, but distribution is so important. Shoppers have to find your work in the stores.”
“They do, but it’s not mine.” She made a face and shook her head in disgust. After the Grammy Awards last year, two of her designs had been knocked off by a mass ready-to-wear manufacturer within the month.
Fianna had a dream she’d harbored since she was a girl and that was to delight as many people as she could with her whimsical, flattering designs. Later, when she started her business, her long-term goal was to sell her lines into the most exclusive stores, and then engage licensees for accessories, such as handbags, sunglasses, and shoes.
Scarlett’s specialty was intellectual property licensing, particularly in cosmetics and fashion. In fact, she’d been instrumental in recommending and negotiating Penelope’s recent deal with High Gloss Cosmetics. Now, Penelope was a spokesperson for the company and had her own branded line with them. Ever since Scarlett left the large law firm she’d been with, she’d been working with a number of entrepreneurial clients.
“And I have another show coming up,” Fianna said, thinking about her trip to Ireland. Her aunt Davina had arranged a runway show for a major charity event in Ireland. The event showcased a top designer every year, and Fianna had been chosen because of her Hollywood red carpet connections. She’d dressed many stars for televised award shows. She didn’t make money from loaning cocktail dresses and evening gowns, but the exposure was valuable to her growth. Her trip to Ireland would be expensive, but it could be an important stepping stone in her career.
“Who’s hungry?” Wearing chef’s whites, Lance appeared at the table holding a tray of food, dished up family-style in large bowls and platters. “Today we’re trying an Asian theme, with Asian fusion empanadas—vegetarian or seafood—and a new garlic lemongrass crab recipe I’m testing. Bon appétit, and let me know what you think.” He placed the tray on the table, and then sat next to Verena, giving her a sweet little kiss before he began serving.
Johnny and Scarlett joined them at the table. Scarlett’s mother,
Isabel, who had come out of retirement to assist in the kitchen, sat down, too. Wine and champagne bottles were passed around, and everyone was happy to catch up with friends and eat delicious food.
These lazy Sunday afternoons were the high point of Fianna’s social life. Only when she met someone like Niall—which wasn’t often—did she wonder about the choices she’d made in her life. As she took a bite of a steaming empanada, the lightly fried pastry pocket burst with flavor. “This is fabulous, Isabel,” she said, enjoying herself.
Bow-Tie was known for its food and ambiance, and today, Fianna was simply happy to be eating delicious food and laughing with friends. Niall is too complicated anyway.
That’s what she told herself. She sighed. Still, she couldn’t deny the effect he’d had on her. She wondered if she’d ever see him again.
5
NIALL RESTED HIS hands reverently on the piano keyboard, glided them over a few keys, and then paused to pick up a pencil. He changed a line on the notes and lyrics he’d scribbled down. Satisfied, he started again, spreading his long, agile fingers over the keys, singing to himself as he did.
“Hmm, I love that song, must be new,” Kaitlin said, sliding onto the piano bench beside him. “I haven’t heard you play in forever.” She wore a tank top and short white shorts, which showed off long legs tanned from the California sun. Clutching a cup of coffee in her hands, she bobbed her head, keeping rhythm with his tune.
“It’s been a long time. Guess I felt inspired.” He hadn’t touched this piano in three years, not since Laila died. But today, something in him had shifted. Maybe it was because of the cool ocean breezes blowing the scent of jasmine through the open doors, or the birdsong he’d woken to, or the tinkle of the wind chimes he and Laila had found in an artist colony in San Miguel de Allende.
Or maybe…
“And I know why.” She nudged her brother in the side. “When I came home, you and Fianna were curled up on the chaise lounge on the balcony, snoring away.”
Feeling self-conscious in front of his younger sister, he pushed a hand through his hair. “We weren’t snoring. Well, I’m sure I wasn’t.”
Kaitlin poked him again. “How rude!” She laughed. “Actually, there was no snoring. The two of you were sound asleep. You didn’t hear me come in, so I left you alone. Besides, you looked awfully sweet together.” She winked at him.
“Yeah, well, that’s about it, I’m afraid.” Disappointment settled heavily on his shoulders, as it had this morning when he’d watched Fianna drive away. He’d felt a distinct sense of loss again, though he’d only known her a short time. And there was only so much loss a man could take. Just the whiff of it again had been enough to send him scurrying back to his cave like a hermit crab. There, he’d admitted it. His heart had already been shattered once. And that was enough.
“What do you mean?”
“She saw the painting of Laila.” He nodded to the large picture that hung over the white travertine fireplace. “She thinks I’m still married.”
Niall slid off the bench and picked up the guitar he’d brought with him. He sank into a white sectional sofa positioned to look out over the Pacific Ocean through walls of glass. “When I took her back to her car this morning, she roared off and left me in the dust.” He quirked his mouth to one side as he strummed the guitar and tuned the strings. “You know, she’d never heard my music. Had absolutely no idea who I was.”
Kaitlin spun around to face him. “You mean, she liked you for you? How bizarre, bro.” She laughed and mussed her hair. “So, are you going to call her?”
Niall smiled at his sister. She was a younger, lankier version of himself, with long, lean limbs, a quick smile, and tousled blond hair. Like him, she had a romantic soul, but he hoped the world wouldn’t hurt her as it had him. He’d been devastated over Laila’s untimely death. When he’d met her a decade ago, he’d had a moment of clarity. He saw that the life he was leading was no longer for him. The travel, the groupies, the drugs—being on the road had been far too much for him. He’d never wanted to be a rock star. He’d only wanted to write songs and play his music. And be with the woman he loved.
Laila.
All his life, he’d never been happier than when he was playing his music, dreaming up a new song, or perfecting one he’d been working on. He loved playing for people and seeing the joy on their faces. But he didn’t need to fill an arena anymore. An audience of one was fine with him.
But there was something about Fianna. Not that she could replace his wife, no one could. Still…
An audience of one…
Like the special one he’d had last night. He glanced up. Kaitlin was staring at him, waiting. He shook his head in answer to her question.
Kaitlin watched him. “Why don’t you call her?”
“You know why. Besides, I don’t have her number.”
“You’re lonely.”
“I don’t get lonely.” At least, that’s what he told himself. And for the most part, it was true. However, last night he’d felt an emotion stir within him, a flutter of the heart he hadn’t felt in years. Was Fianna different?
But it was impossible.
Kaitlin glanced at the portrait of her brother and his wife, and then gazed at him with sad, luminous eyes. “I loved Laila, too,” she said softly. “But I worry about you.”
“You’re too young to worry. You should be out having fun today, doing all the things our father is afraid you might do.” He grinned at her. She was a good kid, and he trusted her, although he always kept an eye out for her. There were some creepy guys who went after models.
“I’d rather hang out with you.” She finished her coffee, and then plopped on the sofa beside him. “I hardly ever hear you play. What are you working on?”
“I had a couple new ideas last night.”
Kaitlin chuckled. “See, I knew she was special.”
Niall lobbed a pillow at her, and she ducked. “I’m not calling her. She’s probably a wacko, anyway.” Whether it was the brush with danger when the high tide came in, or the soulful expression in Fianna’s eyes, he had to admit, something had dislodged the creative block he’d had. “Did you see those crazy eyes of hers?”
“Oh, it was her eyes, was it?”
“Hey, knock it off. But really, she has one marine blue eye, and the other one is ambery brown. A mismatched set. I’ve never seen that before.” And the way she looked at him… Not since Laila had he seen such honesty in a woman’s eyes. Most of the women he met were more interested in his bank account, or in being with a famous man, or in bringing him back to the world of the living, as if he were a near-hopeless cause. They all thought he jetted around from one party to another. At one time, he had.
Being with Laila had changed all that, though the demands of his work had tested her patience. If he’d known she only had a few years to live, he would have spent every precious day with her. But we never know. Did she truly forgive him? He strummed the guitar a few times, aching at the thought.
Kaitlin stretched. “I’m starving. I heard Johnny from the Polo Lounge opened a new restaurant in Beverly Hills.”
He shook his head. “Long trip from Malibu.” And he didn’t want to run into Fianna. But even as the thought of that possibility flashed through his mind, his heart beat quickened.
“I just remembered they’re closed on Sunday.” She paused. “Let’s call for pizza.”
“You don’t have any shows lined up?” Though Kaitlin was naturally slender, he knew she watched her weight when she’d committed to a show.
“Not for a while. I thought I’d leave a few weeks open. Maybe go back to Ireland with you for that wedding.”
“Sure, you’re invited, too. You’ll be my date.” A close friend from years ago had asked him to sing at his wedding to surprise his bride.
Lately, all his friends seemed hell-bent on breaking him out of his depression, as if there was a universally allowed time frame for grief, and the alarm had gone off.
Maybe Fianna was that wake-up call.
After spending the afternoon with her friends, Fianna left for her apartment, which was on a residential street within walking distance of her boutique on fashionable Robertson Boulevard. Now that she was alone, thoughts of Niall intruded once again. What is it about him that I can’t get out of my mind?
She stopped at a news kiosk to see if any other newspapers had covered her show. As she was thumbing through the papers, the grainy cover photo of a tabloid caught her eye. She snatched it from the rack and peered closer. A man and woman clutched each other in an embrace, and they were both dripping wet. The headline screamed: Niall Finley Seduces Mystery Woman in Malibu.
She was that mystery woman. Glancing from side to side, she tucked it under her arm and paid for it. The kiosk seller paid no attention to her.
On the way home, she opened the paper, eager to see if a story had been written about Niall. But there was nothing else, only the photo splashed on the cover. She let out a breath of relief. She couldn’t imagine leading a life where every movement was chronicled in the news.
After she came to her apartment complex, she walked down a red brick pathway dusted with red bougainvillea flowers and ducked around a sprawling bougainvillea plant vining across the arched white stucco entryway to her apartment, one of just eight units in the vintage Spanish complex. The scent of sun-warmed, antique lavender roses perfumed the air.
She opened the door, slipped off her shoes, and padded across the wooden floor. Built in the late 1940s, the cozy apartment was perfect for her. A fireplace warmed the living room on crisp winter evenings, a patio off the kitchen was the perfect place for morning coffee, and a tiered fountain from Mexico outside her bedroom trickled water in an endless melody.
Fianna sank onto a shabby chic, white canvas-covered sofa. Niall’s house in Malibu was incredible, but she didn’t need any more than this. Besides, she liked to keep her personal expenses low so she could plough profits back into the business to keep up with growth.