by Ali M. Cross
As if she read his mind, she joined him in the kitchen and said, “I’ll keep your secret. I know what it’s like to want to escape your past. To want to be someone new.”
He gestured behind her to the picture window that stretched behind the couch. “Look.”
She turned and drew in a sharp breath when she caught sight of the view out his window. His property sloped downward, taking the trees with all their yellows and reds and greens down the slope and allowing for a clear view of the valley. To their right, Sheep Mountain peak rose in all its stony majesty, while spread out above the treetops the sun rose in the east. He moved in beside her, not so close so as to touch her, but a friendly, comfortable closeness, and they both sipped their coffees while they leaned against the counter and watched the sun rise.
Nix glanced at her, then let his gaze linger as he soaked in the beauty of the woman beside him. Her features soft with ease, her skin aglow with the light of the new day and her eyes, gray-blue only moments before, now a clear, pale blue, a reflection of the sky out his window. She truly was the sun, with all its brightness, its warmth and passion. His heart filled as he thought of her, and he longed to touch her, to claim her.
Dear God, he prayed. I like this woman. Maybe I even feel more than that. But I can’t hold her here without your help. Please give her a reason to stay. Help her to learn to love her family, to be happy here. To be happy with me.
Warmth crept over him and he closed his eyes to relish it. It hadn’t happened to him often, but he was beginning to learn to identify the gentle touch of the Master’s hand. It could have been the sunshine, or the presence of a beautiful woman, but Nix knew differently. This warmth, this peace was the touch of God.
They returned to the couch, close enough their legs touched, and he reached for her hand, gently stroking her wrist while Fiona tried to read his emotions—in the early morning light he seemed less sure of himself than he had before and she wondered if he regretted telling her his story.
Finally she asked, “What are you doing here, though? In River Mile? Why the church and the choir? It’s the furthest thing from the life you were living.”
He smiled something of a sad smile before looking out the window at his land beyond. “It’s precisely because it’s so opposite that I’m here. I needed a change. I needed to change. My life wasn’t working the way it was before. I mean, it was working, but not the way it should. There wasn’t anything of value in it. There wasn’t any love.”
She understood his meaning, the question in his words, but she couldn’t be his answer. She felt something, yes, it would be stupid to deny it. Being with Nix made her want to answer his search for belonging, to be the one he belonged to—but she didn’t share his same conviction. Wasn’t ready to change her life the way he’d changed his. The way she’d have to change if she were to stay.
Nix was born into music while she’d fought long and hard for it. He’d already experienced all there was—he knew what it felt like to stand on a stage and take other people on a journey with him. She was just starting—she wanted to experience so much more.
She pulled her hand from his. “My throat is getting better faster than I’d hoped,” she said. “I’m going to try to get back to New York. Maybe if I can get back there right away, they’ll let me back into the artists pool. Maybe I could sing in one of the summer festivals or something, then get back on the main stage the next season.” While she talked she stood and paced the room, talking to the walls and all the shiny, framed albums. She felt Nix’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.
When his silence stretched out into the uncomfortable zone, she turned around and was surprised to see him standing, his arms crossed and a dark expression on his face. His muscles bulged beneath his shirt and the edge of his tattoo was visible again. He didn’t bother to hide it this time.
“What?” she asked.
“You can’t go back there.” His tone was flat, as if it wasn’t up for debate. As if he had any right to boss her. Her hackles rose.
“Of course I can. And I should. As soon as possible.” She mimicked his stance, folding her arms and cocking her hip. “I feel good. I just need to practice and warm up my voice again—then I’ll be ready.”
“I don’t care about the singing,” he said, throwing his hands up. “You can’t go there. To New York.”
Anger welled inside her. He had no idea how good she was. The critics said she was the best to come around in decades. He might not care about the singing, but she did and plenty of other people did, too. “Well I’m not going to stay here holed up in the middle of nowhere. You might be content with throwing your life away, but I’m not going to.” She stormed past him, narrowly missing running into him, grabbed up her keys and reached for the door knob.
“I know who did it. At least I think I do.”
She glared at him over her shoulder. “Did what?”
“Attacked you.”
Terror bloomed in her chest as memory grabbed her by the throat. “You couldn’t possibly,” she whispered. “I don’t even know. The police don’t know.”
He came closer, his demeanor softening with every step. Like he pitied her or wanted to take care of her because she was some wounded animal.
“You said his name—or at least I guessed it was his name—while you were unconscious. I looked into it.” He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable now that he had to explain himself.
“You . . . looked into it?” She couldn’t believe her ears. How could he just intrude on her life like this? How could he do anything without talking to her first? This wasn’t his mystery to solve. Her life didn’t need to be fixed. The attack was a mugging gone wrong. Nothing more.
She ignored the image of Jeanine and Nate in her mind. Ignored the little voice inside her that said she was wrong and Nix was right. She pointed at his chest, her free hand balled around her keys. “Listen. Stay out of my business, okay? I told you I’d keep your secret and I expect you to respect my life, too.”
She whirled around and ran out of the apartment, keeping her eyes focused on the stairs, the ground, the car, the road—never once looking back.
Nix slumped onto the couch once Fiona rounded the corner of his place and he could no longer see her from the porch. Standing again, he tugged at his hair, frustration and anger building inside of him until he whirled, picking up a golden hued music award and hurling it at the far wall. It smashed into an album, and it and several others fell to the floor. He glared at the ragged crack in the drywall it left behind. It wasn’t enough.
He stuffed his feet into the steel toed boots he kept by the door, grabbed his coat and stormed outside, down the stairs and toward the barn out back. Pops, in a sudden fit of youthfulness, hurried to follow. Nix cursed at the lock on the barn’s door as he fumbled with his keys, grabbed the axe from its hook just inside, then stomped into the woods. His vision blurry and red, he threw all his force into the trees closest to the lawn. These trees would have to go if he was going to make room for Sailor, so he might as well get started. He just needed to hit something. A lot of somethings. Hard.
HOT FURY BURNED IN HER THROAT AS SHE PULLED INTO the long drive to the lodge. Anger at Nix for getting into her personal business and daring to tell her what to do was almost enough to squelch the fear and worry over what he found out. She didn’t want to know. I couldn’t have known my attacker. It couldn’t have been . . . Her thoughts hitched as they touched on the men she knew at the opera company—her romantic lead, the other principals, the producer and director—and then skittered away, unwilling to name the shadowy figure from her nightmares. Nix is wrong. That’s all.
She’d determined to run up to her room and hide, when an idyllic scene opened up before her and put a wrench in her plans. Gavin and two men stood with their horses, Gavin’s arm caught around Pumpkin’s face in a kind of hug. Their gear was loaded up, but they were chatting and laughing—things Gavin didn’t do much of.
Li
ndsay bounded out of the house, three thermoses in her arms. She stopped when she saw Fiona’s car. There was no way Fiona could walk into that. Lindsay would pounce on her. It wasn’t like she could stroll up there, in full view of everyone at nine in the morning still in her pajamas. It would be obvious to anyone with eyes she’d been gone all night. Mortification almost pushed aside the anger. Almost.
She veered to the left and parked in front of the barracks, using the truck to cover her as she stole into the barn in case anyone was peering through the trees and spied her doing a version of the Walk of Shame. Unsure of what else to do to pass the time until everyone cleared out, she found herself stopping in front of Sailor’s stall. The tall, beautiful horse stuck her head over the door and pushed against Fiona’s chest, shoving her backward and drawing out a laugh.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? You think you can push me around?” She shoved on the horse’s big head, but of course she didn’t budge. As soon as she let go, though, Sailor did it again. “Fine, you big bully. I’ll take you out. Then we’ll see who’s boss.”
She stomped away from the stall, only marginally bugged that she had to go for a ride instead of hiding in her room. A begrudging smile found its way to her lips as she grabbed up the gear from the tack room; and a bottle of water from the cooler, and went back to saddle up the bossiest, pushiest horse she’d ever met. Like her owner, she thought, with all the venom she could muster.
Her Ugg boots were crappy for riding and wouldn’t fit in the stirrups, but Fiona was determined not to go back to the house for anything, so she cinched up the stirrups. She’d done it before, she could do it again.
She led Sailor to the staging area so she could use the stool—no way she could hoist herself up with no stirrups and little assistance. Sailor was giant. Fiona looked around, anxious to avoid seeing Gavin and his riders. She didn’t want to accidentally run into them, so she took Sailor to the west side of the property, up a little-used path and into the forest. She was sure to avoid Gavin on this trail. She kicked her heels into Sailor’s sides and lay down low over the saddle while Sailor ran.
Nix collapsed onto his couch, not caring that he was dirty and sweaty and might ruin the leather. He was too tired to move. Too tired to think. Which was exactly what he wanted. He stared at the wall in front of him, not moving, hardly blinking, for a long time before his vision focused again. He lazily scanned the room until his eyes fell on the cracked drywall and smashed album on the floor. He actually couldn’t tell if the album had broken or if the mess was just the frame and glass, but he couldn’t deal with that now. He couldn’t deal with Fiona. He had no idea why she’d gotten so mad when he was only trying to help. He was 99% sure her understudy had her boyfriend attack Fiona in order to steal her part. That couldn’t go unanswered. She shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that. And any man who would do what that Nate guy did to Fiona deserved to go to jail. Why was Fiona so determined to ignore it all?
Heart racing and fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached, Nix forced himself to take a deep breath. He was supposed to be calming down. He took another deep, steadying breath and forced his hands to relax. He found himself staring at the collection of guitars propped on their stands in the corner of the room. He hadn’t touched them since moving here—in fact, he’d completely forgotten they were there.
He should just garbage them. Put them up for auction or something and give the money to charity. That’d be cool. I bet the church could use the money, he thought. Thinking about the church made him regret all over again the way things went down with Fiona this morning. He doubted she’d be coming back any time soon, and then what would the church do about an accompanist? He felt bad for a minute, until his frustration at Fiona took over once again. Why couldn’t she see that she didn’t need a big life to be happy? That seeing her name in lights wouldn’t solve her problems, wouldn’t make her feel whole?
The thought of her returning to New York and the Met threatened to make his blood boil again. Fiona MacDonald was not his problem, he reminded himself. She didn’t want to be his problem.
The guitars would be appreciated at Variety, he thought, trying to force his thoughts to a safer subject. People would get a kick out of playing on instruments that had been used by rock stars. But then, that would mean he’d have to tell them who he was. On the other hand, if he held some sort of special event, he could charge people to play on the strings, increase exposure for the club and earn money for the church all at the same time.
He mulled that over for a while, then finally dragged his tired, aching body up off the couch.
He popped a couple ibuprofen, showered and dressed, and when he emerged from his bedroom he felt like a new man. He stopped to look at the guitars. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that holding a charity event was just the thing. He was sick of pretending to be someone else, anyway. Besides, God knew who he was and could forgive him for his past—why couldn’t other people, too?
And with his identity out in the open, he’d be free to make a donation of his own to the church without raising any suspicions.
Smiling now, he picked up his acoustic guitar. “Let’s see if this baby still works,” he muttered.
He cradled it in his arms as he returned to the couch. The neck fit as comfortably in his hand as it ever had. He stroked the frame, the strings, automatically tuning it until its voice rang out true and pure. He closed his eyes against the rising tide of sadness and desire that washed through him. He wanted this. Needed it. But it scared him at the same time. He couldn’t go back to who he was. Would never go back. But he wasn’t sure he could play, could sing, without wanting more and more. And that made him feel guilty about Fiona. Of course she needed music, needed the stage. Isn’t that what performers did? Perform? It had been stupid of him to think she could live without it—she wasn’t him. She didn’t have anything to atone for.
Helping the choir was so far outside his wheelhouse, so far removed from the stage he grew up on that it didn’t feel anything the same. And it had been his choice to offer that as his atonement to God for all his years of selfishness. He’d promised God that he’d only ever sing in His praise. That he’d never sing for his own gain.
But this isn’t for my own personal gain. This is still for the church.
Reassured and comforted by that thought, he settled back on the couch, his guitar cradled in his arms, and began to strum. He played How Great Thou Art, adjusting the tuning even more as he went. The music filled him, soothed him. He closed his eyes, savoring every note, every chord. He imagined the words, what it would feel like to sing them, but hummed instead. He smoothly switched to I Stand All Amazed and with a soft, hesitant voice sang, “I tremble to know you’d descend from your throne divine, to rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine. That he should extend his great love unto such as I, Sufficient to own, to redeem, and to justify.”
Sweet warmth filled his heart, his soul, and Nix knew in that moment he was truly forgiven. He knew God gave him his voice, his talent, so he could sing and give praise. But more, he knew, as tears welled in his eyes, that he could give praise in the way he lived his life too, not just in the songs he sang. He could be a light in the darkness. But he’d have to step out of the shadows, first.
He stood, suddenly filled with an energy he hadn’t felt in a very long time. With the acoustic slung over his back, he grabbed up two stands and his favorite electric guitar and carried it all down the inside stairs to the club below. He elbowed on the lights as he went, moving as quickly as he could because he was desperate to act. He took the stairs to the stage in two leaps, then plunked down the stands and electric guitar. He stood there, the acoustic in his hands, and gazed out over the place he’d created. The booths against the far wall with their mini chandeliers. The tables in the middle with their chairs set on top. The gleaming bar to the right with its old-fashioned mirrored wall and champagne glasses, even though his patrons mostly drank beer.
&n
bsp; And on all the walls, on every possible surface, the memories he’d collected over a lifetime of love of entertainment. He loved to make people laugh, to entertain them, to enrich their lives with talent and beauty and music and laughter. He didn’t need one woman to make a connection with—he could make a connection with his patrons. He could be here for them to give them a lift when they were feeling down. To offer a place of freedom and safety to explore their dreams. He’d offer happiness and in turn, learn how to be happy himself.
He pulled up a stool, sat down and positioned his guitar once again in his arms. He thought of God’s creation, of this beautiful world he lived in, and thought of the sun and the moon.
He closed his eyes as the memory of Fiona riding Sailor filled his mind. The beautiful contrast of her pale hair flying next to Sailor’s dark. He remembered the snippet of song he’d thought of then, and began to play. The strings bit into his skin, the calluses on his fingertips he’d had since he was a kid all gone soft. But his fingers found their positions on the strings just as easily as they ever had before. He listened to the words, felt the music that wanted to tell the story, and let his fingers do the interpreting.
It started with Sailor, a silvery tune that sparkled and flashed, then Fiona’s melody, slower and warmer, filling his heart in a way he didn’t know was possible. When the two themes joined, Nix knew this—they—were his truth. His family. Both so bright, shining with life and hope and adventure. Music too was truth. His guitar, and the song that swelled in his heart. Words moved inside him and he let them out, quietly at first, as if unsure of what they might say, but as it all came together he felt more sure of himself. This, all of it together, was him.