Sweet Somethings

by Barbara Freethy

  But it wasn't Juliette who walked in; it was Donavan and her younger sister Becky. While Becky went to the bar, Donavan came over to him.

  "Are you playing?" she asked, surprise in her eyes.

  "The guitar gave it away, huh?"

  "Yes. I can't quite believe it."

  "Me, either. John Mickelson caught me in a weak moment."

  "I remember when you used to sit on the pier and strum your guitar. I can't tell you how many girls showed up there accidentally on purpose to hear you play."

  "I don't remember that," he said.

  "You were in your own world when you had that guitar in your hands. Actually, I think you were in your own world a lot of the time. It's what made you so interesting. You were elusive."

  "Elusive? I wasn't trying to be, but okay."

  "Roman Prescott?"

  He turned his head to see a woman with bright copper-colored hair walking toward him.

  "Is that you?" she asked. "I'm Vanessa Henderson. Remember me?"

  He didn't really, but she looked vaguely familiar. "Vanessa, sure. How are you?"

  "In disbelief that you're actually here. I heard you were in town, but you haven't shown up anywhere before now."

  "I've been working for my grandfather. How are you?"

  "I'm single again," she said.

  "Again?"

  "I was married for a couple of years—silly mistake. But you know me, I can be impulsive. Remember that time we made out at the movies?" she asked with a mischievous smile. "We should do that again sometime."

  He cleared his throat. If he'd made out with her, he had absolutely no recollection of it. "I need to get ready for my set."

  "Maybe we'll talk…later."

  "Maybe," he said, knowing he would do everything to avoid that.

  Donavan was all smiles when Vanessa walked away, and he looked in her direction.

  "See," she said. "Not everyone in town has bad memories of you." She lowered her voice. "But Vanessa? Really? I always thought she made that up about the movies and your make-out session."

  "I don't remember it, but let's keep that between us."

  "You've got it. And now I'm pretty sure she did make it up. Good luck tonight."

  "Thanks."

  As Donavan left, Bobby came over with a young woman in her early twenties. She had long, black hair and dark eyes, a bohemian look to her flowy clothes.

  "This is Fiona," Bobby said. "Our singer."

  "Good to meet you," he said, shaking her hand.

  "Likewise. I haven't seen you around here before."

  "Just got back into town."

  "You ready to rock?" she asked.

  "Definitely."

  They went over the first few songs they would be playing. Fortunately, he knew the first one really well and the second two he could keep up with. After that, who knew…

  He took a deep breath as he got onto the stage. He couldn't remember the last time he'd played for anyone but himself. Hopefully, he wouldn't embarrass the band.

  Fiona stepped up to the mic, and with a one-two-three, they were off.

  He felt ridiculously rusty at first, even though he'd practiced a few hours earlier in the day. It was very different playing on a stage in front of people than in an empty house. But once the music and beat started flowing through him, he began to relax.

  Fiona's voice had a raspy, almost magical quality, that instantly quieted the crowd, and all attention turned to the band.

  By the end of the first song, he was feeling it. And halfway through the second song, he thought he might get through the night without any problems.

  Then Juliette walked through the door, and he lost his focus for a second, hitting the wrong chord.

  He quickly corrected and hoped no one would notice. He watched her make her way to the back of the room. Damn, she was pretty. Even in the dim light, she seemed to sparkle.

  He forced himself to look away from her and focus on the music. He wanted to get it right, not just for the band or the crowd, but for her.

  They played three more songs before ending their set to a round of applause. As he got off the stage, he saw Doug standing with Juliette. That stopped him in his tracks.

  He headed to the bar and got a beer from the bartender, feeling instantly deflated by the sight of Juliette and Doug together. She'd said she wasn't interested in him, but he'd seen Doug change a girl's mind many a time.

  John Mickelson came over and gave him a slap on the back. "I knew you were still good, Roman."

  He looked into the silver-blue eyes of his grandfather's friend. "Thanks. It was fun."

  "You can come back any time."

  "I might take you up on that."

  "How are things going for you around here?"

  "They're all right," he said, taking a swig of his beer.

  "Your grandfather is happy you're back."

  "It's not for too long."

  "That's what he said. Can I offer a suggestion, even though it's none of my business?"

  He gave a nod. "Sure."

  "Your grandfather would love nothing more than to give you his business, but he doesn't want you to feel obligated to take it, if your heart is somewhere else."

  He stared at John in surprise. "He's never told me that."

  "Well, Vince isn't one to say much about what matters to him. But you're his family—his blood. He's proud of you."

  "From what I can see, except for this latest remodel, his business is pretty much done."

  "Not if you turn the house on Primrose Lane into a winner. Your grandfather has a great eye, and he knows how to make the most out of a house. He's a good manager, but he needs someone to build the business up to what it used to be."

  "I'm a Marine, not a contractor."

  "I know you're a soldier. And from what I hear, you've been a damn good one. But if there comes a time when you decide to make a change, you might want to give construction and Fairhope a chance. I know one man you'll make very happy with that decision."

  He wondered about that. He'd never really thought much about his relationship with his grandfather. They didn't speak about emotions or feelings or anything personal. They were blood, but they were strangers in a lot of ways.

  "You know, he wanted your dad to take over his business," John added. "But Brett couldn't hammer a board without hitting his thumb. If there was a paint can to trip over, he'd somehow end up on his back with paint all over him."

  He was shocked to realize it was the first time anyone, outside of his grandfather or mother, had ever mentioned his father to him. Even when he'd lived in Fairhope before, the subject had never come up. Although, that might have been because he had rarely spoken to adults during those few rebellious teenage years.

  "Your grandfather was disappointed that Brett wouldn't carry on his business, but the man just didn't have the talent for it. He was a good musician, though. You must have gotten those genes from him. He played guitar, too."

  "I had no idea."

  "Seriously? Your grandfather never told you?"

  "We don't talk about my father."

  "Well, your dad was very talented. He had a band in high school."

  He was more than a little surprised at that. "A band, huh?"

  "Yeah. I don't think your grandfather liked it much, but Brett did what he wanted. That seems to be the Prescott way."

  "I don't know anything about my father. He wasn't with my mother longer than a few months after I was born, and then he died when I was three. I didn't meet Vincent until I was fifteen. By then, my dad had been gone a long time, and my grandfather didn't like to talk about him, so we didn't."

  John nodded with understanding. "Well, they butted heads a lot. Brett had his head in the clouds, and Vincent is a practical sort. He didn't like that Brett wouldn't ever take his advice."

  "Do you know what drove them apart? Was there a specific incident?"

  "There was. Brett dropped out of college without telling your grandfather. He sold
everything Vincent had given him and took the cash and went to California. Vincent didn't find him for almost a year. Brett said he just didn't have the nerve to tell him he hated school. They had some big confrontation. Vincent came back and said they were done. That's all I know. You should ask your grandfather, if you want to know more."

  "I doubt he'd tell me more," he murmured. "I can't believe my father didn't tell my grandfather he was leaving school."

  "Like I said, he was headstrong and stubborn."

  As John stepped behind the bar to answer something for the bartender, Roman thought about what he'd just learned. He'd given up on asking his mother for information about his father, because it always made her cry, and when he'd broached the subject with his grandfather, the reaction had been anger. So he'd let it be, figuring he didn't really need to know about a man who'd given him nothing more than a last name.

  But knowing that his father liked music…somehow that changed things a little, fleshed out the ghostly figure in his head.

  "Roman, you were amazing."

  He turned his head to see Juliette's bright smile and dazzling blue eyes. "Thanks. You're being generous as usual."

  "I'm really not. I was actually quite impressed. Everyone was. I've been to bars where people just keep talking when the band plays, but you had everyone's attention."

  "I think that was Fiona."

  "She was good, too."

  "Can I buy you a drink or are you still working on that one?" He tipped his head to the quarter-full glass of wine in her hand.

  "I'm just going to finish this. I'm afraid if I drink anymore, I'll fall asleep with my head on the bar."

  "I'm surprised you're awake at all after your marathon night and morning."

  "I wanted to hear you play."

  A wave of emotion ran through him at her simple words. He didn't quite know how to handle it. He cleared his throat. "I saw you talking to Doug." He was sorry the instant he brought up the other man's name, but it was too late.

  "I figured that's why you didn't come over to say hello." She paused. "You're not going to like this—"

  "Then maybe don't say it," he suggested.

  "But I think you should consider the fact that maybe you, Doug, and Travis need to hash out the past so you can all move on."

  He sighed. "It's over. Forget about it."

  "Look, I wasn't going to bring it up again with Doug, but he did it himself."

  He drank the rest of his beer in one long swallow. "I don't care what he thinks, Juliette."

  "He cares what you think."

  "No, he doesn't."

  "Yes, he does. He said you think he turned on you, but he didn't."

  "He just wants to win an election, Juliette. He'll say whatever he thinks will make him appear like a good guy."

  "I'll admit that he's self-serving. He doesn't really pretend not to be. I told him that he's probably the only of you who can actually find out what truly happened, what everyone said, and that if he wants to get to the truth, he might try looking for it. His father was the chief of police. He can speak to him, or he can ask to see the case file. Maybe there are transcripts of the interviews each of you had. There's a truth that I don’t think any of you know. And if Doug wants to prove that his father didn't protect him by going after you, then he's going to need ammunition."

  "He doesn't want to prove that. Whatever he said to you was just to make points, get you on his side."

  "I told him I was on the side of the truth."

  He would have preferred if she'd said she was on his side.

  "Oh, and I saw Travis at Donavan's today," she continued. "He looked as bad as he did on Saturday, and he was asking Donavan for a job. He said he was desperate to find work. I think Cameron's well-being is still up in the air."

  He didn't really know how to feel about Travis. Because Doug's dad had been the one to press him about confessing his guilt, he'd always blamed Doug more than Travis, but the two of them had always been better friends with each other than with him. He had no doubt that they'd made sure their stories matched up, or their fathers had made sure of it.

  But Juliette was right about one thing—Travis's unemployment situation didn't bode well for Cameron. "I'm sure he'll find work. His father was well-liked in the town. Maybe Doug will give him a job. Did you tell him he was looking?"

  "He said he hadn't talked to Travis in years. He seems to blame Travis for some sort of betrayal, along with you. I think the three of you should talk."

  "And I think you need to back out of this and worry about your own life," he said sharply.

  She flinched at his harsh statement, but her eyes were still defiant. "I will back off, but I have one more thing to say. Travis said he's good at construction. That's it, I'm done."

  "No way. I am not going to hire him, and my grandfather wouldn't consider it, either."

  "It's been a long time, Roman. People grow up; they change. It sounds like you changed. Can't you let Doug and Travis change, too?"

  She had a point, even though he didn't want to hear it. But had they changed? Doug seemed pretty much the same. Travis—who knew? He seemed to have a lot of other problems that had nothing to do with their shared past.

  "So, are you going to play again?" she asked, changing the subject.

  "No, there's a new band coming up next."

  "I think I'll go home then."

  "I'll walk out with you."

  She set her glass on the bar. He grabbed his guitar, and then they left the bar.

  "Where did you park?" he asked.

  "I didn't; I walked."

  "Seriously? I thought you didn't like walking or running unless there's a ball involved," he teased.

  "I felt like I needed the exercise and the fresh air to wake up. It's only about a mile. And I figured it would be early enough to walk back on my own."

  "I've got my truck; I'll give you a ride."

  "It's really not that far," she said, somewhat halfheartedly.

  "And I am really not going to let you walk home."

  "Okay, you can give me a ride."

  "That was fast," he said with a laugh.

  They walked down the street to his truck. He opened her door and put his guitar behind the seat, then waved her inside. He slid behind the wheel a moment later and started the engine. As he pulled away from the club, he said, "This part of town is a lot nicer than it used to be. That yoga studio over there used to be a strip club."

  "The Kitty Kat Klub," she said. "I remember the three K's lined up on the neon sign."

  "And I remember when I snuck in there with Doug and Travis."

  "Wait, you three did something besides smoke in the park?"

  He gave her a dry smile. "We did a lot of things. One of the girls that Doug was dating had a cousin who worked there. She let us in through the back door. We lasted about three minutes on the main floor before the bouncers kicked us out."

  "See anything you liked?"

  "Definitely," he said. "We were actually a little stunned, I think. Not that we acted anything but cool."

  "Of course not. Who was that older man you were talking to at the bar? Your conversation seemed intense. I waited to talk to you, because I didn't want to interrupt."

  "That was John Mickelson, the owner. He's been friends with my grandfather for forty plus years. He started telling me stuff about my father. It was strange. He was talking about someone I don't remember at all."

  "What was he saying?" she asked curiously.

  "He said my father apparently couldn't hammer a nail and that my grandfather had wanted him to go into business with him, but it wasn't in the cards. He also told me my dad dropped out of college without telling my grandfather. He sold his belongings and ran off to LA to find his true passion—whatever that was. Oh, and I guess he used to play the guitar."

  "So you have something in common with him. How does that make you feel?"

  "I honestly don't know."

  "Does it make you want to know mor
e about him?"

  "Maybe."

  "Hasn't your grandfather told you about him?"

  "No. Maybe if I'd asked, he'd have answered, but I never did. My dad wasn't part of my life. I had other problems to worry about."

  "That makes sense." She paused. "You know what I liked most about your music tonight?"

  "What's that?"

  "I could feel emotion coming from your strings. You don't like to show how you feel. You've got the tough guy mask on almost all the time. But tonight was different. You were part of a group. You were engaged with the music. It was like it released something in you, opened a gate or a lock."

  "I don't know exactly where you're going with this, but I will admit that music was always an escape for me."

  "When did you start playing?"

  "I was about eight or nine. One of my mom's boyfriends was a guitar player. He taught me how to play, and he left me a guitar when he took off. I kept playing it." He thought about all the dark nights when music had blocked out reality. But realizing how much he was giving away, he cleared his throat and said, "Baking must be like that for you."

  "It wasn't in the beginning. I told you, right after my parents died, I couldn't go near the kitchen, but then it became a safe place for me again."

  "And Fairhope is an even safer place."

  "Yes. But I don't feel like I ran away from New York. Fairhope is a nice place to live, and it suits me more than the big city. I think you like it, too, even though you probably wouldn't admit it."

  "It's not all bad."

  "High praise," she said dryly.

  "Speaking of praise, how did our cakes go over today?"

  "They're our cakes now?" she teased.

  "I feel I have somewhat of a claim on the toasted almond cakes."

  "They were amazing. The restaurant loved them on sight, and they called me later to tell me that everyone at the party raved about them."

  "Congratulations."

  "Thanks. Hopefully, I'll get more business out of it."

  "I think you're going to have more business than you can manage. You might have to consider hiring someone and letting go of some of your control in the kitchen, not that that would be easy for you. You are as tough as any drill sergeant I've ever had."