by Joan Kilby
Yesterday hadn’t been the greatest day for either her or Finn. Even though they’d parted civilly last night their dispute had left behind a new coolness and she still felt bad about the low blows she’d thrown at him. Someone who was hurting needed support, not antagonism.
“Thanks for these,” she said, picking up the cartons. Finn glanced up, grunted acknowledgement, and carried on with what he was doing.
She carried the empty cartons into the living room and started to pack books from the bookcase. A music magazine lying atop a stack of industry periodicals caught her eye. She leafed through, curious. There was an article on a famous opera singer, another on a violin maker, one on the interest in ukuleles, a notice about a Steinway piano exhibition. Pages of ads for music suppliers and employment opportunities for musicians.
A half page ad caught her eye. Molto Music, a top recording company, had an opening for a senior staff songwriter. Would Finn have the qualifications? He’d had a hit song recently but a giant firm like Molto would want a proven track record.
She carried the magazine to the kitchen table where her laptop was set up and tapped Finn Farrell into the browser. Two-hundred-thousand-plus results came up, referencing songs he’d written and the artists who’d recorded them. Some she’d never heard of, some she had. Finn was prolific, no doubt about that. Checking the Molto ad again she saw that the return address was in Los Angeles. Perfect.
With Rufus at her heels, she carried the magazine, a cup of coffee and the last of Frankie’s blueberry muffins out to the front porch. “Ready for a break?”
“Sure, thanks.” Finn put down the hammer and reached for the mug and plate. He leaned against the railing, his long denim-clad legs stretched down the steps.
“There’s a songwriter position going that I thought might interest you.” Carly handed him the magazine open to the page. “Check out the salary range. Pretty good, huh? I could help you put together an application if you like.”
Finn scanned the ad then handed it back. “I appreciate the thought but I freelance. Why would I share my royalties with a big company when I can have the bulk of them for myself?”
She ticked the reasons off on her fingers. “Greater exposure, a wide range of clients, opportunities to write music for movies—”
“I have an agent who can get me all that.”
“Security?” she suggested and his gaze sharpened. She added, casually, “There must be lulls where no work is coming in.”
“There are periods between contracts,” he admitted. “I use that time to write on spec, work on my own stuff. There’s never any downtime.”
Maybe not, but spec work didn’t bring in cash on a regular basis. “Being on staff of a large corporation, you would get a steady paycheck to tide you over the lean times.”
Finn brushed the muffin crumbs off his fingers. “Yesterday you wanted me to be a performing musician and fulfil my potential. Today you’re trying to make me into a hack. What gives?”
“I saw an opportunity and brought it to your attention, that’s all,” she said. “It never hurts to keep your options open. Do yourself a favor and think about it.”
“Fine. I’ll think about it,” he said, sounding as if he’d do no such thing. Draining the last of his coffee, he handed her back the cup and plate. “Thanks for the snack. Now I’d better get back to it.”
“Me, too.” Carly went inside and grabbed a stack of cartons from the hall and headed upstairs, leaving the book packing unfinished. Finn was still a bit touchy after their argument, but then again, so was she. The past twenty-four hours had been a roller coaster of emotions. On the beach she’d accepted the comfort of his arms and a shoulder to lean on, the next day she’d prodded him when she had no business sticking her nose into his affairs. She was still doing it.
But when she thought about yesterday on the beach, it wasn’t the comfort she remembered but the play of his back muscles beneath her hands, his thigh pressing against hers and the gust of his warm breath in her hair. Okay, so she was attracted to him. She was a red-blooded woman. Being back in Irene’s house where she’d first met him, having him under the same roof, she couldn’t help but recall the fantasies she’d had as a teenager—and expand on them now that she’d met Finn, the adult, virile male. Given that they had conflicting agendas, maybe a bit of coolness between them was a good thing. She was in New York, he was Los Angeles-based. She was moving forward, he was happy where he was. Or so he said.
She wandered down the hall deciding where to start. Besides Irene’s master bedroom, there were four secondary bedrooms including the one Irene had kept exclusively for Carly’s use. Taylor’s things were in one of the rental bedrooms but the others were bare of everything but basic furniture.
Dealing with her own stuff would be easiest so that’s where she began. Her room was a compilation of the summers she’d spent here. Boy band posters curled off the pale blue walls next to horse pictures from a younger age. A musical jewelry box was wedged between a softball and a shell collection on the dresser. A lifetime of stuff amassed and rarely given another thought.
Ruthless. Everything had to go.
Carly started sorting through the dresser drawers, layered like an archaeological dig. Ancient knee-high socks, bathing suits from when she was fifteen, stretched and faded T-shirts. Neither she nor Irene, it seemed, had ever thrown anything out. She pulled the sock drawer right out of the dresser and tipped it upside down on the bed to figure out what was worth sending to the thrift store and what should be thrown away.
Her fingers encountered a small jewelry box. Inside was an enameled Siamese cat figurine Finn had given her after she’d lamented not having a pet in New York. He’d said her eyes and the cat’s were the same turquoise blue. That was the summer he’d kissed her in the tower, a few weeks before the fateful concert. She turned the cat over in her hands. She’d loved it but when September came she’d left it behind, feeling betrayed that he’d left Fairhaven without talking to her. The next year when she’d visited, Finn still hadn’t returned.
What might have happened between them if he’d stayed? She would never know. She set the figurine on the dresser. One or two souvenirs from the past were acceptable.
Several hours later, three full boxes were lined up in the hall outside her room and she was filling a fourth when her phone rang.
“Hey, Taylor,” Carly said. “What’s up?”
He coughed out a nervous laugh. “I forgot to tell you this morning that I’ll be back for dinner tonight.”
Dinner. She’d completely forgotten about that. Apart from the sourdough she had nothing in the house to eat. She still hadn’t gotten to the grocery store. “How does pizza sound? I’ll go shopping soon but I’m not organized yet.”
“Pizza would be fine,” he said. “When do you plan on eating? I don’t want to put you out by being late.”
“Let’s say, six-ish?”
“Six o’clock. Roger that.”
Carly imagined him spinning a dial on his timepiece and lining it up precisely.
Speaking of food, her stomach was feeling empty and it was nearly one o’clock. She went downstairs to find a takeout chicken sandwich from Rhonda’s on the counter and a plate empty but for a few crumbs. Finn must have made a run for food.
She padded barefoot to the front door. He was putting a coat of dark gray paint on the porch. Holding up the sandwich, she said, “Thanks for this.” She took a bite and surveyed his work. “Looks good. How long before we can walk on it?”
“Couple of hours. I’ll put cardboard down later this afternoon to keep footprints off it.”
“You’re a handy man to have around, Finn Farrell.”
He just nodded and dipped his roller into the shiny paint to apply another layer. But she could tell he was pleased. She watched him from the doorway as she ate, admiring his long back and wide shoulders. His sleeves
were rolled up, exposing tanned forearms dusted with black hair and splotched with paint. When he looked up again and raised his eyebrows quizzically, she smiled and backed away. She couldn’t keep coming out with flimsy excuses to talk to him.
The afternoon progressed. Carly filled more boxes and cleared out her closet of ancient blouses and worn sneakers. The dust got in her nose and made her sneeze. Through it all, Rufus lay in the middle of the room and watched. When he got tired of that, he slept.
Around five o’clock she heard Taylor and Finn talking downstairs. Then Taylor came up and went into his room and shut the door. Absorbed in her packing she didn’t notice anything else until a little while later, she heard a knock at her door.
Finn leaned against the doorjamb, long legs molded by skinny jeans, torso lean and muscular in a tight T-shirt. “Time for a break, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.” But a break was tempting. Her back ached from hours of bending and lifting and her knees were sore from kneeling on the hardwood.
“Let’s go up to the tower and watch the sunset,” he said.
“The sun won’t set for another three hours,” she pointed out.
“So? We’ve both done enough for today.” He held out his hand to help her off the floor and the warmth of his paint-spattered fingers wrapped around hers melted her objections. She followed him down the hall to the spiral staircase to the turret. “Taylor is expecting dinner at six.”
“What are you planning to make?”
“I’m ordering pizza and baking the sourdough bread.” She snapped her fingers. “I’d better turn on the oven to heat.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he said.
She was back in minutes and they started up the spiral staircase, Finn leading the way. The stuffy heat reminded her of that long-ago summer day when he’d stopped and turned to her, and stepped down onto her step, squashing her against the round wall. Of the feel of his hands on her body and how she’d trembled. How their teeth had bumped and the strangeness of his taste. The dizzying kiss.
She halted, clinging to the iron railing, and realized she was holding her breath. She let it go and sucked in another breath quickly.
“Are you okay?” Finn asked, pausing.
“Fine. Keep going.” She fastened her gaze on his boot heels and the supple brown crocodile skin.
A moment later they stepped into the tower, an octagonal room about ten feet in diameter with a love seat in the center and a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view. It always gave her vertigo to look out to the ocean from so high up. The sky was a vast blue bowl with fluffy white clouds building on the horizon. Far out to sea, a freighter steamed north to Canada.
Finn cracked a side window for fresh air, then pulled her onto the love seat. “Now just breathe. You need to relax.”
Carly closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. The ball of tension inside her chest began to ease. Everything would get done that needed to be done. She could only do what she could do. Clichés, sure, but there was truth in those sayings.
She turned to Finn, noting in fine detail how his dark hair grew in a whorl away from his widow’s peak. The thick straight lines of his eyebrows. The straight nose and cupid’s bow of a mouth. His smooth olive skin and the sexy mole on his right cheek. “What’s your opinion on serif fonts versus sans serif?” she asked.
“Depends. Why?”
“Just answer the question. If you had to choose. If it was a matter of life and death.” Because that’s what it was starting to feel like.
“Is it printed on paper, or online?”
“Paper.”
“Serif, in that case,” Finn said. “It’s easier to read. Sans serif is clearer online.”
She stared at him. “That’s so simple, it’s brilliant. How do you know these things?”
“I like to investigate obscure and trivial matters.”
“Ah, when you’re procrastinating?”
“A graphic artist explained it to me once.” He leaned back and eyed her with an amused smile. “How do you procrastinate?”
“I don’t.”
“Bull.”
“No lie.” She held three fingers to her temple, Girl Scout style. “Not finishing my work makes me more anxious than the thought of doing it.”
“And you think I’ve got problems. You’re more uptight than I thought.”
“I am not. I’m responsible.” And if that sounded boring and mundane, too bad. Pushing the thought away, she focused on the ever-changing shapes of the clouds. So beautiful and so fleeting. They almost made her weepy at their transitory nature. Clouds dissolved and reformed. The droplets of moisture in them didn’t disappear, they rained down on earth and then were evaporated back into the air in an endless cycle. Like life.
“Why do you want to know about fonts?” The gravelly sound of Finn’s voice dragged her head back inside the tower. His thigh nudged hers on the love seat.
She explained about the business cards. “My PA has turned this into a huge decision that only I can make. It’s like the fate of the free world depends on whether I choose serif or sans serif.”
“It’ll be worth it,” he said. “Imagine handing those babies out to prospective clients.”
“Don’t mock me.” He was teasing but she could imagine handing out her new cards and she loved the idea. Carly Maxwell, international head hunter. Hmm, why stop there? Carly Maxwell, CEO.
“Earth to Carly, come in Carly.”
Blinking, she turned to Finn. And immediately got lost in his dark amused eyes that seemed to see right inside her. He really was extraordinarily handsome.
“Look at those kids down there.” Finn pointed to a boy and girl, about eleven years old, across the street. The boy was riding a skateboard and showing off to the girl, who walked with her nose in the air. “Does she like him, or not, do you think?”
Carly and Finn had been about that age when she’d first really noticed him. Like the girl below, she’d pretended indifference out of uncertainty and nervousness. She couldn’t see the girl’s facial expression but the way she glanced over whenever the boy executed a jump or tricky maneuver—and then turned away when he looked at her—was a dead giveaway.
“She likes him. Doesn’t want him to know it, though.” Carly kept her gaze on the young teens, aware of Finn’s knee brushing hers.
“Wonder how he’s going to get her attention.”
“He should wait for her signal.”
“Might never come.”
“There may be a reason for that.”
“Yeah, she might be afraid.”
Carly was drawn back to Finn’s searching gaze. Heat filled her cheeks and she glanced away in confusion. “Maybe she doesn’t know how she feels.”
“He could help her make up her mind.” Finn’s hand went to her cheek, his fingertips featherlight. He leaned in and his mouth brushed hers. Warm breath, his nose bumping hers.
He filled her vision and then her eyelids fell shut as she was swept away by a visceral longing. She’d never forgotten him, never gotten over him. And now he was here, his arms coming around her, his lips urgent, ardent. Well, he’d certainly got her attention. And she’d been lying—she did know how she felt. She wanted him even more than when she was younger because now she knew that other men hadn’t generated a fraction of what she could feel for him if she let herself.
But Finn was right—she was afraid. He’d dropped out of her life once before. She didn’t like it when people did that. It scared her. When she was nine years old her mother had gone away for the weekend with her college girlfriends and hadn’t come back. The taxi bringing her home from the airport had been involved in a collision with a truck that ran a red light because the driver hadn’t slept in three days.
Life was random like that. Finn had no excuse. He was alive and as far as she could tell, unfazed by breakin
g all ties with his parents and his hometown and cutting Carly out of his life altogether. Had he ever felt for her as deeply as she’d felt for him?
She could feel for him again, if she let herself...
His hands were moving now, stroking her arms. With every cell in her body aching for him, she broke the kiss and pushed on his chest. “We’re not going to do this.”
Mirroring her serious expression, he took her hands. “We already are.”
“It’s not happening, I meant it, Finn.” Damned if her lips didn’t curl into a smile against her will.
“Tell me you didn’t like it just a little bit,” he teased.
She regrouped and doubled down on the frown. “I didn’t like it, not even a little bit.” The smile grew.
“You’re a terrible liar, Maxwell.”
“You’re a terrible kisser, Finn Farrell.” Her smile widened. It was like she was freaking Pinocchio.
“Fibbing again,” he crowed and tickled her in the ribs.
“Stop it! I hate being tickled.” She started to laugh, squirming, her body wriggling beneath his hands, her nose butting his raspy jaw. “Ow.”
All at once he stopped and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly to him, kissing the top of her head, her temple, rocking her. Her arms snaked around his lower back and she pressed her cheek to his chest, hearing the quick beat of his heart beneath the damp heat of his shirt.
“Carly,” he said, his voice soft and gruff.
Oh, Finn. What are we doing? Where can we go with this?
She’d spent her twenties in and out of relationships that lasted one year, two years, six months, interspersed with stretches of no one when it was almost a relief to be off the roller coaster. She hated the disappointment when her feelings faded, or worse, the crushing sensation of being the one dumped. She was tired of playing the game. What did love even mean in an era when you said, “I love you” to each other and then one day he simply stopped calling and texting? Where was the respect? Where was the romance?