The Songbird Sisters

by Rachael Herron

  “Good.” Molly nodded and crossed her arms, looking satisfied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If this thing is so scary you think you can’t do it, then it’s just about right.”

  Someone in the kitchen dropped something made of glass. “Is that how you felt about the sheriff?”

  Molly didn’t seem to mind whatever it was that had broken on the other side of the swinging door. “Oh, yeah. Still do. Every day.”

  “How is that a good thing?” To be scared every minute of losing the one thing that felt better – more right – than anything else ever had?

  “It’s the best thing.”

  “How?”

  “Because it has the potential to be the worst thing. That’s what makes it the best. When you know that losing it would break you, you’re in exactly the right spot.”

  “Crap.”

  Molly’s eyes twinkled happily. “Yep. Eat some more. You’re not letting a single bite go to waste.”

  “I told you, it’s heaven.” Lana took another perfect bite, and realized she meant it, completely. This was heaven. All of it. This place.

  This family.

  This town.

  Taft.

  A line from one of her older songs played in her mind.

  * * *

  Fear never killed no one.

  * * *

  The double negative had pleased her when she’d written the line, years before.

  It felt true now.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Lana wasn’t in the bar, and Taft was surprised at the disappointment he felt. She hadn’t been up in her room, either. Or at least, she hadn’t answered when he’d knocked at her door, and she probably hadn’t been hiding behind the closed door. The dog had barked from behind the door like Taft was Satan on fire, so she was probably out somewhere, dog-less. He texted her, just a simple, Wanna grab a drink at the bar? but got no reply.

  Taft had really hoped he’d see her. A whole day of fishing and listening to Jake talk about how great the bachelor life was had made Taft realize he hated the single life. Sleeping (actually sleeping) next to Lana the night before had made him happier than anything he could remember: the feeling of her skin on his - the way his arm tucked around her waist - had been perfect, the softly growling dog notwithstanding.

  Lana’s sister Adele waved at him from across the room where she was writing names on a chalkboard. Some kind of open mic was happening before a band called Dust & Rusty was going on. If Lana didn’t show up before the singers went on stage, he’d leave. There was almost nothing as painful as an open mic in a small town, and Taft had hosted too many of them for charity to want to listen to one for free.

  “Hey, did you hear me?” Jake poked Taft in the shoulder.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

  “Just call her.”

  “What?”

  “You’re obviously spun out on Lana. You have her number. Just give her a call and ask where she is.”

  He’d texted her. There was probably a good reason she wasn’t responding. “That’s not it.”

  Jake rubbed a bruise on his forearm. Taft knew he’d gotten it when a piece of lumber had slipped on Wednesday, when they’d been reframing the window in room eight. Taft liked knowing that. It made him feel like part of the town, part of this world.

  Jake shook his head. “Yeah, that’s exactly why you’re so distracted. Don’t even tell me you’re not thinking about her constantly.”

  “Come on.” His protest was weak.

  “You let me talk all day on the boat, and you didn’t once mention her. You think I didn’t notice?”

  Taft studied the label on his beer bottle. “Why would I mention her?”

  “Because you can’t keep your eyes off the doors of this place. If you were to fall asleep right now, you’d probably start mumbling her name.”

  “Whose name?” Adele leaned on the bar.

  “Your sister’s.” Jake’s voice was cheerful. “He’s got it bad.”

  “I figured.”

  Taft shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.” Adele smiled, and it suddenly felt ridiculous to deny it.

  “I do. I do have it so fucking bad.”

  Adele looked at the level of his beer. “You all right there?”

  Was she checking his level of drunkenness? “This is my first. I’ve only had half of it.”

  “Just making sure you don’t need another before I drag you outside to chat.”

  Jake hooted. “Hoo, I’m glad I’m not dating a Darling. That’s not gonna be a chat. Good luck with the interrogation, buddy!”

  Adele smirked. “Chat.” But her tone said Jake was right. Taft felt sudden nerves play in the pit of his stomach. It would be good to keep Adele on his side.

  “Let me get myself some ginger ale and I’ll be right outside. Wait for me there.” Her voice was polite, even sweet. But it wasn’t a request.

  Taft waited for her in the arbor, hoping against hope that Lana would come through instead. She could be holding three rabid Emily Dickinsons and he would brave all their teeth.

  But by the time Adele made her way out, no one had passed through the arbor except a young female couple who looked extremely disappointed they didn’t have the darkness to themselves.

  “Hey,” Adele said. She sat across from him and clinked her drink against his. “Cheers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sound nervous. I’m not going to yell at you.”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Yes, I was,” he agreed. “Are you going to ask me about my intentions regarding your sister? Ask if I know her middle name?” He didn’t, he realized. And he wanted to know.

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s Mirabelle.”

  God, that was pretty.

  “Oh, wow, look at your face,” said Adele on a laugh. “I do like directness. But no, I figure whatever you do with my sister is your business and hers. Not mine.”

  The relief he felt was mixed with something else – could it be disappointment? Did he actually want to be interrogated by Lana’s sister? “Okay, then …”

  “No, the reason I wanted to talk to you was about a fundraiser we’re doing in a couple of weeks. It’s for Migration, the women’s shelter hotline Molly started.”

  “Yeah, I read about it.” Sully had sent him an online article about the nonprofit the week before. All Taft remembered about it was that Molly and Adele had both been in the attached photo, and he’d wished Lana had been in it, too. “Good for her. For both of you. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Great. I wanted to talk about you and Lana maybe performing the song you wrote together.”

  Taft blinked, surprised. “She told you about “Blame Me?’” Lana had said no one should know she wrote it, but he now realized her sisters were exempted. He supposed that was what siblings were for.

  “What?” Adele sat straighter, and a single white twinkle light burned out over her head. Her voice was tight.

  “‘Blame Me?’ No, I was talking about the new song Jake told me about while you were talking to Nate. The song he heard both of you singing this morning.”

  “Oh.”

  She frowned. “But go back to that. What about ‘Blame Me?’”

  Taft thought quickly.

  If Lana’s sister didn’t know about what had happened that night so long ago, shouldn’t she? Wasn’t that the whole point of having a family?

  It wasn’t his place to say anything.

  It wasn’t his right.

  They’d hurt her, though, by not being there for her. The fact that she’d had to go through it so alone—so totally by herself—gutted him. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.

  The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “She wrote it. She didn’t want you to know, but I think you should.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “
Yeah. I am.” What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t his secret to tell.

  Goddamn it, Lana had been hurt. Really hurt, both physically and emotionally.

  Her sisters – who’d been right there – hadn’t been there for her. They hadn’t seen what she’d needed.

  It made him angry. “She could have used you guys back then, you know. When your dad died. Instead, you pushed her out of the nest.”

  “She wrote that song?” Adele’s voice broke. “Who hurt her?”

  “Ask her yourself.”

  “Oh, God.” Adele pulled out her phone. “Where is she?”

  Taft felt sick. He shouldn’t have said it.

  Without saying another word, Adele turned on her heel and began making her way toward room one.

  Taft pulled out his cell and considered texting Lana one more time.

  No.

  Give her some space.

  Let her breathe.

  Hopefully, it had been the right thing to do. She needed the love of her sisters now, needed to be held up and comforted by them. There was so much pain in Lana’s eyes, and some of that came directly from them not being there for her.

  Maybe they could fix that now.

  Yeah, and hopefully she’d forgive him for telling Adele she’d written the song. That’s all it was, after all – it wasn’t like he’d told her anything else.

  If she didn’t forgive him, though …

  Well, then he’d deserve the heartbreak he’d just signed himself up for.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The abalone was gone. The wine was gone, too – she and Molly had drunk two glasses each and Lana was happily, groggily tipsy. Most of the restaurant was empty now, all the tourists cleared out. Nikki dried wineglasses and swayed to the music on the overhead speakers, an old Willie Nelson tune.

  Bed would be good.

  Sleep would be good. Good God, Lana was tired, which made perfect sense when she thought about the fact that she’d been up most of the night prior. She’d napped, yes, but most of her day had been spent stripping wallpaper from the two good walls in room five. That motion had made her shoulders ache.

  She twisted on the counter chair. Other parts of her ached, too, sweetly. Still no text, though. She’d sent one earlier that had merely said, Hope the fishing was good. He hadn’t responded yet.

  That was fine. Sure. All good. He was probably tired and had gone home. He was probably crashed out on his couch right now, still smelling of the sea.

  What Lana wouldn’t do to bury her nose in his neck and smell the brine of the open ocean.

  “Well?” Molly had asked her something.

  “Um …”

  Molly ate a cold fry. “Never mind. You’re hopeless.”

  “No, sorry. What were you saying?”

  Before Molly could repeat herself, the main dining-room door banged open.

  “Adele!” Molly waved, a grin on her face. “Come sit with us!”

  Adele didn’t look like she wanted to sit. She had that look on her face, the one she used to get right before she shouted at both of them for being too little, too slow, too wrong. “Uh-oh.” Lana felt guilty and she didn’t even know what she’d done wrong yet.

  As she drew closer, though, Lana could tell Adele wasn’t angry, exactly.

  It looked worse than that.

  Adele’s voice was tight as she spoke to Lana. “Can I talk to you outside?”

  Molly said brightly, “What’s going on?”

  Adele lifted a hand as if to forestall her. “Just Lana.”

  “Want to go up to the hotel?” Lana was tipsy enough that the thought of arguing with Adele in public probably wasn’t a good idea.

  “Sure.”

  “Molly, you come, too.”

  “No,” said Adele.

  “Yes,” said Lana, and she meant it.

  “Fine.”

  They tromped out of the café’s back door, Molly carrying a new bottle of wine and three glasses. “Fine,” Molly muttered. “I’m glad it’s fine for me to come along.”

  Adele made a frustrated noise but didn’t rise to the bait, thank God. Fear gathered at the base of Lana’s skull, fear that she didn’t have a clue what to do with. If Adele needed to tell her that Taft had perished at sea (on this calm, clear day), she wouldn’t look angry, would she? If she’d found out that Lana had … had what? Adele had been plenty mad at Lana over their lifetimes, and plenty of times Lana had deserved it. At this particular moment, though, Lana couldn’t think of anything she’d done wrong.

  Nerves made the abalone dance in her stomach, and she felt a brief surge of seasickness.

  They wound up the path that led past the side of the saloon. Lana peeked in the high side window, but there were too many people doing a line dance on the dance floor to see if Taft was inside. “Are Dixie and Nate both working?” she asked politely. Of course they were. It looked too busy for Adele to be out of the bar at this time of night if they weren’t.

  Adele blazed ahead without answering. As always, Adele in the lead, Molly solidly in the middle, little Lana dragging behind. Piqued by being ignored, Lana said, “You planning on talking at all?”

  Adele said, “Oh, yeah. I’m going to talk.” She turned right at the fork, going up the stairs that led to her and Nate’s above-bar apartment. The white lights strung around the deck twinkled, and the grouping of mismatched outdoor chairs around the round table were cheerful, in stark contrast to whatever Adele was going to say. Lana was grateful for the fog rolling in, cloaking the deck in mist.

  Molly plopped down in an iron chair with arms and poured wine. “I’m already two glasses in. I’m headed for three. Join me?”

  Adele nodded grimly. “A tiny amount only.”

  Lana also nodded. “You’re scaring me. What have I possibly done to piss you off this much?” She racked her brain – had she left oily rags dangerously piled somewhere? Had she tracked paint on her shoes through the saloon?

  Adele seemed to realize that her features were bleak. She rubbed at her cheeks and swiped her hands over her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry. I just got thrown for such a huge loop, and I …” She choked.

  “What is going on?”

  “Taft –”

  “Is he okay?” Lana’s heart shifted into overdrive, leaping against her ribs. He’d been drowned. Or attacked by a shark. Or killed in a car accident on the way back from the beach. “What is it?”

  “He told me something.”

  A wave of relief washed over her. “He’s not really quitting.”

  “Huh?” Adele frowned.

  “It’s just a thing he thinks now. That’s he’s leaving Nashville. He won’t do it. You know how people get about things like that.” Lana stared into the only bright light, the lamp over Adele’s head, until her vision went white. “He thinks he’s done with the industry, but he was born into it and he’ll have to die to get out of it.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “What, then?”

  “Lana, who hurt you?”

  Lana saw a bright flash as she screwed her eyes tight, just for a second. “No.”

  Adele’s voice was softer. “Honey, who hurt you?”

  Molly leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

  Lana shook her head.

  Molly said, “Lana, what is she talking about?”

  Lana’s whole body felt brightly lit now, as a white-clear heat soared from her chest out of the top of her head.

  Taft couldn’t have told Adele.

  “I don’t know,” Lana finally said. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

  “You wrote “Blame Me.’”

  The thud of it detonated in her chest. “What?” It was a stalling mechanism, and maybe during the brief second it would take for Adele to gather her words together, Lana could close her eyes. She’d disappear again, like she had in the café kitchen, except this time she’d truly dissipate like the smoke into the grill hood, up and out into the
night sky.

  “She did?” asked Molly.

  “Where did you even get that idea?”

  Adele just stared at her.

  “So what if I did?” It shouldn’t matter, anyway. Songs were fictional. So often, they were completely made up. No one thought Johnny Cash was a boy named Sue, did they?

  Adele’s voice was thin as she asked again, “Who hurt you?”

  Lana gasped. “He shouldn’t have said anything. He should never have said a word to you. I told him.”

  “Well, apparently he forgot, and I’m glad. Lana, tell us.” Adele’s whole body radiated anger, though. It was coming off her in waves.

  That was not goddamn fair.

  “Why?” Lana sat up as straight as she could. She set the wineglass down. She didn’t need any more, and if she held the glass any longer, she’d probably snap the stem. “Why should I tell you a thing? You’re already mad at me.” She stuck the side of her pinky into her mouth and gnawed briefly on the skin.

  Molly gasped. “What are you talking about?”

  Adele shook her head so hard her hair, which had been up in a loose knot on top of her head, fell in messy waves. She looked about twenty, vulnerable and young. “You think I’m mad at you?”

  That same thump reverberated in the middle of Lana’s chest. “You’re acting like you want to kill me, yeah.”

  Adele covered her mouth with her hand and stood so abruptly her chair fell backward with a heavy thud. She took a few steps away and then set her chair upright and sat again, as if it had been her intention all along. “I’m not mad at you, you idiot.”

  Lana just shook her head, her mouth empty of words.

  “I’m furious at myself. For not realizing.”

  Adele was angry at herself? Lana had a hard time believing it. She knew rage when it was directed at her, and Adele seemed full of it. “Really.”

  “Jesus, Lana.” Adele’s words were so ragged Lana wondered if she was about to cry. “Can you just tell us?”

  “Songs aren’t always autobiographical. You both know that.” It was a false protest. She could tell they both knew that.

  “Little Lana.”