Corrine had heard enough. “You know, the two of you big, strong men are acting like a couple of babies.”
“What?” Ben asked. “How do you figure that?”
“We had our wedding here back in June when the barn was barely finished. We had never hosted anything like that here at the inn, and everything went off without a hitch. You and Riley set everything up like pros. Now, here you are six months later, and it’s like you’re all thumbs. What’s going on?”
“It’s not me,” Ben said defensively. “It’s Riley. He’s a nervous wreck!”
“I think that’s a bit of a stretch,” Riley said, hating the slight tremor in his voice. “I just want everything to be perfect for Grace. She’s having a hard enough time with the fact that she doesn’t have any family here and that her father isn’t alive to walk her down the aisle. I need everything to be just right.”
Corrine stepped forward and hugged her son. “As long as she sees you standing at the altar waiting for her, everything is going to be all right.”
“I wish it were that simple, Mom.”
“It is. Trust me. I’ve done this twice, and I know what I’m talking about.” She walked out of her son’s embrace and right into her husband’s. “It’s natural to be nervous on your wedding day, but when all is said and done, it’s the two of you that matter. It’s not the decorations or the guests; it’s that the two of you love one another and are starting your lives together.”
“I know you’re right, but I can’t help but want to take away all of her pain and anxiety. I don’t want her to focus on anything sad today.”
“Sweetheart, it’s only natural for her to focus on the two people she loved the most in this world and who can’t be with her on the biggest day of her life. There’s nothing you can do about that. What you can do is love her and support her and make every moment from this point forward wonderful for her.”
Riley smiled with renewed confidence. “I can do that.”
Corrine nodded. “Good. Now, you two finish setting up the chairs while I attend to the bride.” She was almost out the door when Riley caught up with her.
“Listen, Mom…” he began hesitantly. “I know I don’t say it very often, but I just want to tell you that I love you.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I know that you do.”
“I’m sorry for all of the years that I stayed away. I never should have done that to you. You were always there for me, and I feel like I let you down.”
She reached up and cupped his cheek. “Don’t you ever say such a thing to me again!” she gently scolded. “You have never let me down. No mother could be prouder than I am. You grew up to be an amazing man, Riley. And as much as I hate all of the years that we missed together, it has made this time that we have now that much sweeter.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Corrine smiled. “Now, is there anything else that you need?”
“Grace,” he said simply. “You make sure that she’s okay and that she hasn’t changed her mind, because I can’t imagine my life without her.”
“Me either, Riley. Me either.”
And on that Christmas Eve, in a barn on the property of the Snowflake Inn, a family was born.
For more Samantha Chase
check out The Shaughnessy Brothers series
This Is Our Song
On sale December 2016
Keep reading for a sneak peek from Samantha Chase’s Shaughnessy Brothers series
The sounds coming from his guitar seemed rough even to his own ears. Disgusted, Riley Shaughnessy put the instrument aside and raked his hands through his hair. Head lowered, he stared at the ground in defeat.
“Something’s got to give, Ry.”
Riley didn’t need to look up to know his manager Mick was standing in the corner of the room. The man was like some sort of ninja—you never seemed to see or hear him coming or going, and yet there he was.
“Yeah, I know,” Riley said quietly.
Stepping farther into the room, Mick stopped and sat down on the sofa opposite Riley’s. “We’ve all been patient. We’ve given you time. This album has been at the halfway point for far too long. You need to finish it.”
Riley’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “You think I’m not trying, Mick? For crying out loud, I’ve spent every minute of every day trying to come up with something—anything—to make it happen! I…I can’t seem to get what I want from here”—he pointed to his head—“to there.” He pointed to the guitar.
“Maybe it’s time for us to bring in someone to write the music for you and you just…you know, sing it.”
For a minute, Riley felt like he was going to be sick. It wasn’t an unusual suggestion and in the past, when he was still playing with his band, they had done it. But this was his solo project—his chance to prove to the world that he had the talent to stand on his own. The rest of the guys were doing well with their solo work; Riley didn’t want to be the lone failure.
“No,” he said firmly.
Mick relaxed against the sofa and looked at him with what could only be described as pity. “Dude, you need to know when to call it a day. No one’s saying this is a bad thing. We’re just trying to speed up the process a bit. You wanted some time off, we gave you some time off. You wanted to do this solo crap, we were happy to let you do it. But now? Riley, come on. You’re asking too much. The label is getting antsy and you’re not giving them anything to work with. Take the gift. Take the damn songs, record them, and let’s wrap this thing up. Maybe once you get on the road and tour a little bit, you’ll get your muse back.”
If only it were that easy.
The look on his face must have conveyed that because Mick sighed and leaned forward, his tone a little gentler.
“Look, Riley, I get it. I do. I know what you’re trying to do here and I think it’s great. And no one was cheering louder for you than me. But it’s not happening the way we thought. No one’s going to think less of you because you’re using some songs written by other people on this project.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Riley said a bit defensively. “Just like the people from the documentary—”
“Man, you have got to let it go!” Mick snapped. “It wasn’t even that big a deal! Quit harping on it and move on!”
“I can’t!” he shouted and jumped to his feet. “I was on top and everything was going freaking great, and then this documentary comes along, and the next thing I know, rumors are starting to swirl that I’m not relevant enough or talented enough or…whatever the hell else people were saying! It’s not so easy to pick up and dust that shit off!”
Slowly, Mick stood and walked over to Riley. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He paused. “The thing is, the label is going to cut you loose if this project isn’t wrapped up in the next three months.”
“What?”
Mick nodded solemnly. “I did everything I could, Ry. I really did. They’re tired of waiting.”
“There’s got to be something…something I can do to show them I’m trying—I’m really working hard at this because I want the album to be a success.” Damn, he was almost begging and he hated it. “Mick, there has to be some sort of goodwill gesture to show them I’m good for this.”
“Well…there was the other songwriter…”
Riley shook his head vehemently. “No. Something else. There’s got to be another option on this one.”
“Dude, you’re killing me.”
Riley was about to say the same thing when Mick’s phone rang and he stepped away to take the call. This whole thing was a nightmare. His whole life, he’d never had a problem writing songs. Whether it was rock music, ballads—he’d even written a couple of country music songs—but nothing was coming to him for this particular album.
For so long he imagined how he wanted this project to go and once he’d gotten the green
light, the first few songs flew out of him and then…nothing. And Mick could say whatever he wanted; the documentary was a big deal and the rumors about him that went around afterward—like how he was the least talented of his own band—had seriously affected Riley’s self-esteem.
He sighed and walked over to the window looking out on the city. His house on the hill had become his prison. Even though it had a great view, it still felt as if the walls were closing in on him. He was afraid to go out—didn’t want to risk hearing people talk about him. Hell, he’d even taken a break from seeing his family because for some reason, his insecurities seemed to be right at the surface whenever he was around them and they were all starting to call him out on it.
It sucked.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mick heading for the door. He put whoever he was talking to on hold and looked at Riley. “I’ll be back at three. We’ll finish up then.” And then he was gone.
Shit. Now what? He basically had a few hours to either come up with six songs to complete the album or admit defeat and take on someone else’s music. No, that wasn’t an option. He needed to get his head straight and figure out what to do. He needed…
His phone rang and when he saw his twin brother’s face on the screen, Riley nearly sagged with relief. Before he could say hello, Owen was talking.
“As a scientist, it’s hard for me to accept this twin telepathy, and yet I found myself driven to call you because I felt you were really sad. Are you okay?”
Riley smiled and sat on the couch and relaxed. “Come on…you mean to tell me after all these years you doubt the telepathy thing? I would have thought you’d be anxious to run experiments on us.”
“I don’t know if it would really prove much. We know each other so well there’s hardly any science involved. We’re siblings, we grew up together, why shouldn’t I know what you’re thinking? Besides, the whole twin telepathy thing is less common in cases like ours.”
“Wow, did you just oversimplify something, Owen?” Riley asked with a chuckle.
“I am capable of doing it from time to time.”
Even as fraternal twins, they were as different as night and day. Where Riley had always been an extrovert, Owen was an introvert. Riley was a singer and a performer, Owen was an astrophysicist. He was scary smart and it tended to make him socially awkward, but there wasn’t another human being alive who understood Riley like his brother.
“So you felt compelled to call me, huh?”
“I did,” Owen said simply. “I was in the middle of teaching a class and you were just there so strongly—it was almost as if you were standing right there.”
“Sorry about that. How did the rest of your class go?”
“Oh, they’re still in there. I gave them some work to do and stepped out into the hall to call you.”
“Owen Shaughnessy!” Riley mocked. “Now you’re telling me you ignored your job because of this telepathy? That tells me you really are beginning to believe it’s a thing! Come on. Admit it!”
Owen groaned. “Are you going to tell me why your negative thoughts and feelings are interfering with my life or am I supposed to guess?”
“You tell me. Can’t you read my mind?” Riley couldn’t help but tease.
“So they’re still giving you a hard time about the album.”
Damn. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out.”
“It really wasn’t that hard a conclusion to draw, Riley. This is hardly new information. Why are you still struggling with this? Music comes as easily to you as breathing.”
“It used to. I don’t know, Owen. It’s like I can hear the music off in the distance and I just can’t reach it. Like it’s behind a closed door and no one will let me open it.”
“Have you thought about talking to a therapist?”
“Hell no. The press would have a field day with that.”
“So? Seems to me if it helped unlock the music, it shouldn’t matter if the press finds out. It’s all for the greater good.”
Riley stopped and considered his brother’s words. “What’s going on with you? What… Why… You’re not talking like yourself.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Owen said.
“Bro, normally you would have quoted all kinds of statistics about mental blocks and therapists and named a couple of renowned doctors and scientists to back up what you’re saying. But you’re not. What gives?”
Owen sighed loudly. “You know, sometimes there is no pleasing everyone. I get criticized when I talk like a scientist and then I get criticized when I don’t. Honestly, Riley, I didn’t expect it from you!”
Uh-oh. Something was definitely up with his brother. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Sorry. And for the record, I wasn’t criticizing. I was merely making an observation.”
“Whatever.”
Riley burst out laughing.
“What? What’s so funny now?” Owen demanded.
“Nothing,” Riley said, instantly sobering. “Nothing at all. Look, go back to your class. I’m just trying to work this stuff out. Mick came to me and suggested using someone else’s songs to finish the album. The label’s getting pissy and basically everyone’s losing faith in me. They gave me three months to finish things up.”
“Okay. So do it.”
“Seriously?” Riley asked with a bit of frustration. “You—who knows me better than anyone—thinks I need to quit?”
“I don’t see it as quitting. I see it as moving on from a project that has proven not to work. We do it all the time in the labs. You test a theory and when it doesn’t work, you move on. You wanted to try this solo project and you did. It’s not working for you so stop forcing it.”
Now Riley growled. “You know, I think I liked it better when you said stuff I couldn’t understand. This getting right to the point is kind of hurtful.”
“I’m sorry!” Owen said quickly. “All I meant is—”
“Don’t. It’s okay. You’re saying what everyone else has. And coming from you? Well, that tells me what I needed to know. It just doesn’t make me feel like any less of a failure.”
“You’re not a failure, Ry. You’re a gifted musician. No one says you can’t try again in the future. You just need to let this project go.”
Emotion clogged Riley’s throat and he nodded silently. And just as he suspected, his brother knew it.
“You’re going to be okay, Riley,” Owen said softly.
Normally Riley would agree simply because his brother was rarely wrong.
Only right now, he was having a hard time keeping the faith.
* * *
As promised, Mick was back at three o’clock sharp. The man was a stickler for keeping a schedule. Well, he normally was. He’d been a little more than frustrated with Riley’s lack of one lately.
As soon as Riley got a glimpse of his manager, he knew something was up. It was written all over his face. “Okay,” Riley began as soon as they sat down. “Out with it.”
Luckily Mick wasn’t the type to play dumb. “I spoke to Rich Baskin earlier—that’s who called when I was here.”
Rich was the head of Riley’s record label, and it was all Riley could do just to nod.
“I told him you really weren’t on board with using outside writers to finish the album.”
“And what did he say?”
“What do you think he said? He’s pissed.”
“Great.”
“However,” Mick began, “he is willing to give a little.”
Riley’s head shot up and for the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt hopeful. “Okay. How?”
“Do you know Tommy Vaughn?”
Riley’s eyes went wide. “Of course I do! Who doesn’t? The man is right up with Jagger, Mercury, Lennon, Bowie… I mean, the guy is a rock god. Why? Is…is he one of the song writers? Does
he want back in on the music side rather than writing about it?”
“Okay, so you’re aware of his magazine.”
Reaching over the side of his sofa, Riley pulled a copy of Rock the World magazine. “Aware of it? I subscribe to it!”
“That’s good,” Mick said. “Because you’re going to be in it.”
Riley pulled back and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Look, I don’t play dumb with you, don’t do it to me.” Mick paused. “Tommy wants to do a huge piece on you—possibly multi-issue. He doesn’t do it very often. He’s got someone lined up to work with you. Rich wants this. So if you’re hoping to get back in anyone’s favor, you’re going to do this.”
“Mick, you know how I feel about interviews. Especially right now!”
“Then you’re going to have to get over it. Fast. Because if this deal doesn’t happen, they’ll pull the plug on the album even sooner, and think of the lousy publicity that is going to cause. ‘Riley Shaughnessy cut loose because he didn’t want to talk and couldn’t write any songs.’”
“That was pretty low,” Riley sneered. “Even for you.”
“I’m not here to candy coat it for you. I’ve been doing it for too long and now look where we are.” He shifted in his seat. “You never asked for much and you were never complicated to work with—you were certainly never a diva—so when you started to struggle, I let it slide. Well, I’m done with it now. It’s time for some tough love. You need to stop with the pity party and get your ass back in the game.” His phone beeped and Mick looked at it and stood. “I’ve got another appointment to get to. You’re gonna get a call from the magazine. Take it and be thankful.” And he headed for the door.
“Mick—”
“I’m not kidding, Riley,” Mick interrupted. “Everyone’s done playing around. We want an album from you, and we wanted it six months ago. Don’t turn into a diva on me now. Do the interview. Hell, who knows, maybe talking to someone—even a magazine reporter—can be…what do you call it? Cathartic. Yeah, I think that’s the word. Maybe you’ll finally get out of your head and get the music down like you need to.” With a pat on Riley’s back, Mick walked to the door. “I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. Think about it—but don’t screw this up.”
Mistletoe Between Friends / The Snowflake Inn Page 27