by Hunt, Angela
A year of shacking up with Daniel taught her that love was nothing like the fairy tale in the movies. When he walked out, leaving her with a stack of bills, a trashed apartment, and an empty bank account, she wrote her first serious song: “Sorry Killed the Dream of You.” A friend of hers heard it and gave it to her friend, who gave it to somebody in the record business. Before she knew it, she was a songwriter.
More songs followed, mostly tunes she wrote out of memories. She wrote one of her biggest hits, “Empty Heart,” after thinking about the time her father took her fishing at Gaillard Lake. She’d hooked this huge fish—a bass or trout or something—and her dad tried to help her reel it in, but she snapped that she’d rather do it herself. Then the stupid fish got away, so all she reeled in was an empty fishhook.
Nobody knew the real story behind the song, of course. Most of her friends—and she used that term loosely—thought she suffered from some profound lost love. The execs loved “Empty Heart” and used it as the theme for a Julia Roberts movie. It won the Oscar for best song, and after that her stock went through the roof.
She leaned on the counter and pressed her hand to her forehead, the misery of the interview still haunting her. Life was such a joke. People grow up believing that life owes them happiness and a fair shake, then they discover nobody’s going to automatically give them anything, so why pretend life was happy and fair? Why love anyone, especially when they expect you to behave a certain way in return?
The only good things that had come out of her past were the emotions that inspired her songs.
Lowering her hand, she stretched it toward the cat. He walked beneath it, arching his back and purring.
Sometimes, when the mood was right, she did miss her dad. When they hadn’t been fighting, they’d had good times together. And even though she hadn’t seen him in years, at least she’d known he was out there if she needed to call. She hadn’t needed him, of course—one of the disadvantages of financial independence—but now that he was gone, she felt disconnected somehow.
And knowing she couldn’t call was unsettling.
Leaving the cat, she rose and walked to the window, where the ocean stretched toward the horizon in a palette of blues and greens.
She hadn’t been sleeping well since the plane crash. She spent a lot of time looking out over the ocean, watching the waves and thinking that they were part of the same water that covered her dad at the end. Sometimes she wondered if his soul was absorbed by the sea. Where did a soul go when the body died? She couldn’t believe death spelled the end. A soul was such an expansive thing . . . people couldn’t merely disappear into the cosmos. They had to go on somehow.
Closing her eyes, she moved back into the music room and slid onto the piano bench. She played a C chord, then an F, followed by a G7, then another C. The most common progression in the world, one, four, five-seven, one . . .
Life goes on, and so does the music.
She’d frustrated that newspaper woman. For a moment, she’d thought Peyton MacGruder was going to lean across the piano, grab her by the shirt, and shake her into confessing, Yes, that note was meant for me, no doubt about it.
But she would never admit that. Never, not even if her father had written the blasted thing. The breach between them was too wide. No note could bridge that gap, not now, not ever.
It’d be nice to think her father did write it. If she could believe that, maybe she could sleep at night. But she’d hurt him too deeply to earn easy absolution. Her dad would have to be some kind of saint to overlook the hurt she’d caused.
He was a special man . . . but he was gone.
And she’d give anything to find him again.
Peyton stared at the sun-spangled sea, which slapped rhythmically against the escort boat. Thoughts of her interview with Taylor Crowe ricocheted in her head, pinging off vaults she’d locked long ago—
“Ma’am?” A handsome young man in uniform caught her attention and pointed toward the doorway to the cabin. “This sun is awful bright. If you’d rather go into the cabin, it’s shady inside—”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” As if to prove her assertion, Peyton gripped the rail and lifted her face to the sun. “I think it feels nice.”
The steward—if that’s what he was—smiled, but lifted a warning brow. “Be careful. Sometimes we hit a rough wave, and things can get a little unsteady.”
“I’m fine.” Peyton looked away, a little weary of repeating herself. She was fine, totally and completely, even though she had not been able to stem the tide of frustration that had rocked her thoughts ever since leaving Taylor Crowe’s apartment.
Mary Grace Van Owen’s little trick had worked in a most unexpected way. Instead of talking, Taylor Crowe had opened up in a song, cloaking her feelings in lyrics that could be interpreted in a dozen different ways. Peyton thought she could sense the true emotion behind the words, but no one else would guess the truth, not in a hundred years.
She felt her stomach tighten as the ship labored through a stretch of choppy sea. A whiff of pungent sea air filled her nostrils even as Taylor Crowe’s voice filled her memory:
I yearned for you in every face and flower,
But all I had of you was emptiness inside.
Did Taylor think she was the only daughter ever to miss her father’s company? Did she honestly believe she had a monopoly on suffering? Peyton could tell her a thing or two, could teach her plenty about emptiness and yearning and absence.
In the hollow of her back, a single drop of sweat traced the course of her spine. Her hands were damp, too; the brass railing slick beneath her palms. Careful, now, mustn’t think of the past. Mustn’t dwell on what we’ve put away. Mustn’t unlock the doors, even touch the key.
Why in heaven’s name did her father insist on sending letters and pictures and cards? Not a week went by without another envelope appearing in her mailbox at home or at work. When she got back to the newsroom, that stupid picture would be on her desk, the smiling photo of him and her and all the young ones. Why did he do it? He had to know she didn’t want contact. Like Taylor Crowe, she’d written off that relationship years ago, but still her father insisted on torturing her.
The sounds of male voices poured out of the cabin area, battering her ears. What were those men talking about? Did they see her out here, wonder why she wouldn’t come in? King had wondered why she didn’t open the letters from her father, like Mandi had to wonder why she didn’t act more thrilled with that sappy photograph of the smiling graduate. But they didn’t know. They knew zilch about her life; they had never walked through the valley of the shadow with her, they didn’t know about the pain she had locked away. And Taylor Crowe, foolish girl, would learn someday. She’d learn that it was silly to brood on melancholy, stupid to write about it. And because that fool had refused the note, Peyton would now have to go to Gainesville and confront Tanner Ford.
She clung to the rail, her stomach churning. Gainesville had to have changed in the years she’d been gone, but she would never be able to drive through the city without remembering things she’d put away. If only Taylor had claimed the note, then all would be settled and she wouldn’t even have to think about Gainesville. But now . . .
How could she pull it off? How could she get in her car and drive northward, knowing each mile brought her closer and closer to—
She brought her fingers to her neck as panic like she’d never known welled in her throat. She couldn’t do it! She couldn’t go to Gainesville; she couldn’t even meet tonight’s deadline. Because it was happening again, the racing pulse, the quick breathing, the feeling that she was about to have a heart attack. Sheer, black fright was raging through her, and she had nowhere to run, no place to go. She couldn’t go into the cabin and she couldn’t stay on this boat. What if it sank? What if a rogue wave came from nowhere and capsized them before anyone even knew what had happened? Or the boat could catch fire—some of the men were smoking—and if she stayed aboard she’d face a terrible
death by drowning and burning.
That couldn’t happen. It just couldn’t.
All sounds—of the engine, the men’s conversation, even the waves—subsided, leaving only a ringing silence in her ears. Unable to control the spasmodic trembling within, Peyton moved toward the stern, hand over hand, clinging to the rail, the only stable object in her field of vision. The wide sky and horizon had narrowed; she could see only the brass cylinder beneath her damp palms. If she followed it she would be able to find a way off this boat.
Because they were going to die. She knew it; could feel it as certainly as she’d felt the sun on her face a few moments before.
She had to leave the boat. Now, as soon as possible, as soon as her heavy feet could find the way to freedom. Gulping for air and finding none, she moved sideways, step by step, until the rail bent and she felt only empty air beneath her hands. Grateful to find a way of escape, she took it.
Half an hour later, wet and wrapped in a blanket, Peyton sat in the back of the hired car with her feet on solid asphalt. She gave the captain of the Misty Sea another false smile. “It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated for the twentieth time. “I must have slipped.”
“All the same,” the captain said, his eyes dark with worry, “if my first mate hadn’t heard the splash—”
“He did, and I’m fine.” Peyton pulled the edges of the blanket closer so he wouldn’t see that she still trembled. “And if you don’t mind, I’d really like to get to the airport.”
“Wouldn’t you like to get some dry clothes?” The question came from the driver, who’d taken in her dripping appearance with no more visible signs of alarm than a slight scratch of his head. “It might get cold on the plane.”
“I have a blanket. I want to go home.” Peyton shifted her gaze and gave the captain a grim look. “If you’ll hand me my briefcase, we can go about our business and pretend this never happened.”
Obediently, he handed her the attaché. “But—”
“Don’t worry, Captain, I’m not going to sue you. It wasn’t your fault.”
Turning, she folded her legs into the backseat, then rested her hand on the door. “Good day, gentlemen. Thank you for fishing me out of the sea.”
She slammed the door. A moment later the driver got in, fastened his seat belt, then adjusted his rearview mirror, pausing to catch her eye in the reflection.
“The same terminal where I picked you up?” he asked, his voice soft with wariness.
“Yes, please.” Peyton gave him a nod, then leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes.
She hadn’t had a panic attack in years . . . and none had ever literally put her in water over her head. Thank goodness the men who came to her rescue assumed she’d slipped and fallen. Thank goodness, too, that they attributed her fright to the act of falling overboard.
How wrong they were.
Still trembling in terror, Peyton curled into a ball and tried to sleep.
THIRTEEN
SUNDAY, JULY 1
The Heart Healer
By Peyton MacGruder
© Howard Features Syndicate
Dear Readers:
For those of you who’ve just joined “The Heart Healer,” a bit of background is probably in order. Eight days ago, a woman approached me at my home paper, the Tampa Times, and handed me something that had washed up behind her home on Tampa Bay. At first glance, any passerby would assume the battered bit of plastic was nothing but another piece of litter tossed out by Sunday boaters on Florida’s west coast. The small bag, however, contained a simple sheet of paper, a note hastily scrawled, but legible. Though I will not reveal the note’s message until after I have safely delivered it to its rightful owner, I can say this: we have many reasons to believe the bag and its contents came from the tragic crash of PanWorld Flight 848. Because the note was signed “Dad,” we know it was written by a father to a child. Through another small but important clue, I have been able to locate three people who could be the note’s intended recipient.
Last week I visited the first person on my list, a pastor in a Midwestern town. After glancing at the note for a moment, he assured me that it could not have come from his father. His reasons were credible, his logic sound.
A few hours ago I visited the second person on my list—a successful songwriter who values her privacy. She studied the note thoughtfully, and for a moment I thought her eyes filled with tears. But though she admitted her father could have written it—she couldn’t rule out the possibility—she refused to accept the note’s message. Her father, she felt certain, would never have written those particular words. Especially not for her.
Still, she couldn’t help being stirred. While I watched, she went to her piano and created a song that put a lump in my throat—a song with lyrics so polished I was certain she’d labored over it for many hours. No, she assured me, it still needed work. But it would make a great tune, though no one would ever guess at its emotional source.
She handed the note back to me, drained of emotion and possibility, and told me to keep it. I didn’t want to. I wanted her to keep the note and its message; I wanted her to be comforted by knowing her father had thought of her before his death. But you can’t force someone to receive a gift they’re not willing to accept.
I’m on a plane home now, typing in the pressurized silence of a jet cabin. I’m tired from the long day, and more than a little weary of this forced preoccupation with death. It’s been a long journey. I wonder if my songwriter friend appreciates how long and difficult. But I am not to judge her—I’m only the reporter.
Today I met a woman who has everything— wealth, beauty, talent, and intellect. Yet, from what I could tell, she shares her gifts with very few people. Her luxurious apartment held no pictures of friends or loved ones. She lives in a palatial apartment with a cat.
I have to wonder—is she happy? I suppose each of us would define the condition differently. But the life I observed today, while grand, would probably not satisfy the average man or woman. I doubt it would satisfy me.
From what I could gather, this young musician and her father had a falling-out years ago. You’re probably familiar with the scene— teenager yells at Mom and Dad; Dad gives an ultimatum—obey the house rules or leave the house. The teen walks out, and the chasm between father and child grows deeper with every missed birthday, Father’s Day, and Christmas. Unfortunately, as the father’s heart softens, the child’s heart can grow harder.
But adolescence is a time of hurts—who among us did not do and say things we regret in our maturity? As adolescents, we are so self-centered and focused on our own desires that we are blind to our parents as real people. We see only their authority, their rules, and their expectations. We do not see their dreams, their strengths, and their ordinary weaknesses. Or, if we see, we do not understand.
I found myself trembling with frustration when I left my second prospect. This young woman carries a burden of loneliness, but it’s clear she chooses to carry it—it has become a shadow she’s accustomed to seeing. Unfortunately, I fear it will walk with her for the rest of her life.
By giving her the note, I hoped to give her balance between loss and love. After all, when do shadows disappear? At noontime, when the sun is balanced and directly overhead.
Tomorrow: a preliminary report on our third and final prospect for the note. Until then, here’s a heartfelt wish that you will walk in the brightness of noonday.
In her New York apartment, Julie St. Claire ate breakfast, soaked in a scented bath, and read the entire New York Times, followed by a quick skimming of the Post. Finally, when the clock on her mantel struck eleven, she tightened the belt on her silk robe, stabbed her cigarette into an ashtray, then picked up the phone to call Peyton MacGruder. Even the laziest Sunday morning sleeper ought to be up by eleven.
The columnist answered on the third ring, her voice heavy.
“Peyton, this is Julie St. Claire of WNN.”
“No need to remind me.
I know who you are.”
MacGruder might be tired, but her defenses were up and armed. Julie sank into a wing chair and pressed forward. “I read your column this morning in the New York Post. Congratulations on hitting the major markets.”
“Thanks.”
MacGruder didn’t sound exactly thrilled, so Julie moved on to the reason for her call. “Since we’re going to be working together on this note story, I wanted to get an update on your visit yesterday. Tell me about Taylor Crowe.”
The phone hissed in her ear for a long moment, then MacGruder said, “There’s not much to tell, really, other than what you read in my column. Taylor thought her father might have written the note, but she steadfastly refused to claim it. Apparently they hadn’t been on speaking terms for several years.”
Julie frowned at the ceiling, irritated both by MacGruder’s glib attitude and the interview’s outcome. She’d been hoping Crowe would accept the note—what a great story that would make! Nation’s Top Songwriter Receives Last Message from Father! But now it looked as though her team would be reporting from Florida instead of a floating luxury apartment complex.
Standing, she walked to the fireplace and plucked a cigarette from the case on the mantel. “Let’s not give up. Surely we can find something within the message itself that might convince her to reconsider—”
“Afraid not.” MacGruder sounded as if she were smiling now. “She was pretty definite. I tried my best to persuade her, but Taylor refused to budge. She has a certain mental image of her father, and nothing I said could alter it.”