A Moonlit Serenade

by Alexa Padgett

Her breath caught, just a little, at the mention of the islands. Interesting. I nodded my thanks for the water that a harried, middle-aged waitress had set at my elbow before looking back at Ryn. “Got a thing for the islands, eh? Don’t rightly know. Growing up, my mum worked too many hours simply to keep a roof over our heads. By the time I was old enough to know different, Murphy and I were used to Mum’s cooking. It’s traditional: bangers and mash, meat pies, fish and chips when we had the extra cash for a treat. Pizza. Standard American fare, I’d guess.”

  “Except for the meat pies. I’ve had a chicken-pot pie. Oh, and shepherd’s pie.”

  “Never had either.” The waitress was back so I motioned for Ryn to order. Once she had, I said, “The same,” and handed our server my menu.

  Ryn sipped her water, eyes never leaving my face.

  “So, how old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-six.”

  “A mere babe yourself.”

  Her eyes clouded and she sat back. “Not hardly, thanks to life experience. So…tell me about this album.”

  Much as I wanted to push, to learn more about her, she’d shut me down yesterday and then again today when I held her hand. From her body language, I’d say she’d do it again. For the best, anyway. I was here with her for business, nothing more.

  “Asher’s started his own record label here in Seattle.”

  She raised her brows again, but I couldn’t tell if that was a go-on gesture or one of surprise.

  “He’s looking to put out work that the big labels don’t want to touch. All the projects he’s dreamed of doing but either didn’t have the time or the backing of his band to do.”

  “Sounds ambitious.”

  I smiled. “Everything the man does is ambitious. Hitting forty never sounded so good.”

  “You have to celebrate thirty first,” Ryn said, and I smiled, pleasure looping though my chest. The casual drop of information was proof enough she’d paid attention to me before now.

  “When I told Asher about the idea of the lullabies, he asked me to set it up. He also loved the idea of lullabies for Valentine’s Day. Something different, classy, sweet. You know, nonstandard love for a holiday full of romance.” I stopped talking, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. She waited, seeming to know I had more to say. “I’d just heard your song from a friend. She has some baby recordings.” Quit running your jaw, Jake.

  “Must be from the local artist compilation Linda asked me to do.”

  “I looked you up, found out you were local. And here I am.”

  We both sat back as large white bowls plunked onto the table in front of us. I stared, bemused by the steaming broth in the bowl.

  “Add the chicken and whatever else you want.”

  “Right-o,” I muttered. Smaller white bowls of grilled chicken, scallions, shredded carrots, steamed broccoli, snap peas, soy sauce, and peanuts were next to my large ramen-and-broth bowl. “Peanuts? Chop sticks?” Bloody hell. I’d never used them before.

  Ryn had already emptied a few of her smaller bowls into the larger one. She pushed away the peanuts, wrinkling her nose, and picked up the chop sticks. “Everything okay?”

  “Don’t know. This looks hard.”

  “Not too hard for a world-famous rock star, surely.” She looked down to grab a bite of noodles with her chopsticks.

  She’d bought the hype, the image the label set. I nearly snorted at the irony of her take of me. As the shy, bookish Etsam brother, I’d learned to play the bass when Murphy needed more help with his guitar and music studies. Once Murphy met Hayden Crewe at uni, making music went from hobby to serious work. Thankfully, our real break didn’t come until I’d finished my courses.

  In all those years, I’d always been the least interesting member of our four-member band. I was the quiet bloke who’d act as one of his mate’s wingman for yet another bar troll. Not that I didn’t like women—I did, but casual chat-ups defied my abilities. And being raised by a single woman who was strong enough to make the transition from homemaker to manager showed me the traits I wanted in my future partner.

  After another long moment of nervous staring, I picked up the chop sticks. Dipping them into the broth, I fought to gather up a few slippery noodles. At Ryn’s giggle, I looked up.

  “It’s messy, but it’s worth it. Promise.”

  With a shrug, I shoved the chop sticks into my mouth. The tang from the broth mixed with the slight nutty flavor of the pasta. I chewed slowly, nodding. “Nice.”

  “They use buckwheat flour. For the noodles.”

  “Is that why it tastes different?”

  “Yes.”

  Ryn scooped up another bite, unconcerned by the slight slurping noise she made to pull the noodles into her mouth. She chewed, still watching me.

  “Are you going to eat? We could get you something else if you don’t like it.”

  Warmth filled me. It wasn’t often people worried about my needs. Most of the time, especially with the few women I dated, they expected me to take care of them. I didn’t mind, really, but it wasn’t as though I were a mind-reader. Half the time, the ladies stormed off, their irritation as obvious as their lipstick.

  Ryn wore no lippy. She was gorgeous with those laughing sherry eyes and damp pink lips devoid of anything other than broth.

  I looked down into my bowl, managed to bring up another bite.

  Up to now, I’d muddled along. Not unhappy with my lot but never seeking to move into the limelight. I was young—just twenty-eight myself—and good enough to look at.

  But I wasn’t the pretty-boy frontman like Hayden Crewe, and Murphy owned the bad-boy vibe.

  Even this project was more about my family than finding my own fame. I just didn’t crave it. When I took stock of my life, I wanted simple, easy dreams.

  But, like everything else, the opportunity for me to work at a gallery and come home to a sweet wife each night blew up when “She’s So Bad” went multiplatinum. “Between Breaths” propelled us even higher. Honestly, I’d never have to work again and be fine. But I wasn’t the type to settle in because I could.

  For the first time in my career, I wanted something. I wanted Ryn. Her voice for the songs, but if I was honest with myself, I was attracted to her. Even after my blundered beginning she’d allowed me to stick around.

  And I wanted to.

  The album was the perfect excuse to keep her close enough until I talked her into a date.

  3

  Ryn

  “Did you enjoy your lunch?” I asked, leaning back against the vinyl cushion. Small white Christmas lights were woven between the booths, the main pendants turned down to give the space a cozier feel. The restaurant had cleared out and the noise level dropped.

  Jake hesitated. “It was different.”

  My good mood collapsed. “I shouldn’t suppose everyone likes what I do.” Dez liked ramen—he’d been the one to turn me on to the dish. He’d made it for me about once a week after our marriage, and we’d laughed as we slurped the noodles.

  I rubbed my chest at the memory. Maybe spending time with Jake was a mistake.

  Jake responded quickly. I’d noticed that about him. He didn’t like me to feel bad. “Not at all. It’s just that I’m Aussie. I love Vegemite sandwiches. Traveling took some getting used to.”

  He’d paid the bill. After wiping his mouth and hands one last time, he set his napkin under the edge of his bowl. “You ready?”

  “Sure. But you didn’t tell me any more about the album.”

  “You said you had another class at two. It’s just before now.”

  I jumped up. “Thanks for keeping an eye on the time! I need to get back. This group is older and a couple of the moms show up about fifteen minutes before to chat.”

  “Let’s get you back then.”

  Much as I liked his gentlemanly door holding, part of me wished he’d try to grab my hand again. Those tingles… yeah, I’d like them again.

  In weeks, I would hit the three years since Dez an
d I caressed one another. So many years too long for intimate contact.

  Jake and I walked down the street, not quite touching. Was I wrong? I’d thought he was attracted to me, but maybe I’d misread the signals. I was so out of touch with the whole dating scene. That’s what happened when your first boyfriend morphed into your husband.

  I waited for a cyclist to pass. With a quick check back to the right, I stepped onto the crosswalk. “Watch it!” Jake grabbed me, yanking me back up the curb. My ankle caught on the concrete, and I fell back against him. We landed in a heap of tangled limbs as a red sedan tore through the red light.

  “Bloody stupid bugger,” Jake muttered. He winced as he stood. “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.” I took his hands and let him pull me back to my feet. My ankle was tender with road rash but I could put weight on it.

  “Came out of nowhere, he did.”

  “Thanks for pulling me back in time.”

  “Glad I was there to do so.” Jake’s brows were still scrunched as he glared through the light.

  This time, he didn’t drop my hand as he walked next to me all the way to the door of my building.

  “Give me your number, and I’ll give you mine. I’d really like to talk more about the project.”

  I weighed my choices. Spending time with Jake proved nicer than I anticipated. And, though I had pride in my work, turning down a chance to work with some of the biggest names in music stank of stupidity. I met his gaze, taking in those patient hazel eyes.

  He handed me his phone, and I typed in my number.

  “Um. Where are you staying?”

  Jake grimaced. “At a hotel for the moment.”

  “Not your scene?”

  “Nah. I’m a homebody. My mum said if I wasn’t in a band, she’d have to pry me out of the house.”

  I handed him back his phone. It was sleek, the newest version. With more reluctance, I dropped my much older model into his hand.

  He opened the contacts and typed away. Handing it back, he met my eyes. “Dinner?”

  No. “I’m busy tonight.” Thank goodness for that, because my emotions were a tangled mess of desire for him and a desire to remember Dez and our years together.

  Disappointment filled his gaze. “Tomorrow then?”

  He wasn’t going to let this go. I glanced away, unsure how best to handle him.

  The rest of the week was a safer subject than my plans for tonight. “I’m helping my colleague with a new composition for her class. I’m going to be here until after six most nights this week.”

  Hope lit those eyes, causing the green specks to spark brighter. My heart thumped in my chest.

  “After then? How about seven thirty?”

  I wanted this man. And, in some strange twist of fate, he seemed to want me.

  “I can’t.” See you again. Take you up on your offer. My nose stung as I blinked back tears.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes,” I said. I dropped my phone back into the large tote I carried. “I need to go.” I sighed, hating how torn Jake made me feel.

  He hesitated as his eyes met mine. Then, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my cheek. Just a casual exchange many people had throughout their day, but I held my breath, shocked and dizzy from his nearness. His scent slammed into my head, setting off all kinds of responses. My body heated, my belly zinged. Holy cow. I really wanted this man. Really.

  I pulled back and glanced at his lips. Soft. Perfect. I wanted them on mine. Before I could think, he’d stepped back, hands shoved into his pockets.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  My hand to my cheek, I watched him walk away. I wanted him to. But, more, I wanted him to overcome my misgivings. I wanted him to want me that much. I wrapped my arms around my middle as I tried to hold in the building disappointment.

  “He’s yummy, Ryn.”

  I turned to smile at Linda—a music theory professor I shared the floor with, and a friend.

  “He is.”

  She tipped her head, ash-blond hair spilling over her shoulder. “So why don’t you look happy?”

  Good question. Not one with an easy answer. At least not an answer I wanted to share.

  “He wants to do an album.”

  “He’s a musician?”

  “Yes. In a rock band, actually.”

  “Then what does he want with you?” Linda gasped, slapping her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry! That sounded so rude.”

  I walked into the building, Linda trailing me.

  “No, it’s okay. I’m definitely not a rock kind of girl. That’s why I turned him down.”

  Linda, her eyes still wide, cleared her throat as we walked down the white-walled hallway toward my classroom. “Lauryn. You didn’t.”

  “That’s not my life, Linda.”

  “Because you don’t want it to be or because it’s never been that before?” Linda asked.

  Good. None of the parents or kids were here yet.

  “I’m not much of a performer.”

  Linda raised her eyebrow. “You want to be boring?”

  I smiled, but even I knew it was rueful. “I want to be safe. I’m so tired of feeling unfocused.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” Linda draped her arm over my shoulder and squeezed. “Widowhood isn’t for the faint of heart. I can only sort of imagine what you’ve gone through, and I know these past couple of years haven’t been easy. But you must know you deserve to live. And live fully.”

  I tapped my key against the silver door knob. “I’m trying.”

  Linda smiled. “That’s what matters. For now. Eventually, you’ll get back into the full swing of life. So, what type of album does he want to do?”

  I opened the classroom door, flicking on the lights. “Lullabies. For Valentine’s Day. And as a wedding present to his brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law.”

  Linda made a soft sound. “That’s so remarkably sweet. Like he needs more going for him than his looks and talent. Is he as nice as I’m imagining?”

  I turned on the peppy, happy music the kids loved before removing my coat and hanging it on the hook. I opened my guitar case. I considered her question as I tuned my guitar. Linda sat next to me, waiting. I glanced up at her, my heart slamming against my ribs. “I think, maybe, he might be nicer.”

  Linda hummed, her lips turning up into a smile.

  I picked out a little tune, my fingers too nervous to stay still. “I think I like him.”

  “I haven’t met him, and I like him. So. What’s the problem?” she asked.

  I looked up into her tired, concerned eyes. She’d understand. She’d been my friend, helped me through those hard days when my husband left on his last tour and during that horrible period when the US Army brought his body home.

  “What if he’s what I want and not what I need?”

  “Like Desden?”

  I blew out a breath, trying to release the tension building in my chest. “Exactly.”

  4

  Jake

  Getting around on the right side of a car was surprisingly intuitive. I liked the sporty hybrid SUV Murphy purchased a few weeks back. It zipped around corners but was substantial enough to feel like a real vehicle.

  Yeah, driving in the States wasn’t so bad, though I still wished I didn’t need bodyguards with me wherever I went. The blokes were discreet. I barely noticed them outside Ryn’s classroom or at the café. Good at blending in, a skill I was thankful for, especially when I walked Ryn back to her building earlier.

  Alan and Isaac spoke little. Half the time, I forgot they were in the car with me. And today, they avoided my gaze, probably embarrassed by my second strike-out with the beautiful baby music teacher. No. Early-childhood music instructor. If I wanted to work with Ryn, and I did, then I needed to have the right mentality the next time we spoke.

  I turned onto the expressway and headed east. I’d been itching to check out the Frye Art Museum, and I had a free afternoon, thanks to Ryn
’s brush off. Excitement buzzed through me as I paid for a ticket for Alan and Isaac and another for myself.

  “I know this isn’t your thing, mate.”

  Alan shrugged, arms crossed over his chest, but Isaac looked around, wide-eyed.

  “I’ve never been in an art museum before, Mr. Etsam.”

  Poor as we were after my mum booted my dad, I’d managed pocket money from mowing lawns and cat- or dog-sitting. Because Mum spent all hours at work, Murphy was my constant companion—he taught me to surf, and I taught him the difference between a Reubens and Vermeer.

  Now, that same thrill tingled through me as I explained the lush landscapes and cows painted in oils—pointing out Baer’s distinct brush strokes before we moved into Gorter’s delicate Winter Landscape. After an hour, Isaac’s gaze started to glaze. He stepped back closer to Alan, no doubt ready to rest his overloaded brain.

  I continued to stroll through the exhibit, content to study each painting at length. After another hour, possibly more, I settled in front of Ludwig Zumbusch’s Child with a Brown Tam O’Shanter. A lovely image of a mischievous child, rounded red cheeks plumped in cherubic perfection—much like many of the kids in Ryn’s music class.

  I pulled out my sketchpad from the gray messenger bag I’d carried in and doodled at the top of the page.

  I ached with remorse at my stupid words. She might well think I was a high-and-mighty rock god based on my pushy behavior—her brown eyes clouded with something that looked remarkably like lust after I kissed her cheek.

  My doodle turned into a child similar to the one before me but with Ryn’s laughing mouth, her soft chin. Determination to win Ryn over grew in my chest. I wanted this album, not just as a prezzie for Mila, who’d been through so much these past couple of years, but also for me—to prove I was a creative driver and my tastes were just as sophisticated, as nuanced, as Hayden’s.

  I flipped to a blank page in my sketch pad and glanced up long enough for Zumbusch’s child to laugh back at me, no doubt enjoying my dumbassery with a woman I respected near as much as I found attractive. I leaned against the wooden bench, enjoying the quiet reverence of the space. I settled in, pencil held loose in my hand as my strokes lengthened across the page. How best to salvage my desire to work with Ryn?