Love California Box Set: Books 1-3 (Love California Series Collection)

by Jan Moran

  Home. Niall hadn’t been back in ages. He climbed into the back of a black limousine.

  Kaitlin slid in after him. “Thanks for meeting us, Jimmy.” Her white linen jacket and slim skirt looked good with her newly acquired bronze tan.

  “Shall I head for Finley castle?”

  “Sure, Jimmy, we’ve got a bit of jet lag to shake.” Niall rested his head against the black leather seat. The limousine was a little ostentatious, but if he stood in a taxi line, he’d be mobbed in no time.

  Though he appreciated his fans, it could be overwhelming: autographs, photos, people insisting he join them for a pint, women writing their phone numbers on his arm, leaving lipstick kisses on his face and neck. Some of his old band members thrived on the attention and found a different woman every night, but he’d never desired that kind of attention like some rock stars. All the money in the world couldn’t buy what he often craved: Anonymity.

  When they were on tour, he preferred to stay in the hotel room, strum his old guitar, and dream up new songs. When he was home, he liked to jam with a few friends at home, or on a beach.

  Like Eli.

  Niall drew a hand over his mouth. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how such a large man had disappeared so quickly. He expelled a breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Kaitlin asked, snapping her seatbelt.

  “I was thinking about Eli.”

  “It was so strange that I couldn’t find anyone who knew him. Not on the beach, not in town.”

  Niall buckled up, too. He’d really wanted to see Eli again, have him to the house for supper, and share their love of music. But he’d vanished like the morning dew.

  Or he’d never existed in the first place. “We didn’t imagine him, did we?”

  “I don’t see how. Neither of us had a drop of alcohol. No Mai Tai, no Blue Hawaii, not even wine.”

  They’d tried to follow Eli, but he hadn’t even left footprints in the sand. Niall glanced at his sister. That’s what had really spooked Kaitlin.

  As for him, he wondered how Eli knew Laila’s name. Maybe he’d met her on a previous visit. Everyone who’d met Laila had remembered her.

  Who was he kidding? No footprints.

  Jimmy pulled away from the curb and Kaitlin shifted in her seat. “If the man didn’t exist, then what did we experience?”

  Niall stroked the stubble on his jaw, thinking. He’d been through counseling for grief, and was well acquainted with the cycles: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and eventually, acceptance. He’d been through them all. But he still couldn’t explain why a beautiful, full-of-life woman was here one moment, and gone the next. Life wasn’t fair. Intellectually, he knew that, he accepted that, but his heart still ached. “There are a lot of things I can’t explain, Kaitlin.”

  “Like what?”

  He didn’t want to tell her about his conversations with Laila, because he knew it sounded crazy, even though his wife hadn’t returned after Eli left. Had he fabricated Laila in his mind, or was there really a connection? Instead, he said, “Sometimes I wonder where creativity and imagination comes from. How does this wellspring within us work? Why does it ebb and flow?”

  Kaitlin touched his shoulder. “I’ve thought about that, too.”

  “You have?”

  Kaitlin’s cheeks reddened. “At the hana, sometimes I actually imagined Laila was still present. I’d turn around to say something to her, and then realize she wasn’t there. I can’t explain the sensation. Even so, I’m glad you decided not to sell that house. It’s such an amazing place.”

  Niall squeezed Kaitlin’s hand. “And I’m glad you’re coming back to the castle with me.” They had grown up in nearby Dublin, where his parents still lived. Niall had bought the castle after the owner died and had no family left to take it on. He’d built a recording studio there, and he and Laila had hosted music debuts for Finley Green and other musicians.

  “Until the next job takes me away,” she said. “So have you decided which songs you’re going to play at your friend’s wedding?”

  “He has a couple of requests, and I have some new ones I’m working on that I think they’ll like.” This was the new music that Fianna had inspired. He wished he’d been able to see her again before he left Los Angeles. As it stood, he didn’t know when he’d return. He didn’t have any pending business there. Or anywhere, for that matter. “Maybe it was time I put out a new collection.”

  “Are you going to contact your old music label?”

  “No, I think I’ll do something different this time. I could form an indie label, and distribute it digitally online.”

  “You could. You’re completely set up at the castle. You could call it Castle Green Music, or something like that.”

  “That’s a good name.” Niall lifted his gaze to the ceiling, imagining the possibilities. Returning to work on his terms would give him deep satisfaction. Not everyone liked his music, but he knew it brought joy to many. “I could arrange a few intimate performances. No giant tour, though. Small salons, nightclubs. In Dublin, New York… Los Angeles.”

  Delight spread across Kaitlin’s face. “That’s a grand idea. Maybe you could see Fianna again in L.A.”

  The driver wound into Howth Head, an old fishing village outpost on the eastern side of Dublin, where Niall could rise with the sun shimmering on the bay every morning. Howth, rhymes with booth, he always told visitors from overseas. Lately, a number of other musicians had moved into the area because of the privacy. Niall welcomed them into the studio over pints of Guinness ale and glasses of wine. He loved hearing his friends create new music, though he hadn’t joined in for several years. Now, that would change. He was itching to return to the studio.

  The Howth Lighthouse stood at the northern tip, and the Baily Lighthouse stood at the southernmost point. They drove past the market and the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey, and turned into the grounds of the gray stone castle that had been built in the 1700s. The original structure had been built six hundred years ago, but it had been rebuilt after having been destroyed by a fire.

  The grounds were a carpet of emerald green, and migratory birds took up interim residence on the surrounding ponds. The ocean lapped the shore at one end of the property, and from the third floor, Niall could see all of Howth Head.

  After Laila died, he’d spent time working on some of the renovations they’d planned, but the old structure still needed work. He had a small staff to watch over it, and they provided company, too.

  Jimmy pulled the car near the front and cut the engine. “No worries, Jimmy, I’ve got the luggage,” Niall said. He and Kaitlin didn’t have much. He’d shipped a few personal belongings from the Malibu house back, and he had a small suitcase. The advantage to having several residences was that he seldom had to pack clothes or toiletries, and consequently he could speed through the airports. Traveling was even easier when he flew private planes, but he wasn’t traveling as much as he had when he’d been performing with the group.

  Commercial flights were fine with him now, and he often met interesting people onboard. Most of the older people in first class had no idea who he was. The first class flight attendants were accustomed to having celebrities in their section, so they hardly took notice of him.

  They climbed the semi-circular stone steps that led to the front door, which was a welcoming shade of carnelian red. Three stories above them, turrets spiked the cloudy sky.

  The castle had come with all the original furniture, paintings, books, china, and silverware intact. It was rare to find a castle so well preserved with its original contents, and Niall felt it was his duty to maintain the integrity of the collection. He’d added his own mark in some rooms, such as the master bedroom, the studio, and one of the salons, decorating them with vivid, striking paintings from talented young Irish artists.

  They walked through a gallery lined with John Carver and James Barry landscapes, John Lavery’s romantic portraits, and Susanna Drury watercolors. Sarah Purser’s
large stained-glass window at the end of the gallery was breathtakingly brilliant. The only piece he’d parted with was a Francis Bacon portrait that he’d donated to the museum so that everyone could enjoy it.

  When he wasn’t in residence, he allowed visitors to the gallery and salons so that others could enjoy the incredible works of art, too. Everyone was welcome, and if they could afford a donation, the funds collected went to a local school for musical instruments for kids who couldn’t afford them.

  They passed the formal dining room, which was a jewel box of hunter green with white architectural mouldings and an ornate ceiling, from which hung fine Waterford crystal chandeliers. A long mahogany table and chairs graced the room. He and Laila often had their family and friends join them here for holidays. Niall appreciated the craftsmanship and liked preserving history.

  “I can’t wait to fall into a warm bubble bath in that giant claw foot tub,” Kaitlin said. “I’ll call our parents to let them know we’re home.”

  “I’ll pop into the studio,” Niall said. “There’s something I want to work on.” For the first time since Laila had died, he planned to record some new songs.

  “Can’t wait to hear it.” Kaitlin raced up the carpeted stone staircase, easily taking the steps two at a time.

  Niall dropped his bag at the foot of the stairs and went the other way, descending into the basement level where he’d built the recording studio. It was perfectly soundproofed. He’d also built a kitchen and pub-like tavern room for his friends. A grand, carved stone fireplace anchored the room, while dark red leather chairs on flagged stone floors created a relaxing vibe that everyone enjoyed.

  Niall opened a guitar case and lifted out his favorite guitar. He plucked the strings. It had been so long since he’d played it was out of tune. He’d need new strings, but he tuned it by ear. Once he was satisfied, he played a song that had been running through his mind. “Fianna’s Song” is what he’d decided to call it.

  He was seldom happier than when he was creating and playing. He’d forgotten how satisfying it was. The self-styled music critics could be brutal, but most of them couldn’t carry a tune anyway, so he’d learned to ignore them. Though it still hurt him that people could be so crass and cavalier when his music didn’t suit their taste anyway. He played the music that welled up in his soul. He knew it gave plenty of people joy. Those were the people he played for.

  He flicked the record switch and strummed the opening chords, adding his deep gravelly voice to the music. After the acoustical guitar segment, he turned to the keyboard and ran his fingers over the keys. He’d work on that tomorrow, he decided, as his stomach growled. He always lost track of time on travel days. He closed the studio and climbed the stairs to find Kaitlin.

  He rapped on the door to the bedroom suite she’d claimed as her own. “Hey sis, if you’re not submerged, want to cycle over to the tavern? I’m feeling a little peckish, and I could use some good pub food.”

  Kaitlin opened the door, and the scent of lemon verbena wafted out. “Great idea. I’m starving.”

  As they tromped down stairs, Niall noticed that what was distinctly absent from the house was the sense of Laila. There was no breath on his neck, no silage of jasmine perfume. He’d taken comfort for years in her lingering presence—real or imagined—but he hadn’t felt her impression since leaving Hawaii. Since Eli.

  He ran a hand over his hair, pushing a lock from his face. Would she ever return to him?

  13

  THE MORNING OF the fashion show dawned with a drenching downpour. Fianna stood at the window with a cup of hot tea watching sheets of rain sluicing across the window pane. In the sun-loving city of Los Angeles, many people wouldn’t go out because of the rain, but in Ireland, rain was hardly an excuse. She doubted it would deter attendance.

  A rap on the door broke her reverie, and Fianna turned the shiny brass handle. “Penelope, I’m so glad to see you,” she said, throwing her arms around her dear friend. “Are you ready for this today?”

  Penelope hugged her back. “It’s what I do. The question is, are you?”

  “Everything is set. I can’t think of anything else to check.”

  “Then let’s get ready to rock that runway.” Penelope was dressed in black leggings and boots. A Louis Vuitton tote was flung over her shoulder.

  “It means the world to me that you’re here.” Penelope had arrived after the Doyle debacle last night, and Fianna had never been so glad to see a friendly face. Along with Davina, the three of them had a light dinner and retired early to be well rested for the big show.

  “I support my friends, and this is an important day for you,” Penelope said. “I just passed the Vogue editor in the hallway, and she seemed excited.” Penelope told her that she had sat next to the woman on the plane, who’d told her she was coming to attend Fianna’s show. “Between the media coverage on the Malibu charity show, the Los Angeles Times piece, and the Emmy Awards, you’re becoming hot, hot, hot. Are you nervous yet?”

  “I haven’t stopped being nervous,” Fianna replied, laughing. “But I’ve learned to hide it.” She pressed a hand against her racing heart. It was finally her turn. She’d been studying and working for ten years and dreaming about this day since she was a little girl. Her first fashion show in Ireland, attended by international fashion editors and media—she’d finally hit the professional jackpot.

  She could hardly imagine what might happen next. Before she’d left, Fianna had placed a call to the Neiman Marcus buyer that Camille had shared with her, and she’d actually received an appointment for when she returned. Back in Los Angeles, Scarlett was standing by, ready to field calls and work on whatever licensing or retail offers that might come in.

  “Right before I left, Dahlia gave me something for you,” Penelope said. “She said to give it to you before the show for good luck.” Penelope fished a small package from her bag.

  Fianna opened the padded envelope and withdrew two plain perfume sample bottles. Each one had a label with a name and version number written on it by hand. Fianna turned them around.

  “Runway and Catwalk,” she read, smiling with delight. It was common practice for perfumers to assign working names to samples. She slipped the caps off and sprayed them into the air. “There’s a note, too.” She slipped it out. “These are our first ideas for a new Fianna Fitzgerald line.” Fianna could hardly believe it. She let out a little squeal. She couldn’t wait to talk to Dahlia and thank Camille.

  “Congratulations! It’s all coming together, isn’t it?” Penelope pointed to the bottle marked Runway. “I like that one best.”

  “So do I.” Fianna sniffed the air. “It’s whimsical; it smells like orange blossoms and seashores.” And Hawaii, she thought, with another pang over Niall. She spritzed some on her wrist and neck, and Penelope held her wrists out, too.

  “For luck,” Penelope said with a wink. “Have you triple-checked everything at the venue?”

  “Everything I could think of. I went there early and tested the lights, music, and runway again. The clothes, shoes, and accessories are organized. All the models have checked in, so we’re ready to go.” She’d been over every detail, and Davina had been with her to manage the checklist and make sure nothing was overlooked.

  Davina emerged from the bedroom, looking elegant in one of Fianna’s slim, plum-colored cocktail suits. She wore an elaborate Philip Treacy hat, which she’d worn to the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Flowers and netting topped an angled crown and brim that framed her face. It paired beautifully with Fianna’s design. Treacy often coordinated with designers, and Fianna hoped to meet him someday.

  “Davina, you look magnificent,” Fianna said. “You should be walking the runway. That plum color is gorgeous on you.”

  “I’ve had my turn,” Davina said.

  Fianna clasped hands with Davina and Penelope. “Are we ready to go?”

  When they arrived, Penelope went backstage, Davina found the fashion editors, and Fian
na paused for a moment to take it all in.

  The buzz of conversation, the tinkle of laughter, the flash of jewels—Fianna stood to one side of the hotel ballroom enjoying the moment she would surely remember for a long time to come. This was the show she’d been waiting for.

  She fixed the scene in her mind. The ladies, the hats, the sumptuous venue. The media seated at prime tables to cover the show.

  Fifty round tables covered in pink tablecloths seated ten guests at each one. This luncheon was the highlight of the season, and funds raised would benefit pediatric research. Every year a top fashion designer was brought in to show their spring collection. Davina had put forth Fianna, and the committee approved her because she had a Hollywood connection, having recently dressed stars for the Emmy, Academy, and Grammy award shows.

  The opportunity to dress celebrities for these events came about because Fianna was friends with several high profile stylists. Their famous patrons often relied on their personal stylist to find lesser known designers, so they wouldn’t be compared to another star wearing the same outfit a week later. Many stars borrowed clothes for the events, and then there were those who had modeling contracts with fashion houses, such as Chanel, Dior, or Saint Laurent, and had clothing provided to them.

  The publicity was fabulous, but Fianna still had to make sales. Usually celebrities were happy to mention Fianna’s name on the red carpet, but some, like Fleur, treated Fianna’s boutique like their personal closet and rarely acknowledged her. Those relationships didn’t last long.

  Today Fianna wore one of her own designs, a butterscotch yellow silk dress with an asymmetrical neckline and hem. She wore mid-height heels so she’d be comfortable on her feet backstage. The hair stylist had arrived early to style her hair. To keep Fianna’s hair out of the way while she worked, the woman had swept her hair from her forehead with a thick braid and left curls cascading past her shoulders.

  Fianna pressed her hands together, and made her way to Davina.