“I admire that.”
“Don’t. I didn’t get there overnight, but the bit about time being the great healer is true. Time and a couple of growing kids who needed me to be Daddy, not a grieving ball of mush lying across the bed.” He huffed softly at the apt description, surprised he was telling her this.
“What happened? An accident?”
“No, but almost as sudden and every bit as unexpected. Sometimes I think if we’d done things differently, if I’d acted sooner, maybe she would still be here.”
“You feel guilty?”
“Not guilty exactly.” He shrugged, admitting the existence of that tiny niggle. “Maybe a little. Cheryl didn’t like going to doctors. Of any kind. Once she had a toothache for a week before I could convince her to see a dentist. So when she got sick with what she considered the flu, we thought she’d be okay in a few days. She took over-the-counter medicines, stayed in bed. At her insistence I left the kids with Jenny, so they wouldn’t get sick, too. But she didn’t get better.”
“She died of the flu?”
He shook his head, remembering the terrible moment when he’d known something much worse than flu infected his wife. “That last day, I’d taken off work at noon to come home. She scolded me, told me to stop worrying, and get back to work. It was the last time we ever spoke. When I arrived home that evening, she was unconscious.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I couldn’t wake her up.”
“Oh, Davis, I can’t imagine. You must have been scared out of your mind.”
“I was.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I carried her to the car and drove like a madman to the clinic. Dr. Ron took one look at her and called Creed Carter to fly her to a hospital in Little Rock. She died en route. Cardiac arrest.”
“But she was so young.”
“She had some kind of heart defect we didn’t even know about. Probably had it all her life.”
The terror and shock followed by an ice-cold numbness came back to Davis. He’d been zombielike for a while, with no emotions.
Lana set her mug on a scarred end table and scooted closer to him. “How awful.”
“It was.” He’d gone through the motions of life, of death, of a funeral. He’d accepted the flowers and sympathies, the fried chicken and prayers, feeling the love and compassion of a small town. The real grief struck later after everyone had gone back to their normal lives, but his life would never be the same again. “I know it’s foolish to dwell on, but I can’t help wondering now and then. What if I’d insisted she see a doctor, if I’d acted sooner when she didn’t get better?”
Her hand closed over his. “God is in charge of things, even the big picture, right?” She gave his words back to him.
“Wise woman.” Before he could think better of it, he put his arm around her and pulled her next to him. He knew he shouldn’t have. It was a bad idea considering the late hour and the fact that they were completely alone without the worry of a kid interruption. Add the emotion of discussing Cheryl, the dinner date that had made him feel more awkward than anything and the nearness of this particular woman. Touching her might not be a smart move.
She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed. His pulse kicked up. This was nice, actually. Harmless and nice. Sitting together on the couch with the fireplace snapping and the old house creaking around them was a pleasant end to the evening. They were simply neighbors having a conversation.
Then why did he have this overpowering desire to kiss her?
* * *
He was going to kiss her.
Lana’s heart thudded wildly against her rib cage, a captive bird begging to be released.
Davis’s fingertips, calloused and rough from work, brushed her hair away from her cheek. The rough tenderness sent a shiver through her body. She wanted to reciprocate, to stroke his strong, clean-shaven jaw, to snuggle closer.
They were alone. Sydney was asleep. The fireplace lulled with its golden glow and warm, crackling flame. No one would know the nicest guy in Whisper Falls had kissed the town’s bad girl.
Was the man completely out of his mind? Was she?
Reluctantly, she broke contact and scooted away, thrusting about in her head for something to say. Automatically, she went to the one thing that had always been her answer, her solace, her conversation when she had no words. She went to the fireside, picked up the guitar and strummed a quiet chord.
She dared a glance at Davis. He’d sat forward on the sofa, leaning toward her, puzzled.
She was puzzled, too. Puzzled by the sweet yearning to be something that she wasn’t for his sake.
“You must wonder,” she started, perching on the brick hearth, knees crossed to balance the instrument.
The caged bird beat harder, fluttering up to her throat. What would he think if she told him? Would he walk away and never return? And if he did, wouldn’t that be the best thing for him and his beautiful little kids?
She searched his face, her chin high and cool as if she didn’t know she’d rejected him. He watched her, eyes a stormy color.
“I wonder about a lot of things.”
Lana thought she understood. He wondered why she’d hustled away, a woman like her with nothing left to lose. Certainly no reputation that mattered. He could stay here in her house all night and no one would be surprised that she’d allowed it. There might be a titter of conversation and Davis’s reputation would be smirched but not hers. It was too late for her.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said.
He cocked his head, sandy brown eyebrows dipping to a V. “I think I’m lost.”
So am I.
“At the ball game. I refused to sing tonight even though I’ve sung that song dozens of times.” Her fingers found the strings and strummed again, restless, needing the comfort music could bring. “Do you want to know why?”
He shook his head. “I admit I was curious, but you have a right not to sing if you don’t want to. It’s your voice, your God-given talent. You can share it or not. Your choice.”
“But you think I’m being selfish?” She could see the hint of accusation in his eyes, hear it in the slightly tense comments.
His gaze slid away from hers. “They shouldn’t have pounced on you without asking first.”
“What did they say?” She pressed, a glutton for punishment, wanting him to say something cruel so she wouldn’t like him so much. The basketball crowd had complained. She was sure of it. This town disliked her and tonight she’d added to their long list of reasons. “Go on. I’m tough. You have to grow thick skin in the music business.” Though she’d learned most of her toughness in Whisper Falls.
“Forget tonight. Like I said, your voice, your choice.”
“I don’t think I’m too good to sing in Whisper Falls, Davis, if that’s what you think. And it’s not about money. I’ve sung for nothing a lot more often than I’ve sung for pay.” The whisper of a song pushed up in her throat. She let it loose, humming.
He rose from the sofa and came toward her. Her stomach fluttered. She fought down the quiver of emotion, one part of her wanting him closer, the other willing him to keep his distance.
“So, if singing tonight wasn’t about money or prestige, what was the problem?” He stood too close, one hand on the brick surrounding the fireplace, his scent mixing with the wood smoke. He’d carried the night in with him and she could smell the stars and moon. Man and moon, a heady combination.
“Some things happened in Nashville. I lost my...” Telling him about the fear was easy. But what about the rest?
“Voice?”
“In a manner of speaking. I lost my confidence.” Truth was, her confidence had been artificial, taken from a gin glass. But she couldn’t tell him that.
“No way. Even your humming sounds incredible to me.” He tugged at his pant leg and settled next to her on the hearth. “Rough honey. Isn’t that what the Music City News said about your voice?”
She recalled the wild thrill of reading her name in the prest
igious publication. “You saw that?”
His eyes twinkled into hers. “Everyone in Whisper Falls saw it. We thought you were on your way to the top. Small-town girl making it big.”
Such a good man. Such a sweet, all-American face. Good to the soul.
“All I made was a mess,” she admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. But that was as much as she dared say. She couldn’t bear for him to know the rest, the debauchery, the nights spent too drunk to remember. Before he could press for details, she said, “Somewhere along the way, I developed a powerful case of stage fright. I can’t get in front of an audience anymore.”
“Stage fright?” He blinked, head tilted as if he couldn’t quite take in her admission. “That’s why you wouldn’t sing tonight? You were afraid?”
“More than afraid, Davis. Terrified. Panicked. I can’t really even describe how bad it is.” She found the strings again, this time finger-picking a soft tune she’d composed. “I get so scared I think I’m going to die. I can’t breathe. My heart races out of my chest.”
“Did you see a doctor?”
“Doctors cost money, and they can’t cure what ails me.”
“You’re too good to let fear stand in the way.”
“Thank you for that.” The melody from her guitar floated in the space between them. A love song. “But I’m okay with letting it go. My career was over before it started.”
“I don’t believe you.” He placed his hard fingers across hers, stopping the music. “God doesn’t take back His gifts, and your gift is music. Look at you. The guitar is as much as a part of you as your beautiful hair.”
He thought her hair was pretty? “I gave up singing, not music.”
“Do you want to perform again?” He pulled his hand away, but hers remained on the strings, the feel of him vibrating through her skin.
“I—” She opened her mouth to deny the desire, but the words wouldn’t come. She didn’t want to sing the way she’d done before but oh, if she could sing unfettered by fear. If the songbird in her soul could fly free of its captivity. “Maybe,” she ended.
He pulled her right hand from the guitar and into his, turning it palm up where he traced the line from thumb to pinky. Then he found the fingertip calluses, made deep by the frequent rub against the strings, and stroked them over and over. A tiny, raspy sound whispered from his skin to hers. A shiver, pure and lovely, ran along her arm.
“Do you believe in prayer?” he murmured.
“Absolutely.” Prayer had literally saved her life. “Why?”
“The Bible says God has not given us the spirit of fear. He can take away that stage fright.”
“You pray for me, then,” she said.
“Count on it.”
The thought of Davis calling out her name to God was a balm to her bruised spirit. God would listen to a good man like Davis.
They sat in silence for a bit, the fire warming their backs and Davis’s skin warming hers. She thought she should pull away but she couldn’t. She’d always been weak.
After a few tender moments, he squeezed her fingers and turned her loose. “What about Tess? Did she stop singing too?”
“She still works the clubs.” Some. When she’s not too strung out to show up.
“You still write?”
He remembered that? “I tried selling some of my songs. No takers.”
“Play one for me. You don’t have to sing it. Just play.”
“I don’t mind singing at home.” And even if she did, she’d play for him.
Her fingers coaxed a melody from the guitar, and this time she sang along, softly at first and then louder until the room filled with music.
“On wings of the wind, through the clouds and the rain, your love carries me, carries me.”
She closed her eyes and let the music take her as it always could, letting the emotion flow. The words and the melody rose from somewhere deep inside, an underground cavern of diamonds and gold, hidden from the world but always there, rich and beautiful. Only when the music took her did she feel this way, as if she was elevated to another plane where nothing could hurt her.
She looked toward Davis. Was he feeling it too? Yes, she thought he was, and she was mesmerized by his expression. Rapt. Impressed. Entertained.
The pleasure of sharing her music thickened in her chest. She hadn’t felt that buzz of connection in a long time and it was good. Really good.
As the song ended and her voice faded away, the lilting melody hummed in the cozy quiet for several seconds.
Davis shook his head back and forth in a slow pendulum. “Wow.”
Self-consciousness rushed in. “Does that mean, wow, it was good or wow, you’re glad it’s over?”
“That means, wow, I’d like to have a copy.”
“Really?” Complimented, she pulled a sheet from a folder on the hearth. “Take it. I have more.”
With a near reverence she found both touching and amusing, he accepted the simple sheet music. “You know this is amazing, don’t you? You’re amazing. Talented, gifted, whatever word you want to use. Not that I know a thing about writing music, but that was beautiful. And your voice is stunning. I don’t understand why you’d be afraid to share it.”
“You haven’t been to Music City. I’m not too impressive there.”
“Must be a really tough business or else you didn’t meet the right people.”
“You have no idea. Definitely not for the weak.” Which she had been. She set her guitar against the wall and stood.
Davis followed her up where he stretched his hands out toward the fireplace. He couldn’t be cold but the heat was nice. She joined him, stretching out her hands as he had done.
He rolled his head her direction. “There’s nothing weak about you, Lana.”
“Oh, but I am. I was.” She tossed her hair back, eyeing the ceiling with its fresh coat of paint. “That’s why I’m here, in the house I swore I would never again lay eyes on. After I found Jesus, I had to make some changes for Sydney’s sake as well as my own.”
“Why did you hate this place so much?” He backed away from the fire, his cheeks rosy. “Why didn’t you ever visit?”
She heard the accusation and knew he asked why she’d never visited her mother, why she’d missed the funeral attended only by an uncle and a few townspeople. She drew a deep breath and let it seep out, contemplating. What difference did it make if she told him?
“My family was about as dysfunctional as you can find. Or it seemed that way to me as a kid.”
“I never knew that.”
Why would he? They’d never hung out. “My dad kept up a good front but my mother was a nightmare. Looking back, I think she might have suffered from mental illness, but to a child, she was just plain mean. Tess and I stayed as far away from her as we could.”
“Was she that bad?”
“Oh, yeah. That bad and worse. She did some things to us....” Her voice trailed off. “Mostly words but not always. She locked us in the cellar a couple of times overnight.”
She tried to say it as if the abuse didn’t matter, as if she wasn’t bothered by her mother’s cruelty but she knew she failed.
Davis, always Mr. Nice Guy, rubbed her back. She didn’t read anything into it. He was a friend, offering comfort. “I’m sorry, Lana. Stuff like that shouldn’t happen.”
“We survived. It was just spooky and cold.” She tossed her head and tried for bravado. “Gosh, I was mad at her.”
So mad she hadn’t gone home for three days. But mostly, she’d been heartsick that her own mother could hate her that much. And that her father could care so little that he’d leave and never even call. She’d found him once on the internet but hadn’t made contact. What was the point?
“No wonder you didn’t want to come back to this house.”
“No, I didn’t. That’s for sure. But Sydney deserved more than I could give her on the road. At least here she has stability. This house may not be much, but it’s ou
rs.” And Mama was gone. Lana felt guilty for being glad about that, but no matter how much she prayed, she was still glad.
“By next fall you won’t recognize this place.”
Which was exactly what she wanted. Wipe out all the ugly memories and replace them with Sydney’s laughter and her music. Even now, the living room felt cozy and friendly in a way that it had never been when she was young.
“If the money holds out.”
“What about Sydney’s father? Doesn’t he help with expenses?”
The words were cold water in the face. She’d known he would ask, sooner or later. She also knew he wouldn’t like the answer, but for Sydney’s safety, the partial truth was all she was willing to give. Even if it meant he would walk away and never look back. For his sake, that’s exactly what he should do. He and his children needed a woman like blonde Tara or one of Jenny’s church friends, not a has-been, former drunk singer with the reputation of an alley cat.
“That isn’t possible.”
“Why not?”
A beat passed. A log fell and shot sparks. Neither of them moved.
Lana cleared her throat. Confident she was doing the right thing, she said, “I have no idea who Sydney’s father is.”
* * *
Davis lay awake a long time after he left Lana’s house. Thoughts shot through his head like fiery arrows, sharp and burning. Tonight Lana had opened up to him as never before and he wasn’t sure what to do with the information.
Her childhood had been horrible. He couldn’t imagine a parent locking her child in the cellar, and he didn’t doubt Patricia Ross had been abusive in other ways.
Despite her confession about Sydney’s parentage, he was still attracted to her. He’d wanted to be with her, to kiss her, as badly afterward as before. Maybe more. Her strange mix of invincible warrior and vulnerability had touched him. She seemed so bravely alone, as if she expected him to pass judgment and kick her out.
Was the woman intentionally trying to push him away? Was that it?
He tossed onto his side, pummeled his pillow. She liked him. At least, he thought she did. Or was she using him, as Jenny had suggested, as a means to get her house remodeled?
No, that wasn’t Lana. She’d never asked him for anything. Not once. He’d offered. She was the workaholic, stripping wood and scrubbing floors at all hours of the day and night.
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