by Joan Kilby
He lifted a hand in Dingo’s direction and headed for the exit. Dingo sang the last bars but his worried gaze followed Finn across the café.
Carly grabbed her hoodie. She was almost out the door before she remembered the community noticeboard and quickly tacked up the notice Finn had composed.
“Slow down,” she called, running after him. He strode ahead, his long legs encased in skinny jeans, his broad shoulders hunched. Catching up, she grabbed his jacket sleeve, forcing him to look at her. His face was white and dotted with perspiration.
Shocked, she let go of his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
CHAPTER FOUR
FINN PULLED ON the neck of his sweater, sucking in air as Carly stared at him, eyes wide. Inside his tight chest his heart thudded like a drum solo. If he’d known Dingo was going to blindside him like that he would never have set foot in Rhonda’s café.
“What’s going on, Finn?” Carly said. “What happened back there?”
“You wanted to know if you’d ever heard a song I wrote?” he said. “That was my song. I wrote it.”
“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes popped. “I had no idea you were famous.”
“I’m not,” he said flatly. “The band who sang it is.”
“Why didn’t you sing?” she asked. “Why let Dingo do your song?”
“I don’t perform anymore.” He hated the way Carly was looking at him, all worried and wanting an explanation. He’d enjoyed hanging with her and hoped they could spend a day or two together before he went on his way. Not going to happen now.
He resumed stalking up the hill. It galled him that fans loved the Screaming Reindeer’s version, and today, Dingo’s. They were all fine musicians, no offense, but no one had ever heard the song the way he’d intended it to be played. The familiar dilemma stuck in Finn’s craw. He couldn’t have it both ways, simultaneously wanting anonymity and recognition. Craving the applause but not willing to risk making a fool of himself by choking onstage.
“Finn, wait,” Carly persisted, hurrying after him. “Why did you run out? Why do you look like you’re having a heart attack? And why are you scowling? Aren’t you pleased that people like your music?”
“I should be, shouldn’t I?” Finn strode briskly up South Hill toward Irene’s house.
Carly jogged behind, trying to keep up. “So what’s the problem?”
He threw her a black look. “Forget it. It’s no concern of yours.”
“You were my aunt’s favorite student,” she said. “Her concern is my concern.”
“I’m not a lost dog,” he growled. “You’re not responsible for me.”
“I care about you! You and I go back a long way. I thought we were friends.” She stopped and pressed a hand to her stomach.
Finn circled back and put a hand under her elbow. “Are you all right? You look sick.”
“I think I really am going to throw up this time.” Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. “I am never drinking scotch again.”
“Sit down.” He led her to a stone retaining wall and made her sit, gently pressing her head forward with a hand on her back. “Head between the legs. Never would have pegged you as being so high maintenance.”
“I’m not. Usually I’m the one looking after other people.” Her voice was muffled by the messy honey-blond hair falling over either side of her face.
Her slender nape looked so pretty and feminine. Finn blew on her damp skin and massaged circles on her back. Soothing Carly took his mind off himself and helped him calm down. There were better things to expend his emotional energy on than flogging himself for not being the man everyone had expected him to be.
Her breathing slowed and after a moment she sat up. “Thanks. I was afraid for a moment I was going to lose the hangover cure.”
He brushed the hair out of her eyes. Soft and silky, it slipped through his fingers as he tucked it behind her ears. “Sit here. I’ll go get my car.”
“No, just give me a minute. I’ll be all right.” She straightened and pushed his hands away. “I still don’t get why you walked out of the café.”
Finn’s sigh was more like a groan and came from someplace deep and dark. He wasn’t ready to spill his guts to Carly, not even after she’d witnessed his anxiety, so he continued talking about the side issue. “This is going to sound egotistical but I can’t stand hearing my music played by other people. Not the artists I sold it to, not even my friends.”
“Why not?” she asked. “It’s such a compliment. Aren’t you proud?”
“No one ever plays my music the way I hear it in my head.” His hands clenched. “It...grates. I try not to make a thing of it, but that’s the way it is.”
“That’s not egotistical,” she said. “That’s wanting to express your vision. You should play your music yourself, show the world how it’s supposed to sound and what it means to you. Why didn’t you take the opportunity today?”
“I wasn’t prepared.” But it was more than that, of course. Even now he could feel the band tighten around his chest and he struggled for breath. “After that failed concert I never performed before an audience again.” Not successfully, that is.
Carly lifted her head, eyes wide. “But...that’s totally messed up.”
“That’s me, messed up.”
“Wait, I’m confused,” Carly said. “The difficulty breathing, the perspiration on your forehead. That looks like anxiety to me. Are you saying you don’t want to perform, or that you can’t?”
“Can’t, don’t want to, what’s the difference?”
“Big difference. Huge.”
“It comes to the same thing.”
A crease appeared between Carly’s eyebrows as she tried to puzzle him out. “You played last night at Irene’s wake. You were right into it, enjoying yourself.”
True, but there hadn’t been an audience per se. He’d been surrounded by other musicians all singing or playing. He hadn’t even thought about it, just headed for the piano and tried to conjure Irene from the keys. Put him in front of a room of people watching and he would have frozen, as he knew from painful experience the few times he’d attempted it in Los Angeles bars.
“Well?” Carly was eyeing him like a therapist trying to bring her patient to the brink of a breakthrough.
“Don’t go getting any ideas that you can help me, or change me,” he said. “Your aunt tried to do that. It didn’t work. And I owed her a whole lot more than I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Carly touched his chest with her fingertips. “Irene didn’t believe you owed her anything, either.” Sadly, she added, “She loved you.”
“I loved her, too,” Finn said quietly. He hated that he’d hurt her. And he hated that he’d let his mother down. But he’d also vowed that he wasn’t going to try to live up to anyone’s expectations but his own.
As if she’d read his mind, Carly said, “It’s yourself you’re hurting by not fulfilling your potential.”
Not fulfilling his potential. How many times had he heard that? Way too many. His life was not a tragedy.
“I’m better off than a lot of people.” And he was grateful for it every single day. Rising, he said, “Ready to go?”
They trudged up the steep hill, Carly half a step behind, silent, no doubt still taking in everything he’d said. Finn walked faster, his shoulders bowed by the weight of everyone’s unfulfilled dreams for him. Ahead, his Mustang beckoned. He longed to sink into the soft black leather, turn the music up real loud, and head on down the road. Out on the highway, all by himself, his problems wouldn’t exist. But he couldn’t leave town so soon after the funeral when Carly was still bereft over Irene and she hadn’t found Rufus.
He slowed as he approached the car, reaching into his pocket to jingle his keys. “Do you want to drive around, look for Rufus some more?”
Carly hesitated, glancing toward the house. “I should probably go inside, see if anyone’s still there.”
“Okay, well, I’ll cruise around for a bit before I go over to Dingo and Marla’s.”
“They’ll be worried about you,” Carly said.
“They’re cool.” But he felt bad about the way things had played out. Dingo would never deliberately make Finn feel uncomfortable. He’d only played the song as a nod to him. It was Finn’s fault for not confiding fully in his friend. He’d told Carly more in the past five minutes than he’d told Dingo in twelve years. How had she managed that?
“How will I get in touch with you?” she asked. “You know, if Rufus comes home.”
“Give me your phone.” When she fished it out of her pocket, he programmed in his cell number. “I’ll be in town for a few days. I’ll touch base later tonight, see how you’re doing. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks for helping me search, and for well, everything.” Her smile came and went quickly. “I wouldn’t have survived last night if not for you.”
“You were doing just fine.”
“No, I was floundering.”
“All you needed was a stiff drink.”
“Or five.” She made a face that was half grimace, half grin. “Thanks for the hangover, too. It’s a doozy.”
“Hey, I poured you two glasses. You did the rest.” She rolled her eyes but there was a sparkle there. Always leave ’em laughing. He opened his arms. “Come here, Maxwell.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped into his embrace. He folded his arms around her. With her head tucked beneath his chin and her cheek pressed to his chest, she fit just right.
“Everything’s going to be okay.” The words came out more gruffly than he’d intended. Truth was, he needed her emotional support as much as she needed his. Now he didn’t want to go but it was too late to make an excuse to stay.
“I know.” She hugged him hard, then kissed him briefly on the cheek before easing away, hands jammed in the front pocket of her hoodie. Her face worked and moisture filled her eyes. He was about to reach for her again when with a wave of her hand, she turned and walked swiftly up the steps. The front door opened and shut with finality.
He took a step toward the house then stopped. She’d said she was okay. Don’t push it. Things were better off uncomplicated. And the last thing he wanted was for her, or anyone, to try to fix him. His career and his relationship with his parents might be broken but he wasn’t.
* * *
CARLY CLIMBED THE front steps as the Mustang’s engine growled to life. From the porch she watched Finn do a U-turn and roar off. Here and gone, kind of like her whole experience of him. In the twenty or so years that she’d known him, she’d only seen snapshots of his life.
Childhood and long summer days when the sweetest music was the jingle of the ice cream truck. Then came the teenage years and the excitement of a new awareness. She’d eyed him covertly, managed the odd fumbling touch of hands, then that kiss in the tower...
She’d known nothing of the trials he went through during the rest of the year when she wasn’t around. He must have grappled with schoolwork that took a back seat to music, parental pressure and expectations, his family struggling to make ends meet.
In her limited viewpoint, his musical progress had come in spurts. One year he was a boy tenor playing simple pieces on the concert grand. The next summer his voice had broken and he’d graduated to longer, more complex music. She still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that he no longer performed. At the café he’d shown the classic symptoms of an anxiety attack. Maybe it wasn’t surprising considering how that concert had ended. It was a crime that his talent was lost to the world, whether he would have gone on to play his own music or classical.
Nor could she understand how he could have stayed estranged from his parents for so long. He and his mom had been so close. Did that conflict have anything to do with Finn’s inability to play in front of an audience?
She hated that he seemed to have settled into an obscure career. No doubt he enjoyed writing songs but once upon a time he’d wanted so much more. She was convinced he still did. He’d tacitly admitted as much by wanting to hear his music played the way he’d envisioned it.
With a sigh, she went inside the house. Leadlights spilled a jeweled glow on the polished wood floor of the foyer. Moving through the jungle of potted ferns, she entered the living room, an eclectic collection of antique and modern furniture, Persian carpets and avant-garde sculpture. Her aunt had talked of updating the house while retaining the period features but had never got around to renovating. Now that would never happen. Carly went around the room looking for stray cups and plates. There weren’t any. Someone must have already cleaned up.
Her heart hurt for Finn but it was no use trying to analyze him. Even as a teenager, he’d been a complicated character. Aside from any romantic or sexual fantasies she used to have about him—and they were just that, fantasies—she had no illusions she could help him. If he, with all his passion and drive for music, had given it up, how could she change his mind? Anyway, he’d made it very clear he didn’t want her to interfere in his life.
Before Rufus had run away, she’d been half hoping Finn would take the dog. Now she wondered what kind of a life he led in Los Angeles. Did he have a girlfriend or a long-term partner, or even a dog already? Maybe the place he lived in LA didn’t allow dogs. Although if he wrote top-ten songs he probably wasn’t hurting for money.
Carly carried the dishes along the passage and heard women’s voices in the kitchen. Brenda was at the sink, washing crystal glasses that couldn’t go in the dishwasher. Blond curls were stuck to her temples and she had an apron tied around her ample waist. Frankie from next door had put her hair up in a spiky black knot and was mopping the floor. The leftover food had been put away and the empty liquor bottles moved to the recycling box.
“You didn’t need to do this, but thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you both being here.” Carly hugged Frankie, leaning over the mop to squeeze the shorter woman’s narrow shoulders. Then she stepped carefully across the damp tiles to embrace Brenda.
Her cousin’s wet hands were warm on her back. “How are you feeling this morning?” Brenda said. “You looked as if you were having a good time last night. Irene would have been proud of the way you sang.”
Carly winced at the memory of belting out “Oklahoma.” “Someone should have reminded me that I can’t carry a tune in the proverbial bucket.”
“No one cares. What mattered was that we honored Irene with a fitting send-off.” Frankie nodded at a plate of blueberry muffins on the counter. “Hungry?”
“I had a huge breakfast at Rhonda’s café with Finn.” Carly drifted to the counter anyway, irresistibly drawn by the warm scent of fruit and vanilla.
“I made them this morning,” Frankie said. “Think of them as breakfast dessert.”
“Is that a thing?” Carly took a muffin and bit into a moist crumb bursting with blueberries. “Mmm. If it’s not, it should be.”
“That Finn sure can play the piano,” Brenda said.
“Not a bad looker, either,” Frankie said, winking. “If I wasn’t happily married...”
“Didn’t you and he go together years ago?” Brenda asked Carly.
“No.” There was only that one kiss. Things might have progressed if they’d gone to the party afterward instead of him running out of the concert. But that was water under the bridge. And she didn’t want Brenda and Frankie jumping to false conclusions. Her thoughts about Finn were jumbled enough as it was.
“Where is he, anyway?” Brenda asked.
“He had things to do.” Carly turned to Frankie. “Irene told me how you and she used to exchange recipes.”
“Yep, we bonded over baking.” Frankie slid the bucket along the floor and mopped
under the table. She’d stacked the chairs on top for easy access.
“Would you like to have Irene’s sourdough starter?” Carly asked. “She’s kept it going for decades. I hate to throw it away.”
“Oh, honey, she gave me some long ago.” Frankie blew a wisp of damp hair off her forehead. “All her friends have a bit. I tried making bread but sourdough is an art and keeping the starter alive takes commitment. I’ve got three kids and a husband plus I work part-time at an aged care center.” She smiled cheerfully. “If I had to nurture one more thing I’d probably sit and cry.”
Carly turned to her cousin. “Brenda?”
“I can’t keep a cactus alive.” Brenda pulled the plug to empty the sink then grabbed a towel to dry her hands. “Throw it away and don’t look back. It’s not like you’re putting down a sentient creature.”
“I know but...” Carly licked blueberry off her finger. “It meant so much to Irene.”
“You can’t keep her alive by holding on to her stuff.” Brenda’s blue eyes turned gentle. “Dad and I went through this when my mom passed two years ago. The sourdough is only the beginning. You’re going to have a difficult enough job clearing out her things. You have to learn to be ruthless.”
“But... Irene’s estate will pass to your father, won’t it?” Carly said. “As her brother, he’s her closest relative.”
She would be happy to help her uncle Larry dispose of Irene’s personal effects but didn’t relish deciding the fate of her aunt’s collection of art objects and furniture.
“I don’t know.” Brenda shrugged. “It’s not like he needs it. He made a pile of dough when he sold his tech company.”
“The reading of the will is next week,” Carly said. “Maybe you should be there since your father can’t.”
“Sorry, I really do need to get back to Portland,” Brenda said. “Let me know what happens and I’ll pass it on to Dad.”
“Sure.” Carly nodded. “Have either of you seen Rufus? He went missing last night. Finn and I searched the whole neighborhood this morning.”