by Joan Kilby
Finn felt like the biggest jerk on the planet but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t get anywhere near a stage without feeling anxious. A gig at the RockAround would probably bring on a full-blown panic attack. That wouldn’t do Dingo and his band any good at all.
“Sixties rock isn’t my shtick anyway,” he said. “It wouldn’t work out.”
“You love sixties music and you know it.” Dingo pointed the spoon at him. “Not only do you rock the keyboard, you’ve got a voice, man. A once-in-a-generation voice.”
Finn went to the cupboard and took down bowls. Dingo had worked hard for years with his band, playing high school reunions, weddings, any venue they could get. They were good. They deserved the opportunity to be heard on a bigger stage.
“Don’t say no before you’ve had a chance to think about it,” Dingo said. “Do me that much of a favor, please.”
No amount of thinking would make a difference. Even with the best will in the world he wasn’t capable of getting on a stage and singing in front of hundreds of people. The last time he’d tried to perform he’d frozen in front of a packed house at a bar in West Hollywood.
“The truth is,” Finn said, “I have performance anxiety.”
Dingo laughed knowingly. “Give me a break.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “Not that kind.”
“You mean singing, playing? Are you kidding me?” Dingo frowned, his head tilted. “Mate, I had no idea. We’ve jammed together.”
“Yeah, but I don’t play in public,” Finn said. “Not even in a café.”
People didn’t get it. They heard him play among friends and didn’t understand that it wasn’t the same as performing in public. Even if he could rehearse with Dingo’s band he would still choke up on the big stage. He couldn’t risk messing up Dingo’s big chance.
“Wow.” Dingo scratched his beard scruff. “Have you, I don’t know, seen anyone about this?”
“Years ago.” Finn shrugged. “Didn’t do any good.”
“But...” Dingo couldn’t seem to wrap his head around it. “It’s a colossal waste of talent for you not to perform. You were on track to become a classical pianist but you could have been a rocker...” A light went on in his eyes. “That concert here in Fairhaven when you crashed and burned? Was that...?”
“When the anxiety started? Yes.”
“So that’s why you hightailed it out of town. You never said a word and I always wondered.” Dingo’s eyes were warm with compassion. “Never mind about playing then. My band isn’t your problem.”
Finn felt in his pocket for his keys and clenched them till the sharp edges dug into his palm. This was why he didn’t tell people. Dingo meant well, but his sympathy made Finn feel less than equal.
“Tell you what I can do,” Finn said. “I’ll talk to my agent. Tom’s bound to know of some talented rocker who could fill in for Rudy. What do you say?”
“If we can afford him,” Dingo said doubtfully.
“I’ll make sure you can.” Even if he had to subsidize the fill-in himself on the QT. “Problem solved.”
Dingo smiled wistfully. “Would have been cool, though. Remember how we used to dream about our band becoming famous?”
“Yeah, we had some great times.” Back in high school he’d recruited Dingo to his garage band and they’d played at Dingo’s house, keeping it a secret from Finn’s parents. Dingo had later formed a cover band and played regular gigs as a sideline to his job in construction.
“It wasn’t the same after you left town,” Dingo went on. “You had the charisma to be the front man. Without you, the rest of us weren’t ever going to be more than a garage band.”
“Sorry, man.” He’d let Dingo down, too, when he’d fled Fairhaven. Another promise broken, another expectation unfulfilled.
“Ah, forget it. It’s just good to see you.” Dingo took a swig of beer. “Got any plans while you’re in town?”
“I’m helping Carly out for a few days. Irene’s dog is missing. I don’t want to leave before he’s found.”
“I’ll get the band together tomorrow afternoon so you can hear them play,” Dingo said. “That way you can tell your agent what kind of musician we need.”
“That would be great.” Finn mustered a smile.
“I appreciate this, mate, I really do. This gig means the world to us and to have your help in any way is a godsend.”
“It’s nothing.” Finn set the bowls around the table. And he was telling the truth. Such a paltry contribution really wasn’t much at all.
* * *
“SHE LEFT THE house to me?” Carly rocked back in the guest chair in Peter King’s office, trying to absorb what the lawyer had just read to her from Irene’s will. She’d expected to be left something but the house and all the contents? “What about my uncle Larry, Irene’s brother? I assumed he would inherit the bulk of her estate.”
“Irene rewrote her will just before Christmas last year. These are her wishes.” Peter passed over the slim document on his desk so she could read for herself.
To my dear brother, Larry, I leave our father’s World War II mementoes, our mother’s collection of antique clocks and the photo albums passed down from our childhood.
To my niece, Brenda, I leave my collection of bone china which I know she loves.
Carly smiled through her tears. She could almost hear Irene’s voice.
To my niece, Carly...dear, dear, Carly... I leave my beloved house and all its contents. There are no stipulations about occupancy attached to this bequest but I pray that she will choose to live there and someday raise a family to fill those old rooms with love and laughter. I know she doesn’t always share my taste in decor so she’s free to give away, sell, or do whatever she wants with the furniture and artwork. To Carly I also entrust my dog, Rufus, if he’s still alive at the time of my passing.
Carly’s eyes blurred and she grabbed for a handful of tissues from the box on Peter’s desk. No, Irene. Don’t, please don’t make me feel... Feel what? Bad. Guilty. Pressured. Heartbroken. Don’t make me feel, period. Because as much as I love the house I can’t feel happy about the way I’ve acquired it. Blindly she pushed the will back to Peter. “Is there anything else in there?”
Peter read, “To Finn Farrell, I leave my Steinway grand piano in the hopes that he’ll play the damn thing and be inspired to share his talent with the world. If not, at least he’ll appreciate it more than anyone else possibly could.” Peter looked up from the document. “There are also numerous small bequests to other family members, friends and charities.”
Carly blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes then straightened her shoulders. Knowing Irene, she wouldn’t want Carly to be sad but to enjoy the gifts she’d given her. But although Carly wouldn’t mind keeping a few treasured items she didn’t have space for all of Irene’s things. As for making her home in Fairhaven, while she loved the town, that was simply out of the question.
“I live in New York. I have a job I need to get back to.” She crumpled the tissue into a ball. “I’ll have to think about what I’m going to do.”
“That is entirely up to you,” Peter said. “In spite of her stated wishes, there’s no legal requirement for you to live in the house. You can sell it, keep it and rent it out.” Peter paused, then added, “However, there is the matter of mortgage payments. Those have to be kept up.”
“Oh.” Carly couldn’t afford to make payments on two properties. “As I say, I’ll have to think about it.”
For now, though, the most pressing problem was to find Rufus. If she couldn’t fulfil her aunt’s wish for her to live in the house, the least she could do was take care of the dog. An Irish setter in Manhattan wasn’t the best fit but she would make it work somehow.
“When you’re ready, you can go next door to the bank and sign the papers transferring ownership of the house over to you,”
Peter said. “I took the liberty of making you an appointment with the manager. He’ll advise you on taking over the monthly payments and if you wish, to renegotiate the mortgage. But if you’re not up to it now, we can reschedule.”
“No, I’m fine.” Carly blinked and mustered a wan smile. “Andiamo.”
Peter rose from his desk and gathered up the folder containing the will. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s Italian for ‘let’s go,’” Carly said. “Irene used to say it all the time.”
“I don’t know that I ever heard that,” Peter said. “Was she Italian?”
“No, but she studied the language so she could interpret opera librettos.”
“Well, well.” Peter ushered her through the door. “Even after her death, your aunt continues to surprise.”
CHAPTER SIX
FINN LAY ON the couch, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. Tyler ran in and out of the living room, carrying armloads of Matchbox cars and trucks and arranging them in rows on the coffee table. Finn cracked an eyelid. The rug rat was awful cute.
Dingo had left for work hours ago. Marla was getting ready to go out, too. When Tyler disappeared again, Finn checked his phone. There was a message from Carly.
Need to speak to you. Meet at Rhonda’s at noon?
He sent her a thumbs-up to signal he’d received the text and shut his eyes again as Tyler settled in between the coffee table and the couch to play.
“Vroom. Vroom.” Tyler accelerated his toy SUV across the pine coffee table and leaped, Evel Knievel-style, onto the couch. He took the truck off-road up Finn’s arm, tracking over his shoulder and into the no-man’s-land of his head. The wheels got caught in Finn’s hair but Tyler kept pushing, his own cherubic curls bouncing.
“Ouch.” Finn’s eyes shot open. A belly button peeked out between Tyler’s striped T-shirt and his red pajama bottoms. “You’re stuck, man.”
“Thtuck,” Tyler lisped, spraying Finn in the face.
“Here, let me.” Finn swung his legs over the side of the couch and felt around in his hair, pulling gently. The toy got even more tangled. “I’m going to need a mirror, kiddo.”
“Baffroom.” Tyler led the way at a trot, down the hall.
“Tyler, what’s going on?” Marla, dressed in skirt and blouse and carrying her purse, came out of her bedroom. “Finn, why do you have a truck in your hair?”
“Thtuck,” Tyler explained.
“Thtuck,” Finn confirmed.
“Here, let me.” Swiftly, she untangled the wheels and handed the toy back to Tyler. “Dingo asked me to tell you the band will be over around five o’clock.”
“Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling for knots. Nothing a good brush wouldn’t cure.
“Did you eat your breakfast?” Marla asked her son. “You’re going to stay with Grandma for a couple of hours while I go to a job interview.”
“I wanna stay with Finn.” Tyler looked up at her earnestly. “Me and him are playing.”
“He and I are playing,” Marla corrected automatically. “You’re not dressed. Besides, I’m sure Finn has other things to do.”
“Not till lunchtime.” Finn ruffled Tyler’s blond curls. “You can leave the little dude with me while you go out. We’ll go to the beach and look for crabs.”
“The beach, yay!” Tyler shouted, jumping up and down.
“Are you sure?” Marla said. “I’ll be two to three hours.”
“No problem,” Finn replied. “Go, and good luck.”
“There’s a spare key on the kitchen windowsill,” Marla said. “I’ll get his car seat out of my car before I leave.” She bent to hug Tyler. “See you later, honey. Be good for Finn.”
If good meant amiable, then Tyler was very good but the ordeal of trying to clothe a rambunctious toddler gave Finn a newfound respect for parents. Finally he got the boy strapped into the back of the Mustang. As they drove to Teddy Bear Cove Finn told Tyler about the times he’d spent there as a kid, combing the drifts of washed-up seaweed for Japanese fishing floats and shells. And how his friend Irene used to walk along the shore with her dog.
The Alaska ferry was steaming past as he and Tyler scrambled down a path overgrown with thimbleberry bushes and over the railroad tracks down onto the pebbly beach.
“Big boat,” Tyler said, pointing.
“Very big boat. It’s going to Alaska.” If things had turned out differently he might have been standing at the rail with Irene, searching out the gray slate-roofed turret of her house on the hill.
“What’s ’Laska?” Tyler put his hand in Finn’s as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe for a tiny kid it was but Finn was charmed.
“A faraway place up north.” They crunched over the sloping beach, rounded stones sliding beneath their running shoes, heading away from town toward the point where the rock pools were. Even he knew better than to take a kid to the mudflats.
Tyler’s brows scrunched together. “Is it where Santa Claus lives?” Tyler exclaimed.
“Not quite, but close. Polar bears live there, too.”
“Pole bears swim under the ice,” Tyler informed him. “Like seals.”
“Polar bears,” Finn corrected. “You know a lot for a little kid. Do you know how to skip stones?” He found a smooth, flat, round stone, showed it to Tyler, then threw it with a sideways motion into the choppy waves. “Can you count the jumps?”
Tyler concentrated hard. “One, two, forty hundred, nine...”
Smiling, Finn handed the boy another stone. “You try.”
The kid was too little but he enjoyed chucking rocks in the water. Well, who didn’t? Finn bent over to search for another suitable stone.
“Doggy,” Tyler announced.
Finn looked down the beach. A large reddish-brown dog was sniffing a pile of washed-up seaweed. Rufus? This dog’s fur was matted and muddy, unlike Rufus’s silky, groomed coat, but twenty-four hours in the bushes and on the mudflats could account for that.
He dropped the stone in his hand and whistled. “Rufus, here boy.”
The dog stopped and cocked his head.
Tyler patted his thighs. “Here, doggy.”
Rufus, if it was him, trotted away from them, up the beach toward the bushes.
“I think this dog belongs to a friend of mine.” Finn spoke in a low voice to Tyler. “We’re going to go after him. Don’t run, okay? We don’t want to scare him.”
Eyes shining, Tyler put his hand in Finn’s. “Okay.”
* * *
SHE OWNED A HOUSE. Still dazed by the news, Carly carried her date scone and latte to a window table in Rhonda’s café. She’d expected a small bequest from her aunt but nothing like this. She was grateful, certainly, but she didn’t know whether to be glad or not. The house was worth quite a lot, but there was also a substantial amount left owing on it. Money Carly would have to repay.
Irene had never been a thrifty type. She enjoyed spending her money on concerts, antiques and trips. Carly had felt slightly ill at signing her name to take over the mortgage. The bank would be checking on her finances but barring any unforeseen circumstances she was now the proud owner, and responsible for, a three-story Queen Anne home on the opposite side of the country from where she lived.
Money and practical considerations aside, Carly loved the house. It represented so many happy memories of her summers with Irene. And yes, sad memories of her aunt’s death, but overall, the good memories far outweighed the bad. Should she sell, or try to hang on to it for sentimental reasons?
She’d always been a practical person. If she sold, she could afford to buy an apartment in New York. It would be easier to house Rufus if she owned rather than rented. Except that Rufus would be happier staying here, in his own home.
The dog’s ownership was the only thing that Irene hadn’t said Car
ly could do as she pleased about. Irene had worshipped her fur baby. Poor Rufus. Wherever he was, he must be pining for his mommy. But it was crazy to make major decisions like keeping or selling Irene’s house based solely on what Rufus would like best. Wasn’t it?
Carly picked at her scone. She wished Finn would come. She needed to talk to him. Firstly to tell him about the piano, but also she simply needed to talk to someone who was rational because she was feeling very confused right now. So many things pulled her to Fairhaven—Rufus, the house, the town itself. Every time she was here, she was reminded how much like home it felt. But her life was in Manhattan. Her father, her friends, her favorite deli, the theater. Most of all, her new job with her own office complete with bookshelf and business cards.
Oh, she’d almost forgotten to include her lodger Taylor in the equation. What was she going to do about him?
Finn was twenty minutes late. She swiped her phone open to call him. Just as she did, it rang. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Teddy Bear Cove.” He was speaking in an excited whisper. “I found Rufus.”
“Are you sure?” she said, hardly daring to hope.
“Pretty sure. Although he won’t come when I call. And he runs off every time we get near. We’ve been stalking him for the past forty minutes.”
“We?”
“I’ve got Tyler with me.”
“Rufus has a white spot on his chest,” Carly said. “It’s why Irene couldn’t show him.”
“It’s hard to tell if there’s a spot under to all the mud,” Finn said. “Can you get down here right away? Bring food. He’s got to be starving. Oh, and a collar and leash.”
Carly was already standing up, pushing her chair back. “I’ll be there in ten.”
* * *
“CARLY’S COMING,” Finn told Tyler as he put his phone away. He glanced around. “Where’s Rufus?”
“Doggy go dat way.” Tyler pointed to the train track. Thirty yards away Rufus was nosing his way along the ties.