“Not a bit. Do you?”
Lexi tipped her head back and forth like she was considering what to say. “Not as much as I used to, honestly, but I figure it’s because I’m finally giving up the teenager in me.”
“It might be because the last two albums were complete crap.” Shelby shrugged. “I mean, if you want to maintain your teen cred.”
Lexi laughed. When the kettle whistled, she pulled it off the stove, pouring steaming water into two mugs on the counter.
“Do you get to choose which music you record?”
“You are very diplomatic with your questions, Lex. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Lexi smiled. “I was an elementary school nurse. Diplomacy comes with the territory.”
“I don’t do a lot of the choosing, actually. Which is weird, because I really thought artists always had control over that stuff. I’m in on the decisions, but if the studio falls in love with a track and it matches my vocal range, it’s pretty much gonna be on my next album.” She stopped. “Or it was. I just recorded the last one on my contract. Pretty sure there won’t be another, which will break just about nobody’s heart.”
But might mean I’m living in a cardboard box by year’s end.
“You don’t want to be Tara Gibson anymore?”
Shelby shook her head. “I can’t sell it anymore. Nobody believes it. I’ve aged out, and the music they’ve had me record is music I just don’t believe in. Audiences can tell. But they had me under contract, so we were both bound by it. They had to give me this last album, and I had to give them one more tour.”
“And what happens after that? Once the tour’s done?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” Shelby took a sip of her tea, feeling her eyes prick with tears. “Daddy and I had…plans. But—well, obviously that’s all…I don’t know.”
“How long’s it been just your dad and you?”
“Forever, it feels like. My mom died when I was five.”
“Lord! What happened?”
Shelby paused. Accidental drowning was the phrase on the coroner’s report she’d seen just last year. She just wasn’t sure how much under-the-table money had passed hands in order for those two words to appear instead of others.
She thought of her mother—a paper doll in designer clothing, a goblet always in her hand—and closed her eyes as that terrifying last night flashed into her head.
“Mama?” Shelby whispered as she looked through the door crack, watching as her mother crossed the marble floor away from her, heels clicking slowly against the surface, her path erratic as she drained the big glass of Mama’s Juice that Shelby was never-ever allowed to touch.
Mama had been singing all morning, but it wasn’t the nice kind of singing. It was the mad-at-Daddy kind of singing that made Shelby wish her hands would grow bigger so she could cover her ears better. Mama had even been banging on the piano—the kind of banging that would have gotten Shelby a thwack across the behind with a spoon if she’d done it.
Shelby’s tummy growled as she set up her bears in a row, the tallest one first. Mama had tripped over them and said bad words a little while ago, so Shelby had moved into the pantry closet, where Mama never looked.
She looked up, wishing she was tall enough to reach the crackers, but even on tiptoes, it was too far. She wished Daddy was home. She even wished Mrs. Dillon was here, which was saying something, because she hated her nanny. But it was Sunday. Daddy was on his big tour, Mrs. Dillon was having a day off, and Mama was forgetting she had a little girl who needed some supper.
Shelby peered back through the crack, watching as Mama slid the door open to the backyard. For the first time, Shelby realized Mama had her best silver dress on—the one that went all the way to her toes, the one that was so full of sparkles it weighed more than a car. Mama had worn it to a big awards ceremony in Hollywood last year with Daddy, but when she saw pictures in a magazine the next week, she’d acted all crazy and ripped them up, and Shelby had never been able to figure out why.
Mama walked toward the pool, then teetered toward the cabana where she kept extra Mama’s Juice. She was having a very crooked day so far, but Shelby knew it was almost nap time, because Mama had stopped speaking her words right. They came out all jumbly and her cheeks were so, so red.
Maybe once Mama was asleep, Shelby could find something to eat and not get in trouble.
Mama moved out of Shelby’s sight, so she scooted carefully out of the pantry, ducking behind the shelf, then running on quiet-quiet feet to the back of the couch. She looked around the edge with just her eyes, and it looked like—what? Was Mama seriously going to go for a swim in that dress?
Shelby shivered as she watched her. The open door was letting in all the cold, cold air, and it was making the ornaments on the Christmas tree tinkle.
Mama was standing on the edge of the pool with her sparkly shoes on, in that dress that weighed a million pounds, and she had a funny sort of smile on her face that scared Shelby.
“Mama?” She heard her voice come out, but it was just whispery, not even a squeak.
Mama laughed and picked up one leg, balancing it out behind her while she held her glass over the pool. She looked like one of those flamingoes at Disney World, except silver. And tippy. Very, very tippy.
And then there was a big splash. She was going swimming! Wait till Daddy heard about this one. He always asked Shelby if she had any Mama stories when he came home, and she usually did, but this one was going to be a big one. Mama swimming on Christmas Eve? In a dress? And her heel-y shoes? This one might make Daddy call the place with the nice name again.
Shelby sobered. It might make Daddy call that place, and then Mama would disappear for a while, and that would mean Shelby and Mrs. Dillon living in this house alone while Daddy did his tour.
There was no way she could do that again. Mrs. Dillon was mean like Mama, but she never napped like Mama did, so there were no breaks.
Shelby had to go check on Mama. She wasn’t splashing, so maybe she needed help getting her and that dress out of the pool.
She snuck quietly to the door, hugging herself to keep warm, then tiptoed outside to the edge of the pool, where she froze.
Mama wasn’t swimming.
She wasn’t even moving.
And her beautiful hair that Raoul had come to the house to do this morning was all scraggly and wet, just floating in the water as she lay there on her tummy.
She was going to be furious about that hair.
Shelby watched, waiting for Mama to stop playing this yucky game, but she didn’t move—just kept floating.
Finally, Shelby inched closer to the pool, knowing she shouldn’t because Mama said it was capital-D dangerous, dammit, but she had to help Mama. She needed to breathe. She wasn’t a mermaid.
Shelby reached out, trying to touch her, but all she could reach were wisps of her hair that kept floating away as soon as she caught them.
She inched closer, reached her little hand out as far as she could, then took a scared breath as she almost tipped into the water.
But she had to help. She had to. There was nobody else here.
She stretched out again, holding tight to the edge of the pool, but before she could close her fist on Mama’s hair, strong hands lifted her into the air, right off her feet.
“Morris!” Shelby screamed as Daddy’s friend hugged her close, trying to turn her face toward his chest. “Morris! Mama’s swimming! It’s too cold to swim!”
“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay. Help is coming.” Morris held her tight, tried to carry her back into the house, but she struggled, not wanting to leave Mama in the pool.
“We have to get her out!” she howled, wondering why finally her voice was working again.
“We will, sweetheart. Strong people are coming to help.”
And then she heard the sirens. Years later, she found out it was Mama’s final call to Daddy that had prompted his call to Morris, but at that moment, she sat shivering
in Morris’s lap as she watched the men in their dark blue uniforms with the big white letters on the back go running through the house and out to the pool.
Morris wrapped her up in a blanket from the couch, patting her back in a soothing rhythm with one hand while he dialed his phone with the other. The next hour was a blur as a stretcher rolled in and out, Morris’s panicked voice made what felt like a thousand calls, and finally Mrs. Dillon arrived, pulling Shelby out of Morris’s arms and into her own.
It was the first time she’d been allowed to have whipped cream in her hot cocoa, but she hadn’t been able to drink it. She’d just kept staring into the pantry, where her bears sat waiting.
If only she’d been good that morning.
If she’d stayed out of the way, maybe Mama wouldn’t have been so mad.
Maybe Mama wouldn’t have gone swimming.
Maybe Mama wouldn’t have gotten dead.
Chapter 16
Later that afternoon, Shelby stared at the blank notebook in front of her, then at the guitar still leaning in the corner of the living area, right where she’d set it on the first day she’d arrived. She’d been trying to push back the horrible memories of her mother since this morning, but hadn’t yet been successful.
“Hey, princess.” Cooper’s voice startled her as he knocked quietly on her open door. “You writing your next top-ten?”
“Absolutely.” She held up the blank paper. “It’s going well, as you can see.”
“Can I come in?”
“Of course. Sorry.” She motioned him inside, unsure how to even act around him right now. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been delivering her a hot cup of coffee on his couch before leaving to do some errands in town for Decker. It’d been twenty-four hours since then, and she was starting to think maybe she’d been a little overzealous with pouring her heart out all over his cabin porch. Had she totally scared him away?
“Where’s the pig?” He looked around his feet, like he was afraid he might step on her.
“Lexi took her again. I think Hayley picked the wrong babysitter.” She sighed. “So what’s going on?”
“Just checking in to see what you’re up to.”
She pointed at the pad. “Clearly, I’m very, very busy. Why? Did Kyla give you another assignment for me?”
“Seriously?” His eyebrows crowded together. “I don’t get assignments.”
“Let me rephrase. Has Kyla made any suggestions regarding what you should suggest I do this afternoon?”
“Maybe.”
“Ha.”
“But I don’t like her ideas. She suggested whitewater rafting, parasailing, or a trip into town to peruse the historical society exhibit on ancient rock paintings.”
“Is she trying to kill me?”
He laughed. “Only with the first two.”
“She really isn’t a fan of people relaxing in their cabins, is she?”
“Not when there are miles of Big Sky country to explore, no.” He shrugged. “But really, Kyla’s main goal in life is to make people fall as much in love with this place as she has. It’s a personal mission sort of thing. She fell hard a few years back, I guess.”
“For Whisper Creek? Or for Decker?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “Apparently it’s a thing. First her, then Hayley, then Jess.”
“And Lexi, too? You people are going to run out of single cowboys, if you keep this up.”
“There’s a running joke about the water.” He pointed at her glass. “Just so you know.”
She put it down quickly, which made him laugh again.
“So.” He leaned casually on one of her kitchen chairs. “I’m totally game to try one of Kyla’s suggestions, if you’re up for the whole racing-rapids or making-like-a-bird thing, but I do have an alternate idea, if you’re interested.”
“I shouldn’t be scared, but I have to admit, I kind of am.” She crossed her arms, feeling defensive, but not even knowing why. There was something in his posture, his tone—something careful—that was setting off her internal alarms, and she hated that she half-feared what might come out of his mouth.
“Fear is a good motivator.” He nodded. “But don’t worry—I’m not a big proponent.”
“So what’s your idea?”
“We write a song.”
“We—wait—what?”
He paused, looking straight into her eyes. “We write a song.”
“I heard you.” She felt her arms tighten as her eyes darted nervously around the room. Then she pointed at the blank piece of paper she’d just been staring at. “But writing isn’t really—I don’t—um…”
“You’d rather jump off a cliff with fake wings attached?”
Possibly, yes.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure my tour insurance prohibits me from doing that. The rafting could be an option, though.”
“When’s the last time you wrote, Shelby?”
“I don’t—I’m not—the songs I do on tour aren’t really my own.”
“I know that. Anyone who’s ever met you would know you’d tear out your own fingernails before you’d create bubble-gum nonsense like that.”
“Um, thanks?” Shelby wanted to be insulted, but instead, his words made her laugh.
“You disagree?”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
“All right, then. How about we write a real song? One you wouldn’t hate to sing onstage? One you would write if you were the master of your own touring destiny, rather than a slave to an evil record company?”
She laughed again. “They aren’t that bad.”
“Sweetheart, I listened to you talk for hours. If they’re not that bad, then I’d never want to see what bad is.”
“I don’t think I can write, Cooper. It’s too soon.”
“I disagree.”
Shelby felt her eyebrows hike upward. “I’m not sure you get a vote, honestly.”
“Maybe. But let me ask you this—what, besides songwriting, would make you feel closer to your father right now?”
She sighed, closing her eyes. “Not fair.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Of course you’re not wrong. But seriously, Cooper. I’m just starting to find my legs again here. If I start trying to write, I risk losing all the progress I’ve made. It could send me down a deep, dark hole I won’t know my way out of.”
“All true.”
She felt her eyebrows furrow. “Then I don’t follow. Let’s go see the rock exhibit.”
“Hey, Shelby?” He took her arm—gently, like he was afraid he might break her—and tipped up her chin with his finger. “I’d never let you get lost, okay?”
Her breath was shaky as she looked into his eyes. “You can’t know that. You hardly know me. You have no idea how deep and dark that hole is.”
“I think I do, sweetheart. I’ve been digging out of my own for quite a while now.” He backed up and opened the porch door, reaching around it and coming back in with his guitar. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
“Cooper—”
“No one even has to know we tried. If it’s a dismal failure, then we never do it again.” He put one foot up on a chair, tuning his guitar without looking at her. “But it could be magic, Shelby. It could really be magic.”
His voice was soft, deep, magnetic, and though parts of her were screaming not to fall into his words, stronger parts—or weaker—just wanted to do whatever she could to keep him here, keep him looking at her, keep him touching her.
And that meant opening her heart—a yawning, lonely place she was scared to remove the lock on.
“Trust me, Shelby. I’m not your manager, I’m not your assistant, I’m not your record company. I’m just…a guy.”
“Just a guy?” She swallowed, and she saw his eyes skate downward to her throat, back up to her eyes, then down to her lips, where they stayed until he blinked and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want anything from you,
Shelby. Nothing except for you to be free to be yourself. Your real self, not the one the record company created.”
“What if I don’t even know who that is anymore?”
“Then we figure it out together.” He leaned toward her, touching his lips to hers—just the faintest, hummingbird-wing shadow of a kiss.
“Trust me. Just…trust me.”
—
Cooper saw the layers of fear in Shelby’s eyes, and he almost regretted his stupid let’s-write-a-song plan. Who was he to decide what she was or wasn’t ready for, anyway? Who was he to play armchair psychologist and tell her he thought writing would be good for her?
Maybe it would be the worst possible thing for her to do right now. Maybe it would destroy the fragile peace she’d started to attain here. Maybe it would send her exactly where she feared—a deep, dark hole she couldn’t claw her way out of, despite his assurances he’d help her.
But as he’d listened to her just two nights ago into the wee hours, he’d seen her eyes light up when she’d talked about sitting on that bus for endless hours with her dad, composing music he went on to record and perform. That had been the magic of her childhood—he knew it from the way her voice went quiet and reflective—and in some insane moment this morning, he’d decided he wanted to help her recapture it.
It was the least he could do for her, if he was going to get called back to Boston any day now to testify in his own damn trial.
Again.
But maybe he was just being an idiot. It had certainly happened before, God knew.
“We don’t have to, Shelby.” He put up his hands, afraid he’d pushed too far. “Maybe we could just play a little. I happen to know your dad’s entire catalog.”
A small smile sneaked out from the corners of her mouth, and he felt his shoulders drop in relief that she wasn’t completely shutting him down.
“You can’t possibly.”
“Why not? I played some of them with you the other night.” He patted his guitar. “This baby was made only for country.”
“I know.” She smiled, reaching out to touch it gently. “It has a beautiful sound.”
“So what do you say? Do you know any of your dad’s songs?”
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