A Moonlit Serenade

by Alexa Padgett

  Murphy stepped forward and held out his hand to Ryn before I responded.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ryn. Heard your voice. Bloody marvelous.”

  Mila laughed, smacking his arm. “He’s toning down his language for you.” She leaned in closer to Ryn and put her arms around her. Ryn’s arms circled Mila, careful of her shoulder wound. “I’m thrilled to meet you! Jake’s chatted about you nonstop. Plus, I love your lullaby. The bub and I listen each day during my physio. Helps me work through it.” Mila grimaced.

  “I’m so glad you like the song.” Ryn smiled, but it was cautious, maybe a little unsure. “Jake’s told me about you, too. I’m so sorry you were shot.”

  “Wouldn’t want to do it again,” Mila said. “But it did get rid of my stalker and give me back Murphy.” The look she shot him glowed with love; Murphy, unable to resist the temptation, pressed a kiss to her lips. “Made it worth it.”

  “No, it fucking well didn’t,” Murphy growled, his brows pulled low and dangerous over his nose. “But you’re a’right, and so’s our bub.”

  “I am. And now you’re going to sing me my favorite Christmas carol while I stand here and get to know Ryn better. Life’s heaps good, Murphy. Let the rest go.”

  Murphy continued to grumble, as he always did. Seemed to think he could get in the last word, which Mila allowed as it assuaged his pride. Ryn’s stiffness faded as we stood there, probably the ridiculousness of my brother so in love loosening her fears. Whatever the reason, I was glad she’d relaxed back into my side.

  “I like this,” I murmured into the knit cap covering her head. “You, here, with me, spending time with my family.”

  She shot me a look I couldn’t decipher.

  “I’m on,” Murphy said. This time, he pulled Ryn into a hug. “Might not get a cuddle after. We’re off to visit Mum next week so be sure to stop by before,” he said to Jake.

  Murphy turned his stern gaze to Mila. “You stay close to Claude and do not, under any circumstance move. Or I will quit singing to paddle your bum.”

  Mila rolled her eyes and she inched closer to the large man, who’d stood behind us, arms folded across his chest. “Here I am. Next to Claude.”

  Murphy leaned in and kissed her long enough for me to feel bashful.

  Murphy whispered something in Mila’s ear, causing her to smile and blush. He nicked the mic from the stand and settled his guitar strap before bounding up onto the stage, yelling, “Happy Christmas, Mercer Island! Glad to be with you in my new home.”

  The crowd roared, as it always did when Murphy took the stage. Ryn watched him, awe growing in her eyes, as he worked the audience.

  “It’s his super power,” Mila said with a sigh. “He loves the attention, and they do lavish it on him.”

  He strummed his guitar and began to sing. The rest of us stood, rapt, as he performed. He segued into a second song, then a third, and I smiled, pleased to see Murphy giving this mini concert for no other reason than the sheer joy of it.

  When he finished, he leaned in closer to the mic. “I have a surprise for you, Mercer Island. One of my favorite female singers is here, just waiting to sing you my favorite carol.”

  I stiffened, but it was nothing compared to the tenseness radiating from Ryn. Mila’s face lost its smile. She touched Ryn’s arm.

  “He didn’t tell me. I would’ve told him not to.”

  “He doesn’t mean me,” Ryn said, voice faint.

  “You know why it’s my favorite?” Murphy winked. “Because she’s singing it.”

  The crowd hooted and howled. Small children screamed and clapped. Probably the best tree lighting concert they’d ever have.

  “Join me, Ryn Hudson. The folks here need some more Christmas spirit.”

  Ryn turned to me, wide-eyed. Murphy boxed her in, and I wasn’t happy about it. And by the pulse beating in her throat, she wasn’t either.

  “I don’t perform in front of crowds,” she whispered, her voice as desperate as her eyes.

  Murphy beckoned her up, beaming like he’d just handed her a huge cash check. The areswipe! I might just bloody his face for this.

  “It’ll be all right,” I said, keeping my voice soothing. “It’s just like performing for your babies. You’re so good with them.”

  “Because they’re babies! And they don’t care, really.”

  The crowd began to grow impatient, craning to see who Murphy was waving to. The smile slid from his face as he caught a glimpse of mine, then Mila’s. Ryn’s was buried in my chest, as she shuddered through another breath.

  “I’ll come up with you. You can do this.”

  She tipped her head back and met my eyes. “What if I suck?”

  I smiled as I swiped her cheek with the pad of my thumb. “You won’t because you can’t. That voice of yours is mesmerizing.”

  She sucked in a breath and nodded. “Okay. But don’t leave me.”

  I turned her toward the stage and clasped her hand. “Promise.”

  She climbed the steps to the stage, her hand gripping mine. The crowd clapped politely but they already shifted, unsure of the newcomer who took too long to respond. My heart rose into my throat. The crowd needed to accept her, love her, like they had Murphy.

  “Whatcha gonna sing for us, love?” Murphy asked.

  She looked out over the audience, gauging their reaction to her. “Well, I didn’t really have anything planned.”

  Murphy raised his eyebrow, as if his douchery finally settling over him. “Jake here says you like ‘Jingle Bells.’” Murphy smiled for the crowd, who hadn’t heard Ryn’s response, but this time his grin was strained.

  Ryn also apprised the crowd. She took a deep breath and let go of my hand. She removed her mitten and held out her hand for the mic. Murphy handed it to her as trepidation built in his eyes. If Ryn bombed, Mila and I would ream his arse.

  Before any of us could say anything, Ryn started singing. Those first few notes were midrange but powerful. “The First Noel…” As she continued to sing, Ryn closed her eyes and let the lyrics take her. I’d heard multiple stars sing this song. None gave me goosebumps like Ryn had when she hit the pure, high note in “Israel.”

  The woman sang. And she did it without any accompaniment, without earplugs. Her talent overwhelmed me, and I stood as enraptured as the crowd as she finished the second verse.

  She lowered the mic from her mouth and glanced back at me, where I stood in the shadows. “How was that?” she asked.

  I stepped forward and wrapped my arm around her shoulder, pulling her close enough to whisper in her ear, “Amazing.”

  She smiled and did a small wave before handing the microphone back to Murphy.

  Murphy grinned and bowed.

  She turned to leave, but the crowd booed, then began chanting, “More, more!”

  I hissed out a breath, thankful and a bit overwhelmed by their reaction.

  “How about one more song?” Murphy asked, wiggling his eyebrows. His piercing caught and flashed in the lights. “Give us a mo’ to confer. We’ve not sung together before.”

  He turned off the mic and walked over to us. His face morphed onto the pained look I knew well. “I’m a bloody arse.”

  “I don’t really like to sing for crowds.”

  “Why not?” Murphy’s surprise built. “Bloody fucking Christ! With pipes like those, I’d sing my way through life. And make some fine quid doing so.”

  “She doesn’t, and that’s all that matters,” I growled, stepping closer to my brother.

  Murphy met my gaze, his features austere in the lights. “Got it. Won’t happen again.” He blew out a breath. “Any song we all know so the crowd doesn’t riot?”

  “‘Jingle Bells,’” Ryn and I said in unison. I grinned down at her, excited that we were already sync—excited to share my love of music with her.

  Murphy turned on and raised the mic. “We need two more microphones and a stand,” he said, buying us a few more seconds. He dropped the mic back to h
is side.

  I smiled down at Ryn. “We can ask the kids to sing, which the parents will like.”

  “Smart, mate,” Murphy said. “But I haven’t played that one in years. A bit rusty on the chords.”

  “I’ll play it,” Ryn said. “That is if you don’t mind me taking your instrument.”

  “No worries.” Murphy handed it to her, and she took off her other glove, shoving it into her left pocket. Once the microphones were in place, we turned toward the audience, almost in perfect synchronization, and smiled.

  “We’ve got a classic for ya,” Murphy crowed. The crowd hollered.

  Ryn strummed the notes and all movement in the audience stopped. “All right, boys. Let’s jingle some bells.”

  Murphy and I joined her, letting Ryn’s guitar chords set the pace. I went to stand next to her while Murphy hammed it up with the crowd.

  “Remember how I did it with the kids?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, that’s how we’re playing this audience.”

  She began to play and Murphy stepped back, letting her own the limelight. Once again, Ryn’s voice was killer—precise yet meltingly sweet. Murphy kept time on his thigh, joining in for the chorus. I added some deeper bass as Ryn worked her way up to harmonize with Murphy. He grinned at her as she met him note for note. By the last verse, we owned the song. The crowd clapped and sang along. This was one of the best highs I’d ever gotten while performing.

  “Your turn!” Murphy called to the crowd. “Jingle Bells…”

  Their voices filled the cold night air, the festive mood building with each note.

  “Fair dinkum!” Murphy yelled when it ended. “What did I tell ya? Ryn Hudson, everyone.”

  We took our bows and headed off the stage. As the crowd surged forward, no doubt wanting our autographs, Claude and the rest of the security team stepped in front of us, a human line just behind the metal barricade.

  Mila latched on to Murphy’s arm and from the set of her lips, I doubted Murphy would like her next comments. He hung his head and nodded as Mila led him away.

  “You ready to be off?” I asked.

  “She does have him in hand, huh?” Ryn said, her gaze lingering on Murphy and Mila, who was still giving him an earful.

  “I’ll make sure he apologizes for putting you on the spot like that.”

  Ryn laughed, and I realized she was still on the high from a great performance. “It’s fine. Mila’s dealing with him, and I had fun. Lots of it.”

  I brushed her hair back and pulled out her mittens from her pockets, holding them up so she could slide her reddened fingers back inside. “I’m glad.”

  “Ryn!” The voice was female, urgent. We both turned to see the sheila from her flat. Sam, Ryn had said. Her dead husband’s twin. Not bloody likely this would go well.

  Sam plowed forward, chest heaving and cheeks stained with tears. “What were you thinking? You never perform for crowds!”

  “I didn’t plan to, Sam. Murphy blindsided me. If he’d asked, I would’ve said no.”

  “Please.” Sam’s voice dripped with scorn. “Clearly the limelight suits you.” She looked me over, her face crumpling. “Why are you here—with him?” Sam pointed at me. “What about Dez?”

  I stepped closer, already concerned with Sam’s tone and aggression. Sam glared at me.

  “This is all your fault! Ryn can sing—whoopedeedoo! So can millions of other women. Go after one of them, but leave my brother’s wife alone!”

  I glanced around, mindful of our audience. Good thing Mila whisked Murphy away—he wouldn’t handle this type of attack on Ryn well.

  “Stop it, Sam.” Ryn’s voice shook with fury and, blimey, I hoped not, sadness. “Dez is dead. He’s not coming back. Not to me, not to you.” She sucked in a deep breath, her face taking on a fragile quality I didn’t like. “And I deserve to have fun.”

  “I hate you,” Sam spat. “If Dez could see you now, all cozied up to a—a sex-loving rocker, he would, too.”

  “That’s enough,” I snapped, unwilling to let this woman batter Ryn further. I lowered my voice as I dipped my head toward the security detail moving toward us. “You don’t know me, and I resent your implications. You don’t deserve to hold Ryn’s happiness or tie it back to her dead husband. Now, these men, here, will see you to your car.”

  “I would have handled her.” Ryn’s voice sounded hollow. “I needed to. It’s my fight.”

  Oh, bloody hell. I’d stepped in the dogshite now. I might want to protect Ryn, but I hadn’t earned the right.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed to stutter.

  “Being an only child, I can’t imagine how Sam must have felt when her twin brother chose me in kindergarten as his confidant and best friend.”

  “That’s what happened?”

  She nodded. “There was never anyone else.”

  Such simple words that explained much about her relationship with her deceased husband—and with his family. I’d mull that over more later. Now, I needed to do damage control. Not just for my mistake—but for Murphy’s.

  But her gaze flitted to the avid interest on the faces of those close enough to have heard some, if not all, of our interaction. My stomach soured as horror crept across Ryn’s expression, taking in the cell phones pointed her way, probably recording this moment.

  Yeah, this was when public life destroyed people’s sanity. I’d dragged Ryn here, into my fame, blithely assuming all would work out ’right because I wanted her, us, so badly.

  Without another word, Ryn gripped my hand and pulled me toward the back of the stage, where we’d parked a couple of hours earlier. Her hand trembled but her stride remained confident, her head up.

  Blimey. She took my breath. Handled the would-be gossips and detractors like the champ she was.

  Made me want her more—and made the ache in my chest and balls sharpen.

  Once I settled her into my car, she wrapped her arms around her middle.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know she’d be there. She doesn’t live on the island.”

  “Not a thing for me.” I started the car. “Dealt with worse. But seems like she’s opposed to you seeing me.” And you’re none too happy with me for stepping in.

  Ryn’s face, pale and set, turned toward me. “Not her choice. I need to work out the details with Sam.” She pulled off her mittens and rubbed her palms along her jeans-clad legs. “Dez used to protect me from Sam, too, but now…” She trailed off, a deep frown building across her brow.

  “You still miss him, don’t you?” I asked.

  Ryn dropped her gaze to her lap and didn’t answer.

  I pulled ’round the lot, heading toward the exit. I saw Sam slide into the Honda Ryn had mentioned. I didn’t catch the license plate because Sam pulled out multiple cars in front of me, but Ryn’s white face and large, bruised eyes recalled our previous conversation where I all but accused her sister-in-law of attacking her.

  Bloody hell.

  So much for a cheery, merry night.

  9

  Ryn

  Videos hit YouTube and media sites. Many of them were of me singing. Those I could handle. The one of Sam yelling at me—and the angry comments about me being a traitor to my husband and a cheat—those I could not.

  After the twenty-third phone call from a variety of media outlets, I’d turned off my phone and tried to catch up on errands. I needed to stay busy and focus on something, anything, other than the painful spiral of my former life. I’d get out of my apartment and finish my holiday shopping. I sighed, pleased with the plan.

  I’d stepped outside and another group of paparazzi tried to mob me.

  Isaac, the larger of Jake’s two bodyguards, had strode in front of me and crossed his arms, silently daring any of the collected journalists to shove a microphone into my face. None did.

  “Thank you,” I’d whispered to him.

  He glanced back at me, the hint of a smile turning up his lips,
brown eyes softening. “Thank Jake. He’s worried about you.”

  I’d nodded, turned on my heel, and headed back to my apartment. More like my jail—that left me with my memories and an inability to quash the array of emotions rolling through me.

  Jake and Sam were right—I did miss Dez, but not for the reasons Jake thought. Yes, I’d always love Dez because he was my first…well, everything.

  He’d handed me a crumpled handful of tulips from his mother’s front garden when we were nine—my first flowers from a boy. He’d kissed me at our eighth-grade graduation ceremony—my first kiss. He’d held my hand as he taught me to ice skate and then to Rollerblade, still two of my favorite pastimes. I helped him pick out his first apartment—that became our first apartment—weeks before the start of my sophomore year of college.

  Dez was also the first man to break my heart.

  I shouldn’t have asked Jake to drop me off on Saturday.

  Whatever Jake and I were building intensified each time I was with him. I’d told myself the space, the return to routine, would do us both good. Give us a breather, a chance to step back and think.

  But now I was stuck in my apartment. I was so desperate for human interaction Sunday midmorning, I called my parents.

  “Hi, Mom. I…”

  “Yes, Lauryn? Did you need something from us?”

  My throat dried. Do you need something, Lauryn? Your time, your interest. Possibly a little affection.

  Mom huffed. “Your father and I were out the door to brunch with the Simmons.”

  I’d never met the Simmons or the Putmans or any of the other couples my parents referenced—not because I hadn’t offered to visit, but because they were too busy.

  “I wanted to see if you’d like to come spend the end of Hanukkah, maybe Christmas with me.”

  My mother sighed. “We’ve been over this, Lauryn. Your father and I raised you. You’re an adult. Now, you need to live your life and we deserve to live ours.”

  I blinked back the tears that threatened each time my mother said something like this to me. The last time I saw my parents was at Dez’s funeral. They left right after the service with barely a word of condolence.