Tribute Act

by Joanna Chambers

  “Come on, it’ll be nice,” I said in a cheerful tone. “We’ll stroll down to the seafront and get a coffee or something.”

  He smiled, and for an instant, I was sure I saw a flash of . . . relief? Or maybe gratitude? I didn’t know, but it made me glad I’d insisted on going with him.

  “Okay, coffee,” he said gruffly. “It’s too cold for ice cream today.”

  “Hey, it’s never too cold for ice cream!” I scolded teasingly.

  It took about three times longer than usual to walk down to the seafront. Mack started off at his usual pace but soon had to slow down.

  “God, this is ridiculous,” he complained. “I should be better by now.”

  “It’s only been three weeks,” I pointed out. “You need to be patient. You’re a lot better already, but they did say you needed six weeks recovery time minimum.”

  Mack sighed and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. I wished I could . . . I didn’t know, I supposed I wished I could put my arm round him. Instead I contented myself with a shoulder bump, prompting another of those rare smiles.

  Shit, I had it bad for Mack MacKenzie. Which was, well, not the best, considering he clearly had no interest in me.

  When we got to the seafront, I sat Mack down on an empty bench, then jogged over to the Square Peg Café to fetch us a couple of coffees, ignoring the waitress’s boot-faced scowl when I asked her to put the drinks in takeaway cups. I ordered a skinny latte for me and a filter with a dash for Mack—he didn’t like “milky coffee”—then, on impulse, added a chocolate brownie to go. Mack could do with a bit of fattening up.

  By the time I got back to the bench, Mack looked like he was freezing in his thin bomber jacket. I knew he’d refuse my warmer one if I offered it, so instead, I satisfied myself with handing him the hot coffee, which would at least warm his hands, and gradually fed him the brownie. I knew by now that if I tried to simply hand him the brownie, he’d say he didn’t want it. But I’d discovered that if I offered him treats like that less conspicuously, bit by bit while chatting, he’d happily eat them up.

  We sat there on our bench, gazing out to sea, swilling down our third-rate coffee as the sun crept towards the horizon.

  “You know,” Mack said after a while, “I don’t think I’ve said thanks to you, for putting me up. You’ve been really generous about it, and it’s not like you knew me before all this.”

  I glanced at him, uncomfortable. “No need to thank me. You saved Rosie’s life, for God’s sake. And you’re family.” I felt odd as soon as those last words left my mouth, not because they weren’t true—they were. Mack was family—but they brought up the idea of our being stepbrothers, and that absolutely wasn’t how I thought of him.

  He didn’t respond to that, just stared out to sea. I watched him surreptitiously. He had a very nice profile, did Mack.

  “Do you think you could put up with me another week?” he asked at last, his tone diffident.

  “Only a week?” I said, frowning. “I assumed you’d be staying with me till you were recovered.”

  He turned to me then, and I saw his throat bob. “I should head off. I need to get back to earning. I’m almost out of cash.”

  I blinked at him. “You can’t . . . you can’t seriously be thinking about working, Mack?”

  He immediately looked away, eyes on the horizon again. “Why not?”

  “It’s only been three weeks since the op!” I exclaimed. “You’re not fit!”

  “It’ll be a month by next week,” he said stubbornly.

  I huffed out a breath. “The doctors said you needed six weeks to recover. At least six weeks and not going back to work for eight to twelve weeks. You need to wait for the all-clear scan too. You know all this, Mack. You shouldn’t be thinking of working yet.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m skint, okay?” he shot back, cheeks flushing. “So I need to get on my feet a bit quicker.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re staying with me, so you’ve got no bills to worry about.”

  He shook his head in swift negation. “I can’t leech off you—”

  “It’s not leeching!” I protested. “Mack, you can’t think that!” It genuinely upset me that he thought that way, and the surprise on his face told me he saw how horrified I was.

  He stared at me helplessly. “I feel like I’m taking advantage, living here, eating your food, using your stuff.”

  “Mack, you’re family,” I said again, laying my hand on his knee. Even as I did so, I was aware of a frisson of excitement, just from that simple touch, and I cursed inwardly because, yeah, my attraction to him complicated this. At my end, anyway. At his end—who knew? I couldn’t tell.

  He sighed, as though in acknowledgement of all I’d said, but he still looked unhappy. And I knew why. He clearly found it hard to accept things from others. It had been nothing to him to give away half his liver to Rosie, but he’d rather flog himself to death, working for minimum wage, than live rent-free at my place.

  I said, searching for some kind of fix, “Listen, how about if you help me out?”

  “Doing what?”

  He had me there. I racked my brains, thinking of all the stuff I did for Dilly’s week in, week out. Trying to think of something Mack could do from the flat without tiring himself too much.

  “I could help out in the café, I suppose,” he offered, tentatively. “I’ve done tons of waiting and kitchen work. And I was a barista for a few months—you do coffee, don’t you?”

  I frowned. “That’s work, Mack! You’d be on your feet all day. It’d be way too much for you right now.”

  He looked weirdly gutted. Maybe he felt excluded from the whole Dilly’s thing? After all, me, Mum, and Derek all worked there, and Rosie had talked about doing some shifts in the summer holidays in one of her brighter moments recently.

  “Could you—” I began, and then inspiration struck. “Could you come and play sometimes?”

  “Play,” he said flatly. Then, “What, my guitar?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why not? Some low-key music would be nice. If you’re up to it, that is. We’d need to get you sitting down though. Like when you play at home.”

  He scowled. “I can play fine, but don’t you think it would be weird? In an ice cream parlour?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all, I was thinking late weekday afternoons—that’s our quietest time off-season. It might bring in a few more customers at the end of the day. A bit of entertainment. What do you say?”

  He stared at me, unyielding. “I think it’s weird.”

  I laughed. “Well, maybe it is—but is that a reason not to do it? I’m prepared to give something weird a go to see if we can get a little business in the door. I’d rather do that than close earlier Monday to Wednesday, which is the other option I was considering now that tourist season is winding up. Earlier closing means cutting the part-timers’ hours, and I don’t like doing that if I can help it.” That much was true.

  Mack studied me, his expression serious. At last he shrugged. “Okay, fine. If that’s what you want.”

  “Great,” I said, grinning at him. “It is.”

  Mack gave his first café performance a week later. We picked Wednesday afternoon, from four till five. After I suggested the slot, I worried I might be asking too much—what if he didn’t have enough polished material for a whole hour? Was I making unfair assumptions just because he carried a guitar around with him? He hadn’t seemed perturbed by performing when I’d suggested it though, so I had to assume it would be okay.

  I left Katie holding the fort while I popped back to the flat to carry Mack’s gear for him—I still wouldn’t let him lift anything heavier than a mug of tea, much to his frustration. He was tucking his arms through the straps of his guitar case when I got there. We tussled over it for a few seconds till he eventually gave up with a sigh and let me have my way.

  “Do you have any music you need to take?” I asked as we headed for the door of the flat, hoping that might give me
a clue as to what he planned.

  “Nah.”

  That was it. Nah.

  The thing was, I was nervous for him. I knew he could play. I’d heard him play a lot in the flat by now, but he just tended to noodle around, doing a bit of this or that tune, or working away at a tricky part for ages. He’d never actually straight-out performed anything for me. What if he wasn’t, well, any good? I hated the idea of people talking about him under their breath—Oh my god, who is this guy? I didn’t even know why I felt so protective of him. It was ridiculous.

  When we were halfway there, I couldn’t hold back my curiosity any longer.

  “So,” I said breezily, “have you decided what you’re going to play?”

  He sent me an amused glance. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve heard you playing all sorts at home—folk, pop, rock.”

  “Are you worried?” His grin was teasing now.

  “No, of course not. I trust you.”

  He laughed.

  “What?”

  “You know you’re a control freak, don’t you?” he said, but he was smiling at me almost fondly. “Look, why don’t you tell me what you’d like me to play?”

  I frowned. “Isn’t it a bit late for that? We’re on our way there now.”

  “I’m pretty versatile.”

  A double entendre sprang to mind but I managed to leave it unsaid. Instead I said, “Okay, how about Justin Bieber? I’m sure that would go down well.”

  He laughed at that. “Touché!”

  Weirdly though, that conversation did settle me down. Mack was obviously confident about what he was about to do and didn’t feel out of his depth.

  When we got to the café, only about half the tables were occupied, all by regulars. I asked Katie to deal with the customers while I did some paperwork and left Mack to set himself up in the corner. He prompted a few curious glances from the table of young mums who came in around this time every day, but seemed unperturbed by the attention. I sat myself down at the small table nearest the counter with my laptop and a large cappuccino and surreptitiously watched him.

  I didn’t know what it was about Mack, but I enjoyed just watching him do stuff. Something about the economical, unhurried way he moved and his calm, unflappable demeanour. From the first he’d struck me as a laid-back guy—the opposite of me, really, and maybe that was part of the attraction. Maybe I was drawn to him because his quietness soothed me. Sitting there, in the corner of Dilly’s, fine-tuning his instrument, he seemed so relaxed, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d been worried he’d be nervous, but no. In fact, I’d never actually seen him look more at home than he did right now. There was a sureness to him when he held his guitar that he didn’t have when his hands were empty.

  Katie leaned over the counter. She was only a couple of years older than Rosie but with her willowy height and heavy makeup, she could easily have passed for midtwenties.

  “What’s he going to play?” she whispered.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Right then, Mack glanced up. He caught my eye, winked at me, and started to play “Love Yourself,” by Justin Bieber.

  And I laughed like an idiot.

  It was quite a little gig in the end. After “Love Yourself,” Mack played a whole host of crowd-pleasers: the Beatles, Ed Sheeran, Johnny Cash. We got a few new customers who’d been attracted by the music, and stayed open till five thirty. We didn’t make a whole lot of money, but it was nice to bring people in with something other than the lure of ice cream and to have them sit a bit longer too.

  And it was really nice to hear Mack play, his voice low and clean, his hands moving with practiced ease. The small crowd loved him, a few of them talking to him after he finished, and several asking me when he’d be on again.

  He was smiling as we walked home.

  “You’re very talented,” I told him. “Do you have, you know, plans in that direction?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. I’m not ambitious.”

  “Have you ever been in a band?”

  “A few. Every one of them ended badly. I think I’m more of a . . . solo artist, if you know what I mean?” He smiled at me. “A lone wolf.”

  “All wolves are pack animals at heart,” I said. “Maybe you just never found the right . . . bandmates?”

  His smile tightened. “Are we still talking about bands?”

  I flushed. There was my fixer nature coming out again. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay.” Then, after a beat, “But you should know—I really am a lone wolf, Nathan.”

  Mack played at the café again on the Monday and Wednesday of the next week. On Monday, we got a few extra customers, mostly people who’d been in the previous week and had wanted to come again. By the Wednesday though, word had got round and we were practically full.

  Mum brought Rosie with her to listen on Wednesday. They squeezed themselves in at my tiny table near the counter, forcing me to put away my laptop.

  “Why didn’t you tell us he was doing this?” Mum said as Mack tuned up in his usual, patient, all-the-time-in-the-world way.

  I said, honestly, “He didn’t want me to.”

  “Why not?”

  I gave her a look.

  “What?”

  “You kind of make a fuss about things and, in case you’ve not noticed, he’s not really into being fussed over.”

  She gasped. “I do not!”

  I glanced at Rosie for support, but she clearly wasn’t listening. Her gaze was fixed on Mack and there was a distinct gleam of hero-worship in her eyes that, I had to admit, I envied. Well, I was used to being the only big-brother show in town.

  I turned back to Mum. “So, where’s Derek?”

  “Oh, working,” she said vaguely, and I definitely didn’t imagine the flush of scarlet that stained her cheeks. Terrible liar, my mother.

  “Does he know Mack’s playing here?”

  She eyed me, then glanced at Rosie, who still wasn’t paying us the slightest bit of attention, before adding under her breath. “He thinks Dylan won’t want him here. I told him not to be so silly, but, well . . .” She trailed off, as though unsure how to complete the thought, and no wonder, because yes, there was some basis for Derek’s fears.

  Mack did go out of his way to avoid Derek. I suspected his actions stemmed from his deep-rooted conviction that Derek didn’t care about him. And really who could blame him? With how Derek was behaving, it didn’t look like that was a view Mack was going to be changing anytime soon. Whatever Derek’s reasons for staying away, Mack would probably interpret them as lack of interest.

  My depressing thoughts were interrupted when Mack began to play. He started with an Ed Sheeran song, which most of the crowd clearly knew well, immediately drawing them in. I glanced at Mum, unaccountably pleased by her obvious surprise at Mack’s skill. As for Rosie, she was gazing at Mack worshipfully. She was a complete music fiend and had taken up guitar the year before she fell ill, though her lessons had fallen by the wayside a few months ago.

  When Mack finished that first song, Rosie turned to me and said breathlessly, “He’s way better than Dad. I think he might be better than my teacher!”

  Mum gave a startled laugh. “Don’t tell Dad that!”

  Rosie giggled, but I didn’t think Mum was kidding. Derek was pretty precious about his musician status. I had to wonder what he’d make of Mack’s playing. Mack was good, no doubt. Versatile too. I’d heard Derek play quite a bit, but only rock and pop stuff. Mack could play anything: rock, country, folk, even classical. There was a natural ease to his playing, even in how he held the instrument, as if the guitar were an extension of his own body. As though he didn’t need to think about the notes at all.

  When Mack finished his set, Katie started closing down at the counter while Mum and I began clearing tables and gently encouraging the customers out the door. Rosie joined Mack as he packed his stuff up, chattering away to him as he worked. Mack
didn’t seem to be saying much, but he smiled at her, and put in the odd comment. She seemed to bloom under his quiet attention, talkative in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. It warmed me to see her acting like her old self again, but it was kind of painful too, to see how easily Mack could draw her out of herself when for the last few months, I’d barely been able to get a word out of her.

  Finally, when the last customer had gone, and Katie had left, Mum and I joined Rosie and Mack.

  “Dylan love, that was so good,” Mum said, laying her hand on his arm. She laughed. “I suppose that’s not so surprising—like father, like son.”

  Mack smiled stiffly at her. “Actually, my mum was a musician too. She was the one who taught me guitar.”

  Mum looked mortified. “Oh, right. I didn’t think of that. Of course, that was how she and Derek met, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Mack said shortly. “He had an affair with her while he was married to his first wife. Unfortunately, he got her up the duff, and that was the end of her music career.”

  Mum’s face went scarlet.

  “Mack, come on,” I said wearily.

  He sighed. “Sorry,” he said flatly, not looking at any of us.

  “No, no,” Mum said, patting his arm again. “I understand.” Though what she thought she understood, I wasn’t sure.

  Rosie, bless her, changed the subject back to Mack’s playing. “That was so good, Dylan!” she gushed. “Will you teach me? I was getting lessons from this guy for a while—he’s got his own band—but I stopped after I got properly ill, and it’s been ages since I practiced. I really want to start up again! I want to play like you.”

  His expression was wary. “Um—I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.” He looked at me, as if for support, though why he imagined I’d back him up on this, I didn’t know. As for Mum, she was beaming again.

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea!” she said.

  “Come on!” Rosie urged. “It’ll give us a chance to bond.” She giggled.

  So spoke the adored younger child, secure of her place in the world. If Mack thought he was getting out this, he was deluded.