“This is a problem?” Manny snorted.
“She was annoyed. So I refunded her quarter.”
“How are you gonna stay in business if you give money to the customers?” He was joking, though. His dark eyes glinted with humor, and his cheeks puffed up with his smile. “So, why did the jukebox play the same song twice? I never heard it do that before.”
“Who knows why the jukebox does anything?” Gus’s gaze wandered over to the booth from which that couple had just bolted. A good-looking pair, but it had been apparent to Gus, even from this distance, that tension had crackled like lightning between them, hot bolts shooting from the man to the woman and back again. He’d been drinking beer, she’d been drinking wine—it so often broke down that way, Gus knew. Guys liked their beer. Women liked their wine. But although that couple had been drinking, Gus wasn’t sure they’d actually liked their drinks.
Nor had they liked the music. But it had played for them. “Moondance.” Clearly the jukebox had decided that one time hadn’t been enough for them. They’d had to hear it twice.
Maybe it was just as well that they’d left so abruptly. If they’d stayed, the jukebox might have forced them to listen to what Gus considered Van Morrison’s very best song a third time. Then she might have gotten more complaints from her patrons, and she might have had to hand out more quarters.
According to Manny, this was not a good way to stay in business. But what the hell. The jukebox sitting against the far wall of her tavern kept the customers coming in. Folks needed music.
And some folks needed to hear “Moondance” again and again, until they understood what the song was trying to tell them.
Chapter Four
When was the last time she’d kissed Cory? When was the last time a kiss had aroused her so much? She suspected the answer to both those questions was the same.
He was a man now. Thirty-seven years old. Professionally successful. Not the lanky, long-haired, soulful, defiant kid he’d been when she’d first met him, when she’d first thought he might be The One. When she’d first kissed him.
She’d left Charise’s party with him that night. Her parents would have killed her if they’d ever found out that she’d abandoned what they thought was a chaperoned party—which it had sort of been. Charise’s parents had been home, but they’d shut themselves up inside the windowless finished basement to watch TV. Talia’s parents never had to know that. And they didn’t have to know that she didn’t just leave the party, she’d left it with a boy she didn’t even know. He was cute, though, and charismatic, and blunt. He’d told her she turned him on. His speaking those words to her, in his low, sandpaper-rough voice, turned her on.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
Call her crazy, call her naïve, call her an idiot for trusting him—but she wanted to see what he wanted to show her. “Sure,” she said.
He took her hand, as if they were already a couple, and ushered her through the gate in the chain-link fence, down the narrow driveway and away from the party. They wove through the side streets of the Federal Hill neighborhood, up an alley, down a broad sidewalk, past Italian restaurants and pastry shops, and down another alley. In the fading twilight, Talia could barely make out the mural painted onto the flat stucco wall of the building.
Cory dug into a pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a small flashlight. With it click, he turned it on and aimed it at the wall.
Talia gasped. The mural was spectacular, a phantasmagorical array of color and imagery. A broad rainbow, mimicking the shape of the arch that marked the entrance to the western Providence neighborhood, spanned from one side of the painting to the other. Beneath it, vivid flowers bloomed. Buildings huddled together, some square and squat, some Victorian and ornate, a mosaic of brick, stone, and clapboard. Dogs, cats, people and birds filled the street, dressed in colors so bright they didn’t seem real. A smiling orange snake slithered out of a sewer grate. A cheerful monkey hung by his tail from a lamp post. Huge flowers blossomed like fireworks. Trees wore leaves in a dozen shades of green and blue. Cars gleamed orange and purple, yellow and pink. Above the rainbow the mural displayed a night sky speckled with stars, which seemed surreal given how bright the colors below the rainbow were.
She’d never seen a painting like it before. It made her grin, even as her eyes welled with tears.
She reached for Cory’s flashlight, and he handed it to her. Slowly, she inched the beam of light over the wall, noting the intricate details in the mural—a dog’s lopsided ears, a tiny butterfly perched on the petals of a gigantic sunflower, a solemn child holding a striped umbrella, a pot of gold anchoring the rainbow on one end, the pot half hidden by what appeared to be… “A Christmas tree?”
“Yeah.” Cory shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “I figured, what the hell. I like Christmas trees.”
His words brought the mural’s truth home. “You painted this?”
“Yeah.”
“When? How?”
“A little at a time, when no one was looking. At night, mostly.”
“You came here at night and…and painted in the dark?”
“That’s why I keep a flashlight on me. You never know.”
You never know what? she wondered. You never know when you might encounter a wall crying out for a mural? Did he also carry paint and brushes around with him wherever he went, just in case?
She shook her head, unable to take it all in. “You painted this,” she said.
“Yeah.” His smile waned, as if he sensed disapproval coming from her.
She corrected that notion immediately. “It’s fantastic. I love it!”
He relaxed slightly.
“You’re some kind of genius, right?” That question made her sound like the opposite of a genius, but she’d blurted it out. If Cory had created this glorious painting, he wasn’t merely a cool dude from the local public high school. He was a master. A capital-a Artist. Intimidatingly brilliant.
“I’m stupid at some things,” he admitted with a modest shrug. “But I’m pretty good at art.”
“A lot better than pretty good,” she corrected him, continuing her inspection of the mural, pausing to note the string of Italian sausage hanging in one shop window, the tiny menorah peeking out of a window not far from the Christmas tree. “Is it legal? Did whoever owns this business give you permission to do this to his wall?”
Another sheepish smile, this time accompanied by a shake of his head. “It’s graffiti.”
“This is nothing like any graffiti I’ve ever seen.” Most graffiti was just some kid’s spray-painted name, or a gang tag. It wasn’t beautiful. Cory’s mural was so beautiful she could scarcely take it all in.
“That’s why I painted it at night,” he explained. “I didn’t want to get caught.” She must have looked concerned, because he added, “If the building’s owner didn’t like it, he could have painted over it. Or tried to wash it off. Or tried to catch me.” He eyed his masterpiece and shrugged again. “I figure he likes it enough to keep it up.”
“But it’s hidden here, down an alley. Who will ever see it?”
“Anyone who walks into the alley.”
If she had the talent to create something like this painting, she wouldn’t hide it in an alley. She’d display it in a museum or a gallery, or at least on wall more public than this. She would want the whole world to see what she’d made.
But she didn’t have that kind of talent. She was a good girl—most of the time. She did well in school. Next year, she’d go to college. She’d work hard and get a respectable job. She’d get married and raise smart, polite children who, she hoped, would have more talent than she did. She would make her parents proud of her.
She wondered if Cory’s parents were proud of him—a son who could create a painting so awesome yet situate it in an alley where few people would venture. “Have you shown this to your parents?” she asked.
Apparently, that question was as stupid as asking him whether he w
as a genius. He snorted a laugh and gazed past her, toward the globe of light emanating from a street lamp at the end of the alley and across the street. “My dad’s dead,” he said. “My mom would phone the TV news and tell them to broadcast a story about her amazing son, and then I’d probably get arrested.”
“Okay.” He was wise not to tell his mother, then. “But…has anyone else seen it?” Besides me, she wanted to say. Am I special enough that you shared with me something you haven’t shared with anyone else?
“I took some photos of it,” he said. “I included it in my portfolio.”
“Your portfolio?”
“I applied to Rhode Island School of Design.”
Given his abundance of talent, she realized that the region’s premier art school was probably the right college for him. On the other hand…she would undoubtedly wind up being the primary breadwinner if he pursued a career in art. Artists might be geniuses, but they didn’t make money. Perhaps it was just as well that she wasn’t a genius.
And there she was, already figuring out who would be the primary breadwinner in their relationship. She’d only met him a half hour ago, for God’s sake. He hadn’t asked her to marry him. He’d shown her a mural.
Yet that notion clung tenaciously to her mind, that he was The One, that this boy, with his dark, seductive eyes and his gravelly voice and his direct way stating things was the person she would wind up spending the rest of her life with.
That notion was only reinforced when he took his flashlight from her, clicked it off, circled his arms around her, and covered her mouth with his.
And here they were again, nearly twenty years later, his arms around her, his mouth locked onto hers. They stood not in an alley this time, but on a sidewalk bordering Brogan’s Point’s sea wall and the beach beyond it, the wind hot and damp and salty as it swept off the water and wrapped around them. Talia had been motivated to kiss him not by an ambitious, audacious mural, but rather by a song.
She remembered the singer’s voice gliding out of the jukebox’s speakers, celebrating the night’s magic. Was this night magical? If so, that might explain why she tightened her hands on Cory’s shoulders—firmer than they’d been when he was a boy, broad and sturdy enough for a woman to lean on. But she wasn’t leaning on him. She was standing on her own two feet and kissing him, her lips fused to his, his tongue stroking and probing and exploring, as if he was discovering her mouth for the first time. He had one arm slung around her waist, his hand splayed against the small of her back. His other hand cupped the side of her head, his fingers twining into her hair, his thumb brushing her temple, his palm gently angling her face, allowing him to deepen the kiss.
It must be magic. There was no logical reason for her to be kissing him. No logical reason she should be drinking in the hot, dangerous sweetness of this man who’d broken her heart, who’d all but abandoned her with a crying baby and a crappy job and his crazy mother while he’d waltzed off to college, and hung out with his classmates day and night, and rubbed shoulders with artists and agents, and lived the college life she’d once imagined herself living—and then resented her when she’d decided she’d had enough of his selfishness and neglect. There was no logical reason for her to desire Cory.
Except, of course, that he was Cory. The man she’d fallen in love with. The man she’d given her heart to. He was The One.
She was embarrassed that he, and not she, was the one to break the kiss. Flustered, she willed her clenched fingers to relax and release him. They immediately missed the warmth and solidity of his shoulders, and she forced her hands to her sides. Unable to look at him, she turned toward the ocean, wishing the humid breezes would cool her off.
“So,” he murmured. “You’ve got a house. I’ve got a hotel room. Where should we go?”
What? Her embarrassment transformed into anger, and that gave her the strength to meet his gaze. He looked…hungry. Oddly amused. Definitely horny.
“You should go to your hotel room,” she snapped. “I’m going home.”
“Talia—”
She wanted to tell him what he could do to his horny self once he got to that hotel room, but she bit her lip to keep from cursing at him. She spun away and stalked down the sidewalk, not sure at first where she’d parked her car. She felt dizzy, disoriented, almost drunk, although she hadn’t consumed anywhere near enough wine. Once she got back to her house—and locked the doors, just to make sure Cory couldn’t sneak in somehow—she might down another glass or two of chardonnay. If she did, she’d have a legitimate reason for feeling this way. She certainly didn’t want to think she was drunk on Cory.
Of course, she couldn’t go home and chug a bottle of wine. Wendy would be rolling home sooner or later—probably later, but still. Talia had always been the principal parent in Wendy’s life, and that wasn’t about to change just because Cory happened to be in town. He could check into his room at the Ocean Bluff Inn and drink himself senseless. She’d be a good mother, a sober, responsible parent. Wendy wouldn’t enter the house to find Talia teary and incoherent.
She’d thought—she’d hoped—that walking away from him would clear her head and make her feel more stable. It didn’t. She spotted her car and increased her pace, and the sea breeze blew against her fevered cheeks as she’d hoped it would. But it didn’t cool her off. Gusts tangled her hair and made her imagine Cory’s fingers weaving through it. Her body ached. She felt as horny as he’d looked.
Damn it. Why had he come to Brogan’s Point? He could have moved his mother somewhere else. He could have waited until Thursday night to drive to town in his cute little macho-bachelor sports car. He didn’t have to spend the entire week in town just to attend Wendy’s graduation on Friday.
But he was here. For the first time in fifteen years, Talia had to deal with him face to face. She had to acknowledge that he still had the soulful eyes she’d fallen for so long ago, and the lean, sexy body, and the blunt attitude. He still had the charisma, the confidence that allowed him to go after what he wanted, and grab it, and claim it.
He would be here until Friday, damn it. Talia was going to have to figure out how to immunize herself against him.
Chapter Five
“That gal giving you a hard time?”
Gus Naukonen finished slicing a lime into slender wedges, then smiled at her assistant. Manny Lopez was her height but outweighed her by at least fifty pounds of solid muscle. She valued his strength. He did all the heavy lifting behind the bar—he shot his question at her while carrying a case of vodka to the shelf behind her, four heavy bottles of Grey Goose, four of Absolut, and four of Stolichnaya, but in his beefy hands the carton looked as if it were filled with feathers. And on the rare occasions when a scuffle broke out, he could break the scuffle up, evict the trouble-makers, and return to mixing drinks, preparing small plates and munchies, or toting cases of vodka without popping a bead of sweat.
The gal in question, drinking Sangria with a group of her friends at table fourteen, would not need to be evicted. Gus shook her head and rinsed the knife in the utility sink. “She’s fine. And the correct term is woman, not gal.”
Manny laughed, then busied himself unloading the bottles from the case and stashing them on the shelf. “She seemed pretty pissed off.”
“She was.” Gus garnished a daiquiri with a slice of lime and set it on a tray, which already held the rest of an order—a dirty martini and a Hennessey on the rocks. “She was annoyed that the jukebox played the same song twice.”
“Really?” Manny laughed again. “Like there’s nothing more important in this world to get pissed off about.”
“For all I know, she spends many sleepless nights fuming about her taxes and strife in the Middle East and her boyfriend’s bonehead decisions. But tonight, it was the jukebox.”
“I didn’t even notice it repeating a song. That would be kind of weird,” Manny said.
“It didn’t repeat it right away. It played ‘Moondance,’ then ‘Staying Alive,’ the
n ‘Moondance’ again. You were downstairs, pulling out that carton of vodka.” She motioned toward the box he was unloading.
He nodded. “‘Moondance’ twice, huh.”
“I explained to her that the jukebox plays whatever it wants to play, and we have no control over it. I also reimbursed her her quarter, so she wouldn’t feel ripped off.”
“There goes your profit margin,” Manny teased, adjusting the bottles so their labels faced out. If a customer could become incensed about having to listen to the same song twice from the jukebox, Gus certainly didn’t want to make the mistake of serving a customer Absolut if he wanted Stoli, especially since he’d be paying a lot more than twenty-five cents for his drink.
In this instance, fortunately, a quarter had been all it took to appease the indignant young woman. Now she was happy. Now she and her friends would remain at their table. Maybe they’d order a second round of sliders and a second pitcher of Sangria. Maybe they’d drop another quarter into the jukebox to see if it would play three different songs.
“It doesn’t usually repeat,” Manny noted, eyeing the beautiful burnished-wood jukebox across the room from the bar. In the room’s atmospherically dim lighting, the stained-glass peacocks adorning the front of the jukebox seemed to glow, vivid turquoise and jewel red. “I wonder why it did that.”
“It knew some folks in the room had to hear the song twice.” She knew who those folks were, too: the couple at table three. The female half of that couple wasn’t a regular, but Gus had recognized her—a local who came in every now and then, usually with other women friends. She generally ordered wine, sometimes a chardonnay and sometimes a merlot. Not the most adventurous drinker in town, but that was all right. She was quiet, polite, no trouble at all.
Gus hadn’t recognized the man with her. He’d been damned good-looking, though. A boyfriend? An ex?
She’d sensed a lot of tension between them, tension that had increased exponentially when “Moondance” played. Gus didn’t know why. It was a terrific song, upbeat yet seductive. Sexy as hell. Van Morrison wailing about wanting to make love to his woman? Gus was good with that.
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