by Joan Kilby
He came closer and touched the small of her back as he peered into the fry pan. “Smells good. Tacos?”
“Yep.” She nudged her hip into his. “Did the band love Annie’s tape?”
“Big time,” Finn said. “Only snag is, my agent already sent them a vocalist. Leith was there today, rehearsing with them. He’s good, and he’s professional. Dingo and the guys aren’t going to let him go for Annie, no matter how much they liked her voice.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Carly said. “I mean, it’s great that they’ve got the band member they need but too bad for Annie.”
“They’re considering her for backup vocals so all isn’t lost yet.”
“If she was my client, I’d advise her to accept,” Carly said. “The experience will lead to other avenues.”
“Exactly.” Finn sat. “Just one teeny problem. I haven’t told Dingo and the guys they were listening to Annie. They don’t see a girl barely out of high school as having potential.”
“That’s so shortsighted,” Carly said. “The minute she opens her mouth you have to believe she’s a rock chick.”
“Would you do me a favor and style her for the audition?” Finn asked.
“Sure, that would be fun.” Carly’s mind leaped ahead to what she could do with hair, clothes and makeup. “How far is she willing to go to change her appearance?”
“I bet she’d die her hair orange and wear a clown suit if it gave her a shot at singing with the band,” Finn said.
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Do you like chilies?”
“The hotter the better.” He nuzzled her neck and then planted a kiss below her ear. “You smell delicious.”
She shook a liberal amount of chili flakes into the meat mixture and then turned down the heat under the pan.
His mouth fit so nicely to hers that it felt only natural to open to him. His kiss was unhurried and thorough, his tongue seeking and exploring while his hands reacquainted themselves with her back, her butt, then slid back up to cup her breasts. His thumbs pressed on her nipples and she pushed her hips closer to his.
Finn took her by the hips and swung her around until she was backed against the table. With a hop and a lift, she was on it. He grasped her knees and spread her legs then stepped between them. One by one, he undid the buttons of her cotton shirt. Now that they’d gone down this road every touch, every word, felt more serious, as if they’d embarked on a real romance.
She was out of her depth in unfamiliar waters. In hindsight, her previous love affairs had been superficial. Movies, dinners, concerts, sex, a lot of shallow talk and not much feeling. Was the heightened intensity she experienced with Finn a leftover of unrequited puppy love or a consequence of her emotional turmoil over Irene’s death?
Or could they truly be soul mates? Taking one day at a time as Finn had suggested was easier said than done, at least for her. She liked to know where she was going and what was coming next. Lately, nothing seemed certain. Not her job, not the house, not even life itself.
He eased back and touched a finger to her chin. “Something’s wrong.”
“Thinking too much. Sorry.” She smiled ruefully. “It’s been kind of a heavy day. I’m up and down, all over the place.”
“Another time then.” Slowly he re-buttoned her blouse.
Every button closed felt like he was putting her away from him. She wanted to tell him to go back to touching her, but didn’t know how. “What did the plumber say?”
“The pipes in the downstairs bathroom and laundry need replacing. They’re so old they’re corroded in spots,” Finn told her. “While he was ripping the walls apart he noticed some dodgy-looking wiring and suggested we call in an electrician.”
“It’s snowballing,” Carly said.
“It’s all fixable,” Finn assured her. “Do you want me to take care of the tradesmen?”
“Yes, please,” Carly said. “The Realtor is coming tomorrow to appraise the property. I’ll have to do a big cleanup tonight.”
Finn kissed her lightly on the lips, her closed eyelids and her forehead. “Let me know what I can do to help.”
Hold me. Love me. Never let me go. She eased away, smiling, fighting her need to cling to him. “Thanks, but I’ve got it covered.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING Carly bent to retrieve a piece of lint from the otherwise spotless kitchen floor. The downstairs bathroom and the laundry room were a mess because the plumber was working in there but the rest of the house was clean and tidy. She’d stayed up till midnight, working to prepare it for the Realtor’s assessment.
Finn had gone to bed early—in a room two doors down from hers. When she’d climbed the stairs at midnight, she’d seen the light under his door and hesitated. She was confused about what had happened in the kitchen. Had he thought she was pushing him away? Or did he simply need time alone? Had he come to the conclusion that sex with her was a mistake?
But oh, he could make her feel things without even touching her. He’d played the piano most of the evening, giving the house a pervading atmosphere of peace. Putting down the mop, she’d sat on the landing and just listened. Under the spell of the soothing music, she’d forgotten about her troubles for a time.
This morning they’d met in the kitchen and hadn’t had a chance to talk. She’d been busy with last-minute cleaning and he was taking books and miscellaneous stuff to the thrift store. Whatever they wouldn’t accept he would deliver to the dump.
The doorbell rang and she went to answer it.
“Hi,” she greeted the man on the step. “Carly Maxwell.”
“Sam Wallace, Fairhaven Realty. Nice to meet you.” White-haired with the deep tan and slick appearance of a salesman, he extended a hand glinting with a gold-and-onyx pinky ring. But his smile seemed genuine and there was no doubting his sincerity when he said, “I’m real sorry about your aunt. Irene taught my daughter how to play the piano. That was a few years ago now but we remember her with fondness.”
“Thank you,” Carly said. “Please come in.”
Sam stepped inside, looking around. “This is a beautiful house and a great location. Most of the period features are intact, I see.”
“Including the original plumbing and wiring,” Carly said, leading him into the living room. “I’m having that fixed before it goes on the market.”
“Good plan,” Sam said. “Move-in ready is more marketable than a fixer-upper.”
“Is it better to include the furniture with the house or sell it separately?” Carly asked.
“Either way. You can negotiate that with the buyer. But the less clutter, the better.” Sam stood before the bay window. “Fine view.”
“I should also mention,” Carly said. “I’ve got a tenant who will be here till the end of August.”
“We can work around that.” Sam crossed to the dining area, his observant gaze surveying from floor to high molded ceiling. “Fireplace functional?”
“I believe so.”
The Realtor turned to the French doors looking onto Irene’s dormant vegetable and herb garden. “You’d be wise to turn the yard into low maintenance. Most people, both partners are working and don’t have time to garden.”
“My aunt was on her own and she always found the time,” Carly said.
Sam shrugged. “It’s up to you, of course.”
A frown tightened Carly’s forehead. The thought of looking out on concrete and gravel was beyond depressing. No proper veggie patch. No lying in the cool green grass on a summer day and pointing out cloud shapes to a little girl, the way her aunt had done with her in long ago years. And what would that mean for any pets? A person could make time for anything if they wanted to. It was all a matter of priorities.
Gosh, who did that sound like? Carly felt a shiver run across the back of her neck and she glanced over her shoulder, half expectin
g to see Irene standing there, gently imparting one of her life lessons. There was no one, of course. Carly didn’t believe in ghosts. Nor did she subscribe to New Age philosophy the way Irene had. But just for a moment, she’d felt her aunt’s spirit as real and solid and loving as if she were still alive.
Carly rubbed her arms and caught up with Sam, who had wandered in the direction of the kitchen. She spent the next twenty minutes showing him the rest of the house, answering his questions and asking her own.
As he left he handed her his business card. “I’ll call you when I’ve drawn up a valuation.”
“Ball park?” she said.
He rocked a splayed hand. “Three and a half to four hundred. If the wiring and plumbing are up to code.”
A quick mental calculation suggested that would give her enough for a down payment on a decent apartment in Manhattan. With her increased salary she would be set to have the life she’d been working toward. Professional, upmarket, successful. “Wonderful. Thanks again.”
She closed the door slowly. It was starting to sink in what selling would mean. Strangers would live in Irene’s house. There would be no more music. Possibly no more vegetables or homemade bread. No more of the wonderful life Irene had made for herself and for the people she loved.
But Irene would have been the first one to say, don’t hang on to material possessions, don’t cling to the past. Move on. Live for the moment. Above all, be true to yourself and live your own authentic life.
Carly glanced at the font on Sam’s business card. Sure enough, it was serif. Times New Roman or something like it. She placed it on the hall table and headed out to the backyard. There was something she needed to do for Irene. She didn’t have time but she could find it. Heck, she would make it. It was all a matter of priorities.
* * *
WHEN FINN GOT home he found Taylor in the kitchen, poring over a cookbook even though it wasn’t even noon. “Have you seen Carly?”
“She’s in the backyard,” Taylor said. “Planting a vegetable garden.”
“Right,” Finn said in disbelief. Because she didn’t have enough to do. She’d seemed pretty stressed ever since they’d made love although he wasn’t sure if that was the cause. Last night she’d scrubbed the house from top to bottom, refusing his help, and then hadn’t knocked on his door before bed even though he’d left his light on. Things weren’t as free and easy between them as he’d thought. If he were the paranoid type he might even think she was avoiding him.
She was wearing Irene’s backyard boots and slashing inefficiently with a hoe at the weeds in the vegetable garden. A smudge of dirt ran across her cheek and the faint freckles on her nose stood out in the bright sunlight, making him think of the young girl he used to know. Her blouse gaped at the top where a button had come undone, revealing the swell of her breast, reminding him she was now very much a woman.
“What are you doing?” he asked, although it was obvious. The question really was not what, but why.
“Planting a garden,” she said. “This year could be the last.” She relayed the advice the Realtor had given her. “I can’t bear the thought of paving the yard over. Maybe if a potential buyer sees a garden growing they’ll decide to keep it.”
Finn picked up the battered notebook lying on the grass and flipped through the pages. Irene had drawn diagrams showing where she’d sown different seeds, all dated with notes on when the vegetables had flowered, and later ripened. Planting a garden she would never harvest had to be the definition of an optimist. Or insanity.
“I thought you were in a hurry to return to New York,” he said. “What about your job? What if you plant a bunch of plants and then you’re not here to look after them? What about the house for that matter? And Taylor? Have you thought this through?”
“Taylor is trustworthy enough to be left in charge while I’m in Manhattan,” Carly said. “Sam, the Realtor, can show the house to potential buyers. It’s all good.” She leaned on the hoe and wiped her damp forehead with the back of a gloved hand. “As for the plants, I have no idea what will happen to them. All I know is, I need to do this.”
“I suppose Taylor might tend the garden,” Finn said. “I never thought he’d be cooking, either and yet there he is, researching the subject as if he’s writing a thesis.”
Carly went back to hoeing. Bits of dirt and grass flew in the air. Rufus leaped after them trying to snatch the tufts, yelping with every leap. Finn watched her inept hoe work for a minute or two and then stepped into the garden bed. “Here, let me show you how to do that.”
Reluctantly, she handed over the hoe. “The miniature trowel and fork I use for balcony gardening didn’t exactly prepare me for this.”
He brought the hoe down sharply, gave a twist of the blade and lifted it, turning over a chunk of earth. Then he chopped at the clod to loosen the roots. Finally, he leaned over and tugged lightly to remove the clump of clover and nut grass.
“How do you know how to do this?” she asked.
“My mom was a gardener,” he said. “She grew the best tomatoes I’ve ever tasted.” Maybe she still did. He wouldn’t know.
“Has she gotten back to you yet?” Carly said.
“Nope.” Finn attacked a clump of dandelions. “This rift has gone on for so long, maybe too long for us to come back from it.”
“Or there’s a simple explanation for why she hasn’t contacted you,” Carly said. “You should try again.”
He leaned on the hoe. “I’ll give her till tomorrow. Maybe she’s been busy.”
“I bet she’s dying to see you.” Carly touched his arm. “You’re a very special person, Finn Farrell. Your mom knows that better than anyone.”
Except that his mother looked upon him as a failure, and when he saw himself through her eyes, it was hard not to think that way, too. Sure, he was making a living songwriting and he enjoyed it, but it wasn’t what he’d once dreamed of.
Shaking his head to rid himself of those self-destructive thoughts, he handed the hoe back to Carly. “You try.”
Imitating his actions, she brought down the hoe, twisted and lifted. It took her a time or two, but she got the hang of it. How long this gardening fit would last, he had no idea, but if it took Carly’s mind off her aunt’s death and helped her move toward closure then why not?
He found a shovel leaning against the garden shed and set to work following the path she’d hoed, digging down a good foot and turning over the soil. He had to admit, it felt good to be doing something that was about the future, not the past, even if they wouldn’t be here to see the fruits of their labors.
Pausing, he glanced over at Carly, working determinedly to break up the turf. A wave of affection flowed over him. They had something bigger than friendship, deeper than lust. If they could put down roots together, this was where they would be, in this dark, rich soil in Irene’s backyard.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“ROCK CHICKS NEED big statement hair.” Carly walked around Annie, who sat on a chair in the middle of the kitchen. She lifted a wispy strand of dishwater brown. “Do you want to go black, red, blond or a richer brown?”
“Black,” Annie said. “My idol is Amy Winehouse for her voice and style.”
“Her voice was amazing,” Carly agreed. “Black hair it is. Maybe some extensions to add volume. Are you prepared to backcomb?”
Annie put a hand over her heart. “Whatever it takes.”
Through the kitchen window Finn could be seen in the garden, driving in stakes for the tomato seedlings Frankie had brought over. Taylor was at the stove, sautéing onions and garlic for spaghetti Bolognese. A pile of other vegetables waited to be chopped. The kitchen gave off a good vibe. With the bread rising, Taylor cooking and everyone busy with projects, the house felt warm and lived in.
Taylor lowered the heat on the onions and turned his attention to the zucchini. “Do either
of you know how many millimeters the zucchini should be on every side? The recipe doesn’t say.”
“Just dice them small,” Carly advised. “It’s not rocket science.”
“It would be easier if it was,” Taylor muttered, lining up the strips of squash and bringing down his knife precisely.
“You could grate them,” Annie said. “That’s how I get the kids to eat their vegetables.”
“Do you have children?” Taylor asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Ew, no,” Annie said. “I don’t even have a boyfriend.” Beneath the indignation, Carly heard what sounded like a hint. “When I said kids, I was talking about my three little sisters.”
“I’m an only child,” Taylor said wistfully. “It must be nice to be part of a big family.”
“Kids are expensive to raise and they take a lot of work,” Annie said, sounding old beyond her years. “You’re lucky you get to go to college.”
Carly checked her loaf of sourdough rising under a cloth next to the stove. She could leave it for another hour or so. “Annie, we need to go to the store to pick up a few things for your makeover.”
“Okay.” The girl drifted over to stand next to Taylor and peer at the cookbook. “It doesn’t say so but I always add a pinch of sugar to the tomato sauce.”
“I’ve read about that. It’s because tomatoes are acidic.” His cheeks had turned pink at Annie’s proximity. “I thought about adding baking soda to lower the pH.”
Carly observed the pair with a smile. If Taylor wasn’t such a geek he might realize that Annie was in awe of him. If Annie didn’t have self-esteem issues she might realize Taylor was fascinated by her worldliness.
“I’d go with sugar if I were you.” Annie pulled on her ponytail and smiled up at him. “See you later.”
Taylor flushed a deep red.
Carly drove them to the drugstore first and Annie selected a hair color called Midnight Sea, a deep blue-black that would look dramatic under lights.
“This is a big change, considering I might not get past the audition,” Annie said doubtfully.