He had a nice new-to-him house, on the coast, in a part of the world most of the rest of the world longed to live in. His backyard opened into the Pacific. That stretch of beach down there? Technically, he owned it.
It would be handy when he built a wall around the property. He’d brick himself in, so no one could ever talk to him or see him again. Walkers on the beach would wonder where the partition had come from, and then they’d take pictures of it to share back home. Kids would graffiti it. Eventually, years down the line, someone would come check on him and find him dead on the porch, probably of alcoholism, which he intended to acquire as soon as humanly possible. Maybe even tonight if he could figure out how to keep the whole bottle of alcohol down.
Waves crashed, and even though they were five hundred yards away at the bottom of the cliff, he could hear them as if he were in them, being tumbled around like a shoe in a washing machine.
His cell rang.
Davina.
Shit. When was the last time his mother had called him?
Not since she’d told him the truth on his birthday. The day he’d met Lana.
He took a long swallow of bourbon, feeling it burn down his throat and into his stomach. “You heard.”
“I can’t believe you told them. Why did you do it?” Her voice was a whine, and instead of making him annoyed like it usually did, he just felt sad.
“I didn’t. Someone else did.”
“That Darling girl. I knew it. I saw the video, and I’ve got to say, you two look as ridiculous as a pair of teenagers.”
It made sense. He’d felt like one around Lana, like they’d invented kissing, like they were the first to ever fall in love.
In love.
He was such a fucking idiot. “I won’t disagree with you on that.”
His mother sucked in air, as if surprised. “So she is the one who told the media about Palmer?”
“Why is this about Palmer at all?” He was struck by something that hadn’t occurred to him before this very second. “When it comes right down to it, this is about you.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one who had a baby and lied about its parentage. For thirty-six years. It’s not like any of this was Palmer’s fault.”
“Darling.” It was her charming voice. His mother could be endearing when she tried to be, which she did for the first six months of any relationship with a man. Problem was, Taft couldn’t remember back to being in the womb.
“Nope. Not his fault, Mom.”
“You’re blaming me?”
Hell, yes, he was. “You should have been honest.”
“And have him abandon me? Where would we have been?”
“We?” Rage was making his hands shake.
“Me and you.”
“I’m familiar with the definition.” Maybe that was the primary problem, that he and Davina had never felt like family, ever, not even since he was a child. She’d had a vested interest in keeping Palmer happy when they’d been together, and who knew? Maybe they were. She’d always lit up in a way when she’d been with Palmer that Taft hadn’t seen any other time. She’d been a loving wife to him more often than not. She just hadn’t been an enthusiastic mother. When he was little, Taft would run to Palmer to be soothed. It was Palmer he yelled for at night after a bad dream, never Davina. “There was never a we.”
Another gasp. “You hurt me. Why do you hurt me like that?”
She was just a woman.
For years, Davina had been almost mythical in his mind, the guilt over his feelings toward her eating him alive. He loved her because she was his mother. But he didn’t like her.
For the first time, he saw her clearly. She was just a broken, lonely woman who didn’t know how to love a son, which was sad.
But it wasn’t his problem. He could honor her – she was his mother, he was pretty damn sure of that, at least. He didn’t have to admire her, though, something he’d been trying and failing to do his whole life.
“If I hadn’t married Palmer, where would we be today? I’d be working in a laundromat in Tulsa. Like my mother. You would probably be a … a carpenter or something.”
“Would that be so bad? Either of those things?”
“I will never understand you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“We’ll deny it. I’ll go on Good Morning America and I’ll say she made it up to get attention.”
“The jig’s up, Mom. It’s over.”
His mother’s wail was long and painful in his ear. “You’ll end up on skid row!”
“Is that even a thing anymore?”
“Somewhere it is. You’ll end up hooked on drugs and overdosing in a hotel in Vegas.”
“Are you wishing or predicting?”
“Don’t make fun of me!” Her voice cracked, and Taft remembered how it used to do that when Palmer would tease her, when they’d laugh in the kitchen and she’d yell at him but not mean it. Palmer would steal a kiss after her frustration about whatever it was wound down, and his mother would seem almost happy in those moments. Palmer had loved Davina. He’d loved love, period.
Taft cleared his throat. “I’ll always consider him my father.”
“But you’ll tell the world.”
“The truth, yes.”
“Taft.”
“I owe them that. Dad believed in honesty above all, remember?” It felt good and awful at the same time to call Palmer Dad again.
You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.
“He wouldn’t be proud of me for keeping a secret like this.”
“You don’t owe them a thing.”
“I do. Because of him.”
“You’ll be broke.”
“That’s okay.” Taft held out his hand and looked at his knuckles. He made a fist. “I’m strong. I’m in my thirties. I’ve still got a lot of work I can do with these bones. It’s funny you mentioned carpentry –”
“What about me?”
This was the core issue. This was why she’d called. “You got everything of his, Ma. You’re fine.”
There was a long pause. “I’m running out. Again.”
“Money will still come in, don’t worry.” The royalties in Palmer Hill’s trust still brought in more money than most wealthy Americans would ever see.
“What if it’s not enough?”
“Then you scale back.” He watched a seagull light on the corner of the railing. It looked at him with one beady eye, as if judging how likely he was to throw stale bread.
“I was counting on you,” his mother wailed again.
“That was your first problem.” The seagull clucked, disappointed.
“Taft.”
A sour taste that had nothing to do with the bourbon filled his mouth. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You know I’ll always take care of you.” It was true. He didn’t have to like his mother, but he’d make sure she was comfortable.
“How? You’re a nobody now.”
He liked the sound of it. “Royalty money will keep coming in, no matter what the press says about me. I’ll be okay. And I bought a house out here. In Darling Bay.”
“You’re staying there? With her?”
Not with Lana. No.
No.
Heavily, he said, “I like it here. I’ve joined a construction crew.”
“You what?”
“There’s enough room in the yard for one of those tiny homes. I’ll contract the guys to help me build it, and if you and Teddy ever split, you can live in it if you need to.”
“Me? In a tiny home?”
He almost laughed. “You’d be fine. There are TV shows about it. You just get rid of everything you own, get down to four changes of clothes. Two plates, two mugs. You can eat up at my house if you need a bigger table.”
“You’re teasing me.”
He was, but he was more than half serious at the same time. “I’m not sure about running water out to it – I think there are pretty strict laws about digging e
xtra sewer lines this close to shore. There are composting toilets.”
A sigh came through the earpiece.
He smiled – he couldn’t help it. “People say they don’t even smell.”
“I’m glad you’re finding this funny.”
“I hadn’t been, until you called.” Honestly, it wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had. He’d always loved those tiny homes, even as he found them ridiculous and entitled. Those not able to afford much space had been living in tiny places for as long as humankind had needed shelter, and now rich people were discovering the joy of less?
It would be fun to build, and it would be hilarious to see his mother, to whom travelling light meant taking only one suitcase of shoes instead of three, try to fit herself into a space the size of her smallest closet. “You might like it. Pare down. See what’s essential.”
“Stop teasing me.”
“Okay, okay. Look, just don’t answer your phone for a month. It’ll blow over in two or three weeks. No one will care. They’ll move on.”
“They’ll want to know who your real father was.”
“Screw ’em. You don’t owe them anything.”
There was a longer pause. “Do you hate me?”
He sighed and took another sip. The seagull took off with a clapping of wings. “No, of course I don’t.”
“I was only trying to do what was best for you.”
The problem was that he knew it wasn’t true. It would be nice if it were. If Davina had been the kind of mother who would bare her teeth and fight off the wolves at the door by doing whatever it took to take care of him.
She’d been looking out for herself.
By doing it, she’d taken pretty damn good care of Taft along the way. “You couldn’t have picked a better father for me. I know that.”
“Taft.” A short pause. “I love you.”
Maybe she meant it. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt. “You, too, Mom.”
“Am I going to have to meet her?”
Lana. He had wanted them to meet. He’d wanted to introduce them, to tell Lana everything about her.
He’d wanted his mother to approve of Lana, as stupid as that sounded now.
“No, Mom. You won’t have to.”
“Good.” Her voice was brisk. “No tiny home.”
“Tour bus?”
She laughed, and for a moment Taft wiped the image of Lana betraying him out of his mind and just let the sound of his mother’s laughter and the ocean’s waves fill his ears.
His heart, he knew, would never be filled again.
Chapter Forty-Three
Lana lay in her bed. Alone.
Well, except for Emily Dickinson, of course. The dog made it hard to feel alone with the way she wriggled and squirmed and tried to nuzzle right underneath Lana.
But Lana was managing to feel lonely anyway.
“Come here, you.” She wrestled lightly with Emily Dickinson, but the pup got carried away and nipped the side of her thigh, right through her yoga pants. “Ow!” Those little teeth were ridiculously sharp. She pushed the dog away, and then immediately felt guilty at the shocked look on Emily’s face. “I’m sorry. Jeez. Sorry, little one.”
Lana wanted something. Someone.
She wanted Taft.
So badly. She wanted to run to him, wherever he was, and apologize. Grovel.
But how did you apologize for ruining a person’s entire life?
There was no way. It was impossible.
Her eye fell on the framed photo – Molly and Adele laughing, Lana frowning in the background.
There were twenty-two new texts on her phone, two of them from Molly: Are you okay? Come eat. You can hide in the kitchen. Three were from Adele: Come upstairs. Tell me how you are. I’m worried. Don’t make me use the master key on your room.
Being in this room was unbearable.
She tucked Emily Dickinson in her crate. “Time to sleep.” Emily Dickinson curled up without a single whimper, burying her nose in the blanket.
That was good. At least there was one living thing at peace.
Not Lana, though. She needed …
I am the kind of woman who doesn’t need anyone.
What a lie.
She went outside. Sitting on the porch swing in front of the room, she dialed Molly. It went to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.
Lana heard a light laugh. Adele’s voice.
She crept forward in the dark, sneaking into the garden, far enough that she could look up and see Adele give Nate a kiss. Her sister said something to him to make him grin, and then he ran down the stairs and into the arbor behind the saloon.
What would it be like? To be with a man who loved you like that? Nate’s eyes lit up every time her sister walked into his view.
What would it feel like to be confident in that love?
Lana couldn’t even imagine.
She took a deep breath and then went up the stairs to their back apartment. She walked past the picnic table, touching a string of white lights. When Uncle Hugh had lived up here, the whole deck had been covered with car parts and spare buckets and whatever gas grill he was tinkering with.
Now the space looked like something out of Better Homes & Gardens.
What was best? Then, or now? Then, her parents had been alive. The girls had been young, in a band that was setting the country on fire.
Now, their parents and uncle were dead. They were – all three of the girls – washed up. Adele and Molly still sang a bit, but the reason they’d made their album earlier in the year was to raise money for Molly’s charity, Migration. It wasn’t to tour, or to make serious cash, or to garner critical attention.
It hadn’t been the Darling Songbirds – Lana hadn’t even been on the album. (Molly had asked her to sing with them, via text, of course. Of course, Lana had said no.)
Everything was different now. Maybe it wasn’t for the worse, exactly, but could it possibly be for the better?
Lana was still alone.
Always little Lana the loner, off by herself.
Her hand raised to rap on Adele’s door.
Then she let it fall. The last time they’d spoken, up here on this same porch, they’d argued. They’d come so close to finally talking about what mattered, and then Lana had run.
She turned to go.
The door opened. “Why didn’t you knock?”
“What?” Lana hunched her shoulders and turned to look guiltily at her sister.
“I heard you come up the stairs. I was watching you through the window.”
“Spy.”
“You just stood there.” Adele’s voice was soft. “What was going through your head?”
Anger. Sadness. Despair. Tears burned at the back of Lana’s eyes again. “I don’t know. I didn’t know what to do.”
Adele held the door all the way open. “You just come in. That’s all.”
While Lana sat silently at the kitchen table, her sister made popcorn. It had been ages since Lana had seen anyone do it on the stove, heating the oil, shaking the pot back and forth. The smell made her think of afternoons at the movies and of nights at home in Nashville. “Dad always liked it without butter,” Lana said.
Adele shook the pot again, holding the lid on. “And Mom would sneak it on.”
“He’d always complain but he’d eat it anyway.”
“We all did.” Adele poured it into a bowl. “I don’t know how you like it. That’s terrible.” She looked sad, but there was only room for one heartbroken Darling girl at a time.
“I’ll tell you. Then you’ll know.” Lana held out the box of salt. “All salt, all the time, no butter, unless you want some, and then I’ll just be the opposite of Dad and eat it without complaining.”
Adele’s smile was cautious. “How about the tiniest bit of butter you ever saw? So tiny you won’t even notice it’s there.”
Her sister carried the bowl into the sitting room at the front of the building. Lana followed. A memory of
lying on the hardwood floor struck her. “Remember we used to beg Uncle Hugh to drill a hole in the floor? So we could spy on the dance floor from up here?”
Adele nodded. “Maybe we’ll do that someday.”
“You might get sued. Lack of privacy or something.” They were just words. Just noises, to give the air something to do around them. Lana felt sweat start at her temples, but she wasn’t hot.
Adele sat on the old red settee. She patted the spot next to her.
Lana sat awkwardly and took a handful of popcorn.
Adele, though, didn’t seem uneasy at all. She sat, crossing her legs under her. “I’m sorry about the way I acted last night. I was bossy, as usual, and I pushed too much. That’s why you ran away from me in the first place, and I’ve been so scared I’ll do it again that I don’t quite know what to say.”
Lana stared. Adele knew she was pushy? And she was apologizing for it? The world seemed suddenly upside-down.
Adele held out the bowl. “You don’t have to take care of me. Tell me about you, little one.”
The endearment hit her like a punch. “That’s what Mama called me.”
“I think she called all of us that.”
It was a sentence that would have pissed Lana off a year ago. Maybe even a month ago. How dare Adele try to steal an endearment from her?
But now it crossed Lana’s mind that Adele had no intention of stealing anything at all. She was just a woman, doing her best in the world.
A pregnant woman.
“You’re going to have one of those. A little Darling.” Lana pointed at Adele’s stomach. “Unless you take Nate’s name, that is.”
Adele rubbed her small belly. “Never. I’m a Darling. I’ll die one. If I wasn’t a Darling, I wouldn’t know who I was.”
Lana felt a rush of unexpected relief flood her bones coolly and sweetly, like the tea their mother used to make. “Me, too.”
“Good. Now. What happened? I kept getting press phone calls at the bar, and those leeches were trying to pry something out of me, so I made Nate take over.”
Lana hadn’t even considered the fact that obviously, the reporters would flock to Adele or Molly if they couldn’t get to her. “What did they say?”
“That you said Taft was a bastard.”
The Songbird Sisters Page 23