by Joan Kilby
He took another swig of the bottle and gazed through the pine trees rising out of the steep-sided ravine. A dark pall fell over the sunny day. His head was fuzzy and his heart heavy when he thought of how badly he’d blown things with her.
He tapped out a message. Congrats. Knew u could do it.
He thought about saying more but what? Their paths had come together briefly for Irene’s funeral and now they had diverged again. Best to accept his limitations and the limitations of their relationship. His mother was right, he wasn’t the settling down kind.
Except that he ached to hold Carly again, to sit on that damn veranda with her and watch the sunset while they rocked away in their hand-carved chairs. He longed to see her eyes light up when the sourdough rose and hear her groan when he made a lame joke.
His phone rang, dragging him out of his recollections. “Hey, Tom.”
“Where have you been?” his agent demanded. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the past two days.”
“Been on the road,” Finn said. “Back home now. What’s up?”
“Your latest tune is up for an award on Friday,” Tom said. “Can you make it to the ceremony?”
“What day is today?” he mumbled.
“Are you drunk?” Tom asked, incredulous.
“I’m working on it.”
“Well, sober up because we have things to discuss,” Tom said briskly. “Molto contacted me to arrange an interview. Did you apply for a songwriting job there?”
“I sent them my résumé,” Finn said. “Put you down as my contact. Thought you could negotiate me a better contract.”
“Finn, are you thinking clearly? Your career is on the upswing. Do you really want to throw that away and go work for a large corporation?”
No, but he’d considered it might be handy to have a steady paycheck. Did that matter now that he and Carly weren’t together? He dragged a hand over his face. They never would be a couple now that he’d shown his true colors. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore.
“Make a time for me to see Molto,” he said. “I’ll decide later if I go or not.”
Tom muttered something incoherent that Finn ignored. Rufus dropped his ball at Finn’s side and waited, panting hopefully. Halfheartedly Finn picked up the ball and tossed it to the other side of the lawn. The dog raced after it, tail flying like a flag.
“Dingo contacted me,” Tom went on. “I understand you said you would join his band? Is that still happening? It would be great if you started performing. We need to think about your brand. Is it being part of a band, or a solo artist? How do we best promote your YouTube music videos on the back of the RockAround concert?”
“About RockAround...” Finn put his fingers to his temple. “Can you find the guys another lead singer and keyboardist?”
There was a long pause. “So you’re bailing,” Tom said flatly.
“I’m bailing,” Finn admitted.
“Kind of short notice, isn’t it?” There was a cold edge to his voice.
Finn threw the ball again for Rufus. “Can’t be helped. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
There was a long silence. Finally Tom said, “I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday.” He seemed about to hang up when he added, “Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“I have the number of someone who could help you,” Tom said. “He’s at a big research medical center and specializes in cutting-edge therapy. He works with a lot of returned vets with PTSD and has had amazing results.”
Finn thought about a fridge magnet he’d seen once. Everything you want is on the other side of fear. That made it sound as if overcoming anxiety was simple. It wasn’t. Fear was a raging forest fire, an unclimbable mountain. Fear was a vast glacier pitted with bottomless chasms. If he tried to get to the other side of fear he would either be consumed or broken.
“Nah, I’m good,” he said at last. “See you Friday.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CARLY CLIMBED UP to her third-floor brownstone apartment on Friday night carrying a bottle of champagne and a selection of gourmet appetizers from the deli. In a half hour or so her friends Althea and Erica would come over for a drink before they all went out on the town to celebrate her getting the Wallis account.
She put the bubbly in the fridge next to the jar of sourdough starter she’d brought from Irene’s house. She’d left some starter back in Fairhaven in case Taylor or Annie got ambitious. Now that she’d begun using it, she was committed to keeping it going.
After arranging the snacks on a baking tray she tidied up. Compared to the spaciousness of Irene’s house, her studio apartment felt cramped, almost claustrophobic. Never mind, it wouldn’t be long before she could afford a bigger place.
Hard on the heels of that thought came a wave of the depression that had dogged her since leaving Fairhaven. For a brief, heady period, she’d really thought she and Finn had forged something lasting. The west coast versus east coast thing was a problem but with enough will, they could solve it. With her salary she would be able to fly reasonably frequently between New York and Los Angeles. And he could stay with her for long periods. A songwriter could work anywhere, right?
Career-wise, he’d been so close to breaking out of his self-imposed slump. He’d been trying, he really had. And then he’d just...given up. Where was the young Finn, the guy who had practiced classical piano for hours on end, day after day, and still found time to explore different music and develop his own style? Where was the outcast son who had nevertheless made a name for himself as a songwriter? The guy who’d counted his busking coins as if they were riches, the man who had for one shining moment, believed in himself as a performer?
Where was the guy who’d kissed her in the tower? The man who’d made love to her, not as if the world was ending, but as if it had just begun?
When he’d given up on himself, he’d given up on them, too.
Her phone rang. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she picked up. “Hello?”
“Carly, it’s Sam, from Fairhaven Realty. We had an open house on Wednesday. I’ve got great news.”
“Yes?” Carly’s pulse kicked up a notch but she didn’t know if it was excitement or dread. She opened a cupboard and brought down small plates and champagne flutes.
“A couple from Seattle have made an offer,” Sam went on. “They’ve underbid your asking price by twenty thousand but if you’re looking for a quick sale it might be worth considering.”
“Did you tell them I need an extended settlement period?” Carly said.
“They’re fine with that, as long as they can move in before the school year starts. They’ve got a couple of kids in primary school.”
“Any other bites?” Carly asked.
“Some interest but nothing solid. It’s a big house, lots of maintenance,” Sam said. “It’s not for everyone.”
“I can put in a counteroffer, right?” Carly asked.
“Midway would be reasonable,” Sam said. “They like the house and would probably be willing to come up a little.”
“But it would still be below my asking price and it’s only the first offer.” Carly hesitated. “I need to think this over.”
“By all means, but if you’re considering it, don’t take too long. They’ve got their eye on several houses in the area.”
“I’ll get back to you by the end of business tomorrow.”
Carly hung up and went to the fridge for the champagne. The glass she poured wasn’t in celebration. Everything seemed to be happening at warp speed. Her expanded job, Finn back in LA, the house on the brink of being sold. The weeks in Fairhaven had felt like an idyll, sandwiched between “before” and “after” segments of real life. There was a musical term for an interlude—intermezzo. That’s what their romance had been, an intermezzo.
Her fingers sought out Finn’s n
umber. She’d told herself she wasn’t going to be the first to call. Instead, she would give him space to figure things out—and let herself cool down. But he’d been such a part of Irene’s life and the house that it seemed only right she talk over her decision with him.
The phone rang and rang. She tried to tell herself he could be at a studio working but her fuse had shortened where he was concerned. If he let it go to voice mail...
“Yo?” he answered at last.
“Finn, hey.” She felt awkward and angry. “Did I get you at a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine.” His voice sounded gravelly, wary. “Congratulations again. I should have called but I was...tied up.”
Tied up. That could mean anything from a studio session to solitary day drinking.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, even though it did. “Sam just called. Someone put an offer on the house.”
“Great,” Finn said. “I guess.”
“It’s what we did all that work for,” she said. “The buyers are willing to have a long settlement so that’s good for Taylor and Annie. It’s under my asking price but not so far below as to be out of the question.”
“I don’t sense you jumping for joy,” Finn said, sounding more alert. “What’s the problem?”
“Not a problem exactly.” Carly couldn’t put a finger on her resistance. “If I hold out I might be able to get a higher price. On the other hand, they’re the only people who have shown interest. If I let them go, I might be passing up my only chance to sell to someone willing to meet my conditions.”
“Ah, the old bird in the hand dilemma,” Finn said. “What’s your gut feeling?”
“My gut feeling doesn’t make logical sense.” She walked to the window overlooking the street, gridlocked in the early evening. Horns honked. Someone shouted. The noise didn’t bother her. She liked the bustle of the city. So where did this uneasy feeling come from that had been clawing at her ever since she signed the agreement with Sam’s realty agency?
“I think,” she said slowly, “I want to keep the house.”
“I thought you couldn’t afford to,” Finn said. “I thought you wanted to buy an apartment in New York with the proceeds.”
“Yes, yes.” Why was it suddenly annoying that he was parroting her words back to her? “I didn’t say it makes sense.”
“What you’re experiencing is a case of Fear Of Missing Out,” he said. “Otherwise known as wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.”
“You’re right, it’s a dumb idea. I was going to crunch the numbers on the option of keeping it as a rental property but I’d only be delaying the inevitable. It’s not as though I’d ever live there.”
“How is being back at your dream job?” Finn asked, changing the subject. “Everything you hoped it would be?”
“It’s fine. I told you I got that big account I’d been angling for. It’ll be a lot of work but could lead to even bigger things.”
And yet, all day she’d been dogged by that feeling of anticlimax. An “is this all there is?” feeling. Which was crazy.
“That’s great,” Finn said. “You’ll be helping a lot of people.”
“Yeah.” People that she mostly would never see. How could she not have realized that her job entailed a lot of paper pushing and little personal contact with her clients?
“And the business cards?” Finn went on. “Did they turn out?”
“Serif was definitely the way to go. You were right.” The longer they chatted, the harder it was to remember why she was mad at him. “How’s Rufus? Do you have a fenced yard? Can you get his brand of dog food there?”
“He’s settling in fine. I took him for a walk up in the hills this morning. He loved chasing the ground squirrels.” Finn was silent a moment and then cleared his throat. “He...he misses you.”
“I miss him, too.” Carly’s eyes welled. She gulped champagne.
She was supposed to be celebrating, not having a pity party. She’d gotten everything she wanted. Except for Finn. And the house and Rufus. Well, a person couldn’t have everything, could they?”
“I have news, too,” he said. “I’ve got an interview with Molto.”
“That’s great,” Carly said. “If you get the job, would you be based in Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, good huh?” Despite his words, he sounded down, the opposite of the guy who’d sat at the table grinning and counting spare change. “It’s time I got real. I’m thirty years old. Dreams don’t come true just because you want them to.”
“No, they don’t,” she said, a bit too sharply. “You have to make them happen.”
“I thought you’d be pleased about Molto,” he said. “You showed me the ad.”
She sighed. “I am, I guess. If you are.”
“My Screaming Reindeer song is nominated for another award,” he went on, ignoring her lack of enthusiasm.
“You should be getting that nomination.”
“It’s not a big deal, just some radio station award,” Finn said dismissively. “Not like I missed out on a Grammy.”
“The publicity will be great for you,” Carly said, trying to be upbeat. “Congratulations.”
“I know you’re disappointed in me....”
“I’m disappointed for you.” Her fingers tightened on her phone.
There was a long silence.
She pressed the damp napkin to her eyes. This was no way to stay in contact. Any sympathy she offered would look like pity, which he would hate, and any constructive criticism would look like well, criticism. “I’m your friend no matter what. Do you understand?”
More silence.
“Sure.” His voice became detached, almost offhand. “Big deal or not, I have to go put on a monkey suit. Tom’s picking me up soon. Congrats again.”
Carly hung up. She let out a long breath and then went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. As Finn had said, it was time to get real. The romance was most definitely over.
* * *
FINN GOT TO his feet and whistled and clapped as the Screaming Reindeer were called onstage to accept the award for most requested song of the year.
“Congratulations.” Tom pulled him into a hug and slapped his back.
Finn subsided into his seat. The blonde in the shimmery silver dress on his right—Amber or Amy, something like that—smiled. She’d been coming on to him all evening even though he’d done nothing to encourage her.
Finn was happy for the band but in his deep, dark, heart of hearts he was envious. And bitter. Black and bitter as the life he led. Carly was right. It should have been him accepting this award. Of course there was no saying his rendition would have won an award but he would never know because he’d never given himself the opportunity.
This was his life, the one he’d chosen. It was fine. He was making a living, his songwriting was gaining recognition and he had Tom looking out for his interests. What was he worried about?
The rest of the evening he drank steadily to blot out all the things he didn’t want to think about. The RockAround gig, Carly, his mother—
Oh, man. Another thought hit him. Irene’s house going into the hands of strangers. He and Carly would never again sit on the porch and watch the sunset. Never climb up to the tower for a clandestine kiss. Never harvest the vegetables they’d planted. Never fill the house with rug rats of their own.
“Are you all right?” Tom said, a hand on his shoulder. “You just groaned.”
“Yeah, fine,” Finn said wearily. “I should get going.” He dragged his tux jacket off the back of the chair. “You stay,” he said when Tom also rose. “You’ve got another client up for an award.”
“I can take you home,” Amber or Amy said, looping an arm through his. He thought she was trying to keep him upright until her hand strayed to his butt.
“Thanks, no.” C
lumsily, he disengaged himself. “I’ll get a cab.” Before anyone could stop him, he wove through the tables toward the exit.
* * *
HE WOKE UP lying on his back on the ground. His head hurt too much to open his eyes but he could tell by the red glow behind his eyelids that his surroundings were bright. Something warm and wet was wiping across his face. He felt around gingerly, hoping he wasn’t on a public sidewalk. He felt grass. A park? Could be just as bad.
What was that wetness? Cracking an eyelid he saw a long pink tongue descend toward his nose. Rufus, trying to rouse him.
“G’way, dog.” He batted at the Irish setter and dragged himself onto his elbows. He was in his backyard in his underwear. His tux jacket and pants, socks and shirt were spread around the pool area. His hair felt damp and his boxers were damp, too. An empty scotch bottle lay on the tiles next to a lounge chair.
Apparently he’d thought it a good idea to go for a midnight swim alone and blind drunk. So this was what rock bottom felt like. He was lucky he hadn’t drowned.
“C’m here, Rufus. Sorry, boy.” He slung an arm around the dog’s neck and buried his face in his fur. “Disgusting.” Rufus whined. “Not you,” Finn said. “Me. I’m disgusting.”
Rufus made a long, low growling sound that sounded almost like talking.
“I should do something about it?” Finn asked wearily. “Yes, I should but...”
He searched for an excuse and found none. There were no buts to cover how low he’d sunk. He had no legitimate reason to complain about a single thing and yet he was miserable. He couldn’t even pretend to have dreams anymore and that was wrong.
As he lay there on the grass, gazing up at the relentlessly blue sky, his brain cleared and he could view his life dispassionately. His career, whichever direction it took, was secondary to his happiness. The accolades and applause were all very well, but in the end it didn’t matter as much as the people in his life. The most important of whom was Carly. He’d had a chance to be with her and he’d blown it. He’d blown it with his family and his friends and his community. All because he’d lost his self-respect and his integrity as a man and as a musician.