Legend_A Rockstar Romance

by Ellie Danes

  I tripped back, and my spiky heels dug into the lawn. “Thanks for dinner and everything but maybe we should call it a night.”

  Storm caught my arm and stopped me from babbling. “Want me to show you back to your room?”

  He seemed more concerned than seductive, and my cheeks heated with embarrassment. I was reading everything wrong and needed to clear my head.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll find my own way back.”

  I sunk into the lawn with every marching step but made my own way up to the mansion. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself any farther. By the time I looked up from my determined walk, I was through the front door, down the east hallway, and thoroughly lost.

  There was no way I could save face now. Storm had really shown me up, and I had been stupid enough to kiss him goodnight! He was clearly still a star and though I had underestimated him, the world still wanted him. Who was I to think I fit in with his rich and famous lifestyle?

  I wandered into a back room, hoping I wouldn’t be seen before I slipped back to my guest suite. Instead of finding a back staircase, I discovered an old study. Two guitars hung on the wood-paneled walls, but every other square inch was covered in photographs. My breath caught as I recognized the room from an iconic album cover—Ian Morris’ private office.

  I was about to reverentially back out when a small candid polaroid caught my attention.

  “Oh, no,” I sighed as my heart softened.

  A young Storm hung by skinny arms from an apple tree in the orchard. Caroline had snapped a similar photograph of me at the same age, except we were trespassing. His smile, though, didn’t belay any feelings of ownership; he looked at the camera, eager for the cameraman’s attention. I knew, because the smile in my photo was exactly the same.

  Storm knew what it was like to grow up in the shadow of a brilliant and vivid parent.

  All night, I had been thinking about how different we were, but I had been wrong. There was a lot more than the little town of Murtaugh that tied Storm and me together.

  I slipped out of the painfully beautiful high heels and padded out of the office barefoot. I planned to sneak back through the mansion and up the front stairs in order to find my guest suite again. Then, halfway down the hallway, I heard the faint chords of a guitar.

  The music pulled me like something from a fairytale.

  The Cezanne in the hallway reminded me of where I had first run into Storm, aka ‘Sean.’ Music flowed from the library’s open door and I tiptoed closer. The song was rhythmic, with deep blues riffs, and I peeked around the door, expecting to see someone listening to records.

  Instead, I saw Storm perched on the edge of the sofa near the fireplace. An old turntable played a scratchy old tune from the floor but the vibrant chords all came from Storm.

  The music was so different from his one pop mega-hit that I stood dumbfounded in the open door. This music was improvised, wild and passionate. It poured out of his fingers like the kind of magic that only truly talented people can manifest.

  Beyond the addictive music was Storm himself. He had tossed off his tuxedo coat and tugged free of the starched white shirt. His shiny shoes were gone, and he leaned over his guitar in nothing but his tight white undershirt. Storm’s bare foot kept time with the music.

  The way he curled one corner of his mouth into a smile and then bit his lip over a particularly dexterous riff made my insides turn to warm honey. Storm laughed out loud as he pulled off the complicated chord change and continued with a new variation.

  I knew I shouldn’t be there. I was a more than an intruder, I was a liar and a now a spy. This was a side of Storm that I was certain the world had never seen. It was a shot worth thousands, and I lifted my phone with shaky fingers to capture it.

  My cheeks were bright with guilt, but my phone was tucked away when Storm suddenly looked up and stopped playing.

  “Got lost, didn’t you?” he said.

  I gestured to the guitar still cradled in his arms. “I didn’t know you could play like that.”

  Storm reached down and stopped the scratchy record. “I needed to after dinner. It was really weird to be transported back just by the way people looked at me.”

  “I thought you said they were looking at me,” I joked.

  Storm smiled and stood up. He laid the guitar on the sofa and joined me in the library’s arched door. “I didn’t get to thank you for going with me. I know it was overwhelming, but I really did have a good time.”

  “You don’t need to impress me,” I told him.

  “So, you mean I don’t impress you at all.” Storm gave a rueful laugh and rubbed his neck. “And that was my best move.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Spoiling women with designer dresses and helicopter rides is your go-to move?”

  Storm laughed again and caught my hand. “To be honest, I’m really more of a bottle of wine and old movie kind of guy.”

  I wanted to kiss him again but took a deep breath instead. “Yeah, you should have led with that. Much better move.”

  He smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. There’s always tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, so you’re not trying to scare me off?” I asked.

  Storm guided me toward the front staircase. “No. As long as you promise not to torture Tyson with photographs of dusty corners, I’d like you to stay.”

  “Why?” I turned around on the second step and found myself eye to eye with Storm.

  His gray eyes were warm but serious. “I like seeing my life through your eyes. I mean, through your lens.”

  “Your regular life or that whole whirlwind to Manhattan?” I asked.

  Storm kissed the back of my hand and stepped back. “My real life. You might be the only one who can tell me what that really looks like.”

  I fought the urge to kiss him again and, instead, focused on walking up the grand staircase without tripping on my designer hem. Storm stood barefoot at the bottom of the stairs until I reached the second floor, then he gave me a gentle salute.

  He headed back to the library, and I waited to hear if he’d pick up the guitar again. The mansion settled into silence and finally, I headed for my guest suite.

  I woke up with the new song still stuck in my head, and Cora was immediately on my mind. She’d seen right through my attempt at a rock star life, and I thought she would have taken off after that. Once I failed to live up to my own hype or my father’s legend, most women just disappeared.

  Cora had stayed. In fact, she seemed happier once we returned to the mansion. When we found each other barefoot after midnight, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

  I flung off the covers and wished I could shed thoughts of Cora just as easily. She was a complete distraction just when I had finally decided to move on with my life. Asking her to stay had been a mistake and since she hadn’t left on her own, I knew I had to find a way to get rid of her. The easiest way was to just ignore her completely.

  It was still painfully early in the morning, so I decided the kitchen would be safe. Tyson made the best coffee around mid-morning, but he always programmed the coffee maker just in case.

  I found Cora pouring herself a steaming mug.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  I didn’t want to talk. I was still caught up in the chorus of the new song, and it was the only thing that was pushing thoughts of her out of my head. I nodded, hummed to myself in a graveled voice, and poured a cup of coffee so quickly I scalded the back of my hand.

  Cora was politely quiet, but a small smile played around her lips. She was completely undeterred by any sort of artistic temper, and I tried not to let that be another reason to like her.

  “Morning,” I mumbled and left the kitchen quickly.

  About fifteen minutes later, I stumbled on her perusing the endless shelves of records in the main floor parlor. She’d pulled out my favorite concerto and was humming the intro to herself.

  Later, I found her on the sunny stretch of back law
n where I sometimes indulged in yoga. She was admiring my father’s mansion and wanted to ask me questions but politely refrained.

  We ran into each other again in the upper floor gallery, and something had to be said.

  “So, what’s your connection to Murtaugh?” I asked.

  “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk. I totally understand if you want to pretend I’m not here,” Cora said. “I’m just scoping out the best angles for photos.”

  I couldn’t help but ask, “And what have you found so far?”

  Cora grinned and motioned me to follow her down the hall. “See how if you stand here, you get the depth of the hallway but all the focus is on your father’s portrait?”

  She took a few snapshots with her phone and showed me. I blinked in surprise at the wide gallery presented on her tiny screen. I’d walked that hallway so many times I had never noticed the long perspective.

  “You must have a photographer or artist in your family. It seems like it’s in your blood,” I said.

  Cora glanced at the shot and gave it a dismissive shrug. “My mother’s very creative. She claims to make a living as an artist. She always wanted me to do something like this.”

  I caught Cora’s slight grimace. “Let me guess, that made you swear never to do it?”

  She laughed. “Something like that. We’re just very different, my mother and I.”

  “Is that why you chose journalism? More practical?” I asked.

  Cora gave a pained look but answered my prying question. “I grew up watching her struggle, hearing her cry over having to sell her heart and soul just to make ends meet. It didn’t really make artistic pursuits seem fun.”

  “My father just made everything seem so effortless. As soon as I discovered how hard music is to make, I got a little cynical myself.”

  She was encouraged by my confession and flipped through her snapshots again. “Creating something can be so painful. I can’t imagine trying to do it for a living. Better to get a day job and have a savings account.”

  “True.” I caught her hand and held up a particularly stunning photograph. “But then there’s this. You can’t tell me you don’t love photography. Look at all these, I bet you were taking dozens of photos every day despite a day job.”

  Cora’s smile was a little sad. “Yeah, I guess I was, but that doesn’t mean I’m an artist.”

  I held up her hand and the photograph again. “But this means you have talent. Take it from me, talent has a way of getting out whether you want it to or not.”

  “Like when it comes out in the form of a one-hit wonder?” Cora joked.

  Before I could answer, Tyson appeared at the end of the gallery with a large feather duster. He didn’t see us and attacked the nearest frames. Dust clouded the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, and Tyson was lost in a blur of activity.

  “Please take a photo of that,” I begged Cora.

  She grinned and captured such a phenomenal shot of my manager and his feather duster that we both collapsed in hysterics.

  “All right, let me see,” Tyson demanded. He marched down the hallway with his hand outstretched.

  Cora handed him her phone like a guilty child, and we giggled more as Tyson grumbled at his portrayal.

  “She’s got talent, right?” I asked Tyson.

  He nodded begrudgingly. “Yes, she does and if she took more photographs of the mansion and not me, I’d actually have an outlet we could sell them to.”

  “You can’t sell art,” I said. The shot of him surrounded by a dust cloud made me smile again. “I think I might need this framed.”

  Cora, on the other hand, was intrigued by Tyson’s suggestion. “You really think some media outlet would buy these?”

  “And it would benefit us all,” Tyson said. He handed Cora back her phone and gave her the feather duster. “How about you take a break and let me convince my client about the particulars.”

  Cora left us in the gallery and headed down the grand staircase. I watched her go and wondered how many angles had a price tag on them now.

  “So, I guess she’s just in it for the money,” I said to Tyson.

  “Wasn’t that the deal?” Tyson asked.

  I frowned. “I don’t know. None of this was really planned.”

  It was Tyson’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, falling for someone is rarely mapped out ahead of time.”

  “I’m not falling for her. I just invited her to stay on as a houseguest to be polite.” My jaw clenched.

  “Well, either way, she definitely has a flair for photography,” Tyson said. “And if you’re still thinking about selling the place, a fancy spread on social media would certainly help.”

  “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t pimp out Ian’s home.” I reminded Tyson of why we’d kept the mansion so quiet the last few years.

  He sighed. “It’s your home, too, Storm.”

  And it was really Tyson’s, too.

  I gave in. “Fine. You’re in charge of choosing what shots of Cora’s to sell.”

  My manager’s eyes gleamed. Tyson had always loved wheeling and dealing. “And what cut does Cora get?”

  I shrugged and headed for the staircase. Tyson caught up to me in the grand foyer. Cora waved from the front steps where she was getting a good angle of the entryway.

  “Please tell me you don’t have some big plan up your sleeve,” I asked Tyson.

  He tried to give me an innocent smile but couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t scheming. “I just thought she has such a great eye, why not see if she notices any spots that would be good for a music venue?”

  “Again with this idea?” I threw my hands up to the crystal chandelier. “Maybe that’ll help convince a buyer, but I’m not turning my father’s home into a club.”

  “Not the whole thing. Maybe just one wing,” Tyson said.

  “Or you could build it in the back garden.” Cora offered her quiet suggestion from the doorway. “Sorry, just overheard you.”

  I ground my teeth as Tyson grinned at Cora. “No. Don’t encourage him. He’s had this stupid idea in his head for way too long.”

  “Because it’s so great,” Cora shot back.

  Encouraged, Tyson piped up again. “It would only be for special appearances. You pick the line-up yourself.”

  “And then perform myself like some sort of organ-grinder’s monkey?” I asked.

  Cora giggled. “You might like having an actual performance spot, even if it’s just for your own practice.”

  “Beats the old greenhouse,” Tyson said.

  “I like the old greenhouse.” I lifted my chin a notch.

  Cora’s cheeks warmed but she set aside our passionate night there and jumped on Tyson’s idea. “That would be a great place for a concert venue. The greenhouse could convert into a bandshell, and all you would need is amphitheater seating carved into that neglected patch behind it.”

  Tyson nodded. “It would keep it separate from the mansion itself.”

  “You really think that’s what Ian Morris would have wanted?” I asked.

  “You don’t?” Cora challenged me.

  Tyson hooted. “See? Everyone can see that a performance venue is exactly what Ian would have wanted. Especially if it gets you back up on stage.”

  “I’m not playing that game anymore.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Cora gets that. Just because my talent lies in certain things doesn’t mean those are the most practical uses of my time.”

  “What Cora’s got is vision,” Tyson said.

  I groaned. If she was turning into Tyson’s ally, there was no way I’d get rid of her. While it was nice to have another voice butting into my eternal arguments with Tyson, I was sure Cora was the exact opposite of everything I needed. I wanted to be free, but Cora’s presence seemed to be rooting me to the Morris Mansion more than I had thought possible.

  “Visions of dust and faded glory,” I spat out.

  I left them in the grand foyer, but they hardly noticed. Within mi
nutes, Tyson and Cora were out back by the old greenhouse, obviously discussing the angles. I watched from the front parlor and ground my teeth.

  The song started up in my head again as I watched Cora laughing and taking photographs.

  “You would have liked her,” I said to my deceased father. “Though she’s using her so-called vision for everything but her own life.”

  I hummed the new song again, just to drown out the heavy silence. It felt like my father patiently waiting for me to loosen up. He used to sit quietly and stare at me until I babbled my way through whatever anger was in me.

  “I know!” I admitted to the echoing old mansion.

  Ian Morris would have loved the idea of his old house becoming a venue. He had always missed the old club days; just him and a few friends playing in a small space for a tight, dedicated group of listeners.

  “That’s where music really lives,” my father had told me. “Not in big arenas or the recording studio. Just a small stage and a few people all hoping the magic will appear.”

  The song played through in my head again, and I swore out loud. It didn’t matter what daydreams Tyson dug up or what an irresistible distraction Cora was becoming; the song dragged me off to find my old guitar.

  That was the only lesson my father had ever truly taught me: if there’s a song in your head then play it.

  Otherwise, I’d never find the peace I thought I wanted so badly.

  I stayed out in the gardens, finding all sorts of little enchanting corners to photograph. By the time I made it back up to the mansion, it was lunchtime. I found Storm and Tyson in the kitchen, arguing again. I swallowed a smile and wondered if it was their favorite pastime.

  “We made you a sandwich; it’s on the cutting board,” Storm called.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me any of this. Storm, this is a major investment!” Tyson slapped his palm on the kitchen island to drive home his point. “You can’t put all your money into one venture.”

  “It’s not all my money. Wasn’t that what we were just talking about?” Storm bellowed. He threw up his hands in frustration. “The rest of my money is tied up in this house and all the stuff in it.”