And this was just Day One.
MIKEY
HE THREW HIMSELF into his work, resurrected the flatlined burglary investigation, and spent every spare minute working on it, trying desperately to find a connection between crime scenes, some evidence that would tie these break-ins to somebody. His money was still on the Washburn boys, but without evidence, it was nothing more than speculation, and you couldn’t arrest somebody on a hunch. With the exception of that one hit on the old lady’s jewelry, none of the feelers they’d sent out to the pawn shops had panned out. Sitting at his desk, Mikey spent an entire afternoon following up. But phone call after phone call bore no fruit. Nobody remembered taking in anything from the list of stolen items they’d circulated, and as long as the Washburn boys kept their noses clean, he didn’t even have mug shots to show anyone.
The grapevine told him that Paige had left town. Gone home to California. It was better this way. You did the right thing. That’s what he kept telling himself. It wasn’t much comfort on those nights when he ate cold spaghetti from a can and went to bed early with just an obese Chihuahua for company.
He’d thought that sending her away, removing her from his sphere of influence, would make things better for everyone. He’d been wrong. It might have been the best thing for her, but for him, life worsened immeasurably. One more damned loss. He resented the hell out of it, resented the hell out of himself for chasing her away. His co-workers started avoiding eye contact, because interacting with him was too painful. Even Teddy stayed at a distance, speaking to him only when it became absolutely necessary.
During the day, when he could keep himself occupied with work, he managed to block Paige from his mind. Nights were a different story. She was there all the time, the feel of her, the scent of her permeating his dreams. Night after night, anxiety woke him in the wee hours, and he lay there in the dark, sweating and shaking and suffocating. Spike seemed to understand. The dog would nuzzle his face, offer kisses from that little pink tongue, then curl up in a warm, furry ball right next to him.
Mikey’d never been much of a dog person. Not that he had anything against dogs, he just hadn’t given them much thought. When Dad and Rose had married, she’d brought with her a hyperactive English sheep dog named Chauncey, who shed monumental amounts of fur and jumped on everyone who came to the door. Chauncey had been likable enough, with more heart than brains, but Mikey hadn’t built any real bond with him.
This was different. He was learning that a dog’s love was genuine. They had no secret agenda, no ego that needed stroking. Unlike humans, they didn’t lie to you, or play head games with you, or badmouth you behind your back. For the first time, he understood Paige’s anguish over the theft of her dogs. He already couldn’t imagine life without Spike.
One day, while driving down Main Street, he saw Rob MacKenzie coming out of the Agway store. Mikey lifted a finger from the steering wheel in the standard small-town Maine greeting. Although he could have sworn Rob had seen him, Paige’s dad looked right through him as though he wasn’t there.
That hurt. He’d known Aunt Casey’s second husband since he was twelve years old, and although he’d never gotten used to calling Rob his uncle, aside from that little elopement fiasco twelve years ago, there’d never been any real friction between them. To be snubbed like that—if, indeed, he’d been snubbed—was harsh. He’d done what he’d done for Paige’s benefit. He sure as hell hadn’t done himself any favors. Without her, he was afloat, empty, hurting. He hadn’t expected this. The truth was that he hadn’t really given himself much thought. He’d been too focused, with laser-like intent, on keeping her safe.
But there were times when the pain of letting her go was so intense, he couldn’t breathe. Nights when he wanted to drown himself in alcohol. A few nights when he succumbed to that desire. The vodka bottle was always just an arm’s length away.
But Gunther’s words kept coming back to him. Your mother was an alcoholic. To his surprise, in spite of everything that had gone down, his self-preservation instinct was still strong. He’d never been much of a drinker. A beer here or there. But the last couple of years, he’d flirted with alcohol abuse far too often. It helped with the pain, both physical and psychological. But he didn’t intend to go down the path his mother had taken for so many years. It had nearly destroyed her life, nearly destroyed his childhood. He could learn from her mistakes.
So even though his heart was a bloody, battered mess, one morning he uncapped the vodka bottle and poured it down the drain. He had a strong suspicion that the only way he’d survive this, the only way he could keep moving forward, was to face the pain head-on. Because so far, masking it hadn’t done him much good. Dumping the booze was a symbolic gesture. The alcohol—and, to a lesser extent, Gunther, and even Rachel—had been a crutch. Stripped of those crutches, he had only himself to depend on. Sink or swim.
It was entirely possible that he’d sink like a rock.
On the other hand, maybe he’d swim.
PAIGE
SHE SLEPT FOR eight days, because sleeping was easier than feeling the pain. It managed to creep into her subconscious anyway, manifesting itself in dreams too painful to slumber through, too fragile to remember once she woke. In between dreams, she left the bed long enough to eat, to use the bathroom. She even showered a couple of times. Not that it mattered. She could get as ripe as a Dumpster in August, and there’d be nobody here to notice. She could drop dead, and it might be weeks—months, even—before anybody found her.
Even the weather seemed attuned to her emotions. Wasn’t there some old song about it never raining in Southern California? It was a lie. In between downpours, lightning played around a thick cover of clouds, and thunder rumbled overhead. The skies wept for her broken heart.
Get over it, she told herself. Stop being such a snowflake. Grow a pair and get over it.
Easier said than done.
On Day Nine, she rolled out of bed, stripped off the bedding she’d spent the last eight days sweating on, and tossed it in the wash. She would’ve been content to stay there for the rest of her days, but she had obligations. An album to write and record. A tour to pull together. A binding contract with the record company. Those guys in suits didn’t have a sense of humor. If she didn’t deliver the product on time—a suitable product—things were apt to get dicey. So far, she had a good working relationship with the powers-that-be. If she blew that, she’d be blackballed, her career swirling down the drain faster than grungy bath water.
Lucy had sent out a couple of discreet feelers via text message, so she ate a bowl of Wheaties, ran her voice up and down a few scales to work out the hoarseness, then dialed Lucy’s number. The false cheerfulness probably wouldn’t fool her best friend, but she wasn’t ready to face people yet, not even Luce. She could barely face herself in the bathroom mirror.
“Hey, Luce,” she said when her friend answered.
“About time. I thought you were dead. What’s going on?”
“I’m just wiped out, that’s all. I’ve been vegging.”
“Are you sick?”
“No. Just wiped. I had to take a few days of power napping before I sit down at the piano and start writing the album.”
“Why are you so tired? I thought that was why you went home, to get a break from everything.”
“There was a lot going on.”
“In Jackson Falls?”
“People there have lives. The sun rises, the sun sets. Just like here.”
“Now I know you’re lying. Nothing is quite like this place.”
“You do have a point.”
“You sound funny. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“We need to get together for lunch soon. And to talk about hiring a security team.”
She closed her eyes at the sudden pain in the center of her forehead. Maybe she was about to have a stroke. If she did, would Mikey even bother to attend her funeral?
“Paige?”
&nbs
p; “Sorry. I need to focus on the album right now. I’ll call you again in a week or two.”
But of course, that was easier said than done, too. Writing music wasn’t just a matter of sitting down and putting notes in the right places on a sheet of manuscript paper. Music was about emotion, and unless you were writing some fluffy novelty tune, you poured your heart and soul into it. You dug deep, into all those dark crevices—some of them hidden, some not so hard to find—where the love and the pain and the angst lived. You poked and prodded until you located your most vulnerable wounds, you picked off the scabs, and then you ran sandpaper over them until they bled. That was how good music, lasting music, was created.
When the emotions ran close to the surface, it didn’t take much digging. When every note you committed to paper, every lyric you penned, screamed out your own personal pain, eventually it got to you.
The crying started around Day Three. No all-out blubbering, just the silent tears of a shattered heart. Once she got started, it was hard to stop. She woke up crying each morning. Fell asleep crying each night. In between, she wept great splotches of salt water all over her sheet music, blurring the notes so bad that she had to rewrite some of the songs.
It was freakish. She never cried. She was the unflappable Paige MacKenzie. Tough as nails. Yet here she was, crying over the second man in less than six months.
Except this was nothing like what she’d gone through with Ryan. You couldn’t even compare the two situations, they were such polar opposites. Her breakup with Ry was child’s play compared to this. If she’d been able to experience righteous anger, the way she had with Ry, if she could have called Mikey names, ranted over his asshattery, it might have made things easier. But she couldn’t do that. She suspected he was in as much pain as she was. Possibly more, because he was the one who’d ripped them apart. Knowing him, he was probably fighting a massive load of guilt because he’d destroyed her life. Mikey did guilt really well. His logic might be illogical, his perspective might be skewed, but none of this was deliberate. She couldn’t hate him for it.
Ten days, eight songs, and a million tears later, she was done. It was time to come out of hiding and face the music.
* * *
SHE’D AVOIDED LUCY for as long as she could. But she couldn’t hide forever, so she clamped on her sunglasses to cover the dark circles and the puffy eyes, and headed off to meet Luce for lunch. They’d been friends for a long time, and Lucy was no slouch. “What’s wrong with you?” she said as soon as Paige had settled down across from her.
“Nothing,” Paige said, and smiled at the waiter. “I’ll have a Greek salad and a glass of white wine.”
“I’ll have the same,” Lucy said, handing her menu back to the waiter, who discreetly disappeared. “Nothing?” she repeated.
“Allergies.”
“You don’t have allergies. You’ve never had allergies.”
Paige shrugged. “You know what they say. You can develop them at any point in your life.”
“Allergies.”
“Will you please stop repeating yourself? You sound like a TV commercial. Dial 1-800-something-something-something. 1-800-something-something—”
“Just wondering. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy, Luce. I’ve been gone for three months. I had a lot of catching up to do. An album to write.”
“How’s the writing going?”
“It’s going.”
“Meaning?”
The waiter arrived with their salads and their drinks. Ignoring the salad, Paige picked up her glass of wine and gulped down half of it. “Tony says the new songs are a little heavy. A little dark and melancholy.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed over the rim of her drink. “I’d like to strangle that little pissant for what he did to you.”
It took her a second to realize who Lucy was referring to. Paige waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’m over Ryan. Way over him. And there’s nothing wrong with the songs. Tony didn’t say they were bad. Just different. Life has a funny way of molding you. It changes you. That’s all.”
“In the name of all that’s holy, will you take off those damn glasses?”
Paige sighed, took them off, and set them on the table. “Happy now?”
“Allergies, my ass.”
“Ragweed, goldenrod, pick your poison.”
“You look to me like you’ve been crying.”
“Dial 1-800-something-some—”
“Okay, okay, I’ll back off.”
They picked at their salads in silence, both of them at a loss for words. When had she ever had nothing to say to Lucy? Even during the infrequent times when they fought, there were still plenty of words waiting to spill out. Now, she was empty. Drained. Explaining to Lucy, who would ask more probing questions than a three-year-old, would take more effort than she was willing to put forth right now.
They were saved by the ringing of her phone. Paige set down her fork and dug the cell out of her purse. She stared at the caller ID as it continued to ring. Said, “Speak of the little black-hearted devil,” and held it up for Lucy to see.
Lucy’s eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline. “What could he possibly have to say to you?”
“I have no idea. Why don’t we find out?” She put the phone on speaker and set it on the table. “Ryan,” she said, all saccharine graciousness. “So nice of you to call! Did somebody die? I can’t imagine any other reason I’d be hearing from you.”
“I need to talk to you.”
She looked up at Lucy, waggled her eyebrows, and Luce covered her mouth to hide a snigger. Paige hadn’t heard Ryan’s voice in four months. It was a voice she’d once loved, but now, it didn’t move her at all. “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s a free country.”
“Not on the phone. In person. Can I come by the house this afternoon?”
“My house? The one that used to be our house? Oh, wait, I forgot. It was never our house.”
“Jesus, Paige. You could be a little nicer to me.”
Even for a man with an ego as big as Ry’s, his audacity astonished her. He’d cheated on her, left her for another woman, let her find out about his marriage in the worst, most public manner possible, stolen her dogs, and refused to return them. And she was supposed to be nice to him?
“Sorry, but I’m not that girl any longer, Ry. That naïve, trusting doormat you left behind.”
“I suppose I deserve that.”
“You think? Give me one good reason why I should even let you through the front door.”
“It’s about the dogs. I want to talk to you about the dogs.”
“If you’re trying to manipulate me, it’s not going to work.”
“I’m not. I’m serious. We need to talk. Today.”
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop while she considered. He wanted to talk. About the dogs. It might not mean anything, but it was a step up from, “No way, José.”
“Fine,” she said. “Two o’clock at the house. Be on time. I’m not a patient woman. Oh, and I’ve had a security gate installed, to keep out the riffraff. Don’t ask for the code, because you’re not getting it. Pull up to the gate and beep your horn. If I’m feeling really magnanimous, I’ll buzz you in.”
She disconnected without saying good-bye. Met Lucy’s amused gaze and said, “What?”
“If you didn’t scare me so much, I’d say that I like this new Paige MacKenzie.”
She squared her jaw. “There is no new Paige MacKenzie. I’m the same person I’ve always been. I don’t take shit from anyone. I never have.”
“You took shit from Ryan. Right from the day you met the little worm. You weren’t exactly a doormat, but you always gave him the benefit of the doubt, even when he didn’t deserve it.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m done with that. Done with men. All they do is break your heart and leave you bleeding. What the hell is the point?”
Lucy stared at her for so long that Paig
e lowered her eyes to her salad plate, afraid Luce would see the truth in them. After a minute, Lucy said, “Who is he?”
Paige raised her chin. Shuttered her eyes. “Who’s who?”
“Mister Allergy. The guy you’ve been crying over. The one who wiped Ryan right out of your heart.”
“There is no guy.”
“That’s bull, and you know it. We’ve been friends since we were ten years old. You can’t fool me. There is a guy. Who is he, and what happened?”
Paige picked up her fork and toyed with her salad, pushed it around on her plate. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”
“Oh, honey. This was serious, wasn’t it?”
“I thought he was different. Not like the assholes out here in Hollyweird. Real. Nothing plastic about him. You know?”
“So what happened?”
“Iraq happened. He’s been back for two years, but that damn place is still inside his head, and…we just couldn’t make it work.”
“Well, shit.”
“My mother was right. Men don’t have any staying power. It’s a friggin’ shame, but it’s the way things are.”
“Honey, I have to say this. I loved your mom. She was a real hoot. All those awesome pajama parties she used to throw for us? But on this issue, I strongly disagree with her. There’s too much evidence to the contrary.”
“Such as?”
“Look at your dad and Casey. That man would cut off an arm for her.”
“They’re a special case.”
“And my grandparents.”
Paige rolled her eyes, but Lucy persisted. “Seriously. They’ve been together for, what? Fifty years? You should see the way they still look at each other. It’s so cute.”
“I don’t want to be cute. I just want to be happy. And, damn it, he made me happy.”
“Then why’d you let him go?”
“He didn’t give me an option.”
Lucy snorted. “There’s always an option. You just have to find it.”
Paige fixed her with a cool stare. “There wasn’t with Ry.”
Face the Music: Beyond Jackson Falls Book 1 Page 30