Rock Me Gently_A Havenwood Falls Novel

by Susan Burdorf

  Brett looked at the envelope, frowning slightly. “Not sure, looks pretty thick though.”

  He opened the letter and whistled as he scanned the contents. There were several pages, and he set a couple of them back on the counter as he read the top one. “Well, this is interesting.”

  “What is?” Cooly asked. Moving to stand beside Brett, he read over his shoulder.

  “This letter is from someone in Havenwood Falls, asking me to come and run a short music camp. They will take care of transportation,” he nodded toward one of the other pages, “and provide lodging as well.”

  “Now that is interesting,” agreed Cooly. “Think you’ll go?”

  “I will think about it,” Brett said. He stuffed the pages back in the envelope and folded it carefully before putting it in the pocket of his jeans. “Guess I need to get ready. Help me?”

  Cooly nodded and followed his friend. Clapping a hand on Brett’s shoulder he said, “I think some time away might be good for you.”

  Brett nodded in agreement, not saying anything. It felt good to have his friend by his side. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him until now.

  Ocean of Our Love

  (Brett Rhys-Falwyck solo album: Oceans)

  Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck

  The ocean of your love comes in on waves of emotion

  that nearly drag me under

  Like the uncertainty of my heart

  you conceal your true intention

  The movement of your endless sea

  is a rhythm unlike any other

  It calls to me with a siren’s song

  irresistible and urgent

  You are my wild ocean

  and I your waiting shore

  breathless for your salty kisses

  always wanting more and more

  The movement of your ocean

  is a rhythm unlike any other

  It calls to me with a siren’s song

  irresistible and urgent

  You are the message in the bottle

  bouncing at the whim of the current

  bringing hope to the broken

  your love a deterrent

  The movement of your ocean

  is a rhythm unlike any other

  It calls to me with a siren’s song

  irresistible and urgent

  I will wait for you, my little mermaid

  until the sand becomes my grave

  My song and your song

  will echo across the waves

  Chapter 4

  “Glenn, everything put away?”

  Nodding, Glenn greeted a few customers and friends from school who wandered in and out of the store as he made his way toward her.

  “Do you need something, boss?” he asked. He was standing on the other side of the counter from her. Looking over his shoulder at the clock, she saw he had another half hour of his shift left.

  Outside the window, she’d noticed a couple of girls hanging around, giggling and pointing at him as he worked. They didn’t come in, and she wondered why, feeling it had something to do with Meghan, who was also in the store most of the day.

  Even though Meghan and Glenn had held a few hushed conversations, Cece hadn’t noticed anything amiss between the teens. She wondered if Glenn’s fears about Meghan being interested in the new kid at school were groundless, but she did notice how the girl watched the people who’d come in to use the recording studio in the back as if she was waiting for someone.

  Did Meghan’s eyes linger a little longer than necessary on the guys with guitars, or was Cece just imagining it based on Glenn’s fears? Cece wished she had a better grasp on teenagers’ hormones, because from what she could see, Meghan didn’t appear to spend any time talking to anyone but Glenn.

  Meghan had grabbed one of the small tables at the back of the store where customers could sit and enjoy coffee while friends used the small recording studio. Cece had built the studio so local musicians could record demo tapes, and residents could make special messages for their friends’ anniversaries, birthdays, and other occasions. The booth was very popular with some of the teens in town who liked to hear themselves play and sing. Some of the kids were pretty good, while others were quite enthusiastic, which she supposed made up for their lack of real talent.

  In the back of the store, right outside the studio, Cece had set up three small round tables, scratched and dented from long-term use, along with several chairs at each table. There was a single-cup coffee maker with assorted teas, coffees, and hot chocolate available for customers. She also kept a supply of cookies on hand from the town’s bakery.

  The store offered free Wi-Fi, which meant the tables were usually occupied most of the day, but she had a strict policy of not allowing anyone to sit there for more than a couple of hours at a time. Her store was small, but did a steady business.

  She’d been here about three years now, and loved Havenwood Falls with a passion that surprised her. She contributed to the town’s sports teams and the local high school band program when asked to sponsor trips or other fundraisers, but she didn’t go out of her way to be involved in any particular activity. She hadn’t joined any committees in town, but had been a large contributor to the fund to rebuild the library after the disastrous fire.

  She loved, and often frequented, Howe’s Herbal Shoppe and sometimes visited with Sherry and Rusty. For the most part, though, Cece tried to stay to herself.

  She had regular customers, and her shop was even a spot the tourists liked to visit, but even as steady as her business was, she was always looking for new ways to bring in more and to help students, who were her biggest customers. She enjoyed being around young people. Their energy revitalized her and gave her a fresh perspective on the human condition.

  Heading to the back of the shop, she nearly stumbled as she felt a sudden lightheadedness. Grabbing onto the edge of one of the tables, she steadied herself for a moment, then shook herself free of the feeling before clasping her hand over her necklace. Reassured it was still there, she continued on into the studio. She needed to do her daily equipment check. She sat in the swivel chair and played with a few of the buttons on the sound machine to make sure everything was working properly. Looking under the desk, she felt the lightheadedness return and closed her eyes.

  Water, pounding. Glass, slick with steam. A man. His body hard against hers. Twisting to keep her wing nubs inside and away from prying hands, she leaned into the kiss. His mouth was firm and yet soft. Playfully she invited him back to bed . . .

  “What the hell . . . ?” Cece stood up, her body shivering with emotion unlike anything she’d felt before.

  “Boss, you okay?” Glenn stood at the door to the studio, looking at her with concern.

  “Yesss . . .” Cece said shakily. Taking a deep breath, she strode past Glenn without another word. She needed air. Desperately needed air.

  Stepping outside the shop, she took a deep breath. The two girls who’d been standing nearby glanced at her with curiosity before walking away, whispering to each other as they left. Cece ignored them, focusing instead on getting her breathing back to normal. Deeply inhaling the cool, crisp air, she regained control of her body.

  What was happening? Why was this man, someone she’d never met, so much a part of her thoughts these days?

  It was the sadness in his eyes that drew her to him, of that she was certain. Wrapping her hand in her ponytail, she tugged, the pain of pulling her hair bringing her back to the present.

  He touched me there, she thought, dropping her hands and letting her hair fall. And I liked it.

  Reaching for the door handle, she heard a voice, drifting past her on the wind, say, Bring him here.

  Goosebumps rising on her flesh, she closed her eyes, waiting for more, but the voice said nothing else. She didn’t need to ask who needed to come. She already knew who it was.

  “I’m trying,” she whispered. “But why?”

  Her only answer was a growing fee
ling of urgency.

  Brett hated flying. The flight was uneventful except for a little turbulence just before they landed that caused a momentary panic in him. Harry and Sticks were wound up, chatting incessantly and signing autographs every time they were asked. They were enjoying the hoopla that came with being in a successful band much more than he was. Cooly watched him with concern, but didn’t say anything, and for that Brett was grateful. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about anything right now.

  The band was up for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance and Song of the Year for “Love Is Like a Memory,” and Brett was up for an individual award for writing the song that had catapulted the band to fame. The connecting flight was filled with other celebrities, and selfies were being taken everywhere. Brett stayed out of the chaos as best he could, but managed to get his face into several of the backgrounds of other pictures being posted all over social media.

  Nodding and smiling, he kept pretty much to himself. As soon as he sat down, he plugged in his headphones and turned the music up loudly on his latest playlist. Flying was not something he enjoyed, and any way he could find to ignore the fact that he was in a tin can moving at speeds he couldn’t even fathom across the skies high above the very hard ground, the happier he was.

  As a matter of fact—and this was not something he was proud of—his fear of flying was part of what had kept him from getting to his mother until after she passed. He couldn’t forgive himself for that lack of familial responsibility. He’d sent money, he’d called, but when she really needed him, he’d failed her.

  Wincing at the memory, he put his head down, turned up the volume on his iPod, and tried to ignore the crowds of fans and celebrities around him, which was not easy, since even other celebrities had heard their music and wanted to congratulate him on the band’s success.

  He was gracious but cool, not inviting conversation or further closeness, and after a while, everyone got the hint and left him alone. Leaning back, he’d just closed his eyes when the flight attendant came by with the drink cart. He woke at the gentle nudge of the elderly woman seated beside him and requested a whiskey on the rocks. He handed the stewardess his credit card and downed the drink in one gulp.

  She handed him his card back, along with a meal.

  Putting the tray down, Brett reached for his salad just as turbulence sent the meal sailing out of his hands to land in the lap of the woman seated behind him. A squeal told him she wasn’t too pleased about that, and he unbuckled his belt to lean over the seat and apologize. Her head was bent forward as she plucked salad and croutons from her lap. Blond hair fell in a curtain around her, and for a second, Brett was left speechless. This was the woman he’d been dreaming of—but no, once she raised her head, he realized that was not the case.

  Apologizing once more, he accepted his half container of salad and retook his seat. Heart pounding, he was left to wonder at his overreaction. Was he going to act like this around every petite blond woman he met?

  Get control of yourself, buddy. You’ll have a heart attack if you keep reacting like this.

  “Brett, you okay?” Cooly asked. Brett could see the concern on his friend’s face. Glancing up, Brett nodded as he swallowed a mouth full of salad.

  “Yeah, I’m cool. How about you?”

  “You know me. I’m the coolest of the cool. After all, my name is Cooly,” his friend repeated the familiar joke.

  Both men laughed half-heartedly without any real mirth, and Cooly moved on to the back of the plane.

  Brett finished the salad, barely tasting it. His thoughts kept returning to his reaction toward the woman into whose lap his salad had fallen. His heart had finally stopped pounding, but his mind couldn’t stay away from the image of the ghost who haunted his dreams, and now his showers, too.

  Who was she? Why was she in his thoughts all the time now, when he’d never seen her before?

  Nothing to worry about. You’re not going mad, he reassured himself.

  Brett gazed out the window at a sky filled with large white puffy clouds in an endless sea of blue. Below, the ground was barely visible, just green or brown shapes broken by the gray ribbons of roads and the shiny silver of rivers and lakes. His salad finished, he yawned. Lowering the small flap over the window and cutting out the view, he leaned back, closing his eyes and shifting until he was comfortable.

  In seconds, he was asleep and snoring slightly.

  Brett opened his eyes to the sound of birds chirping and the constant buzz of insects. A gentle breeze floated by, ruffling his hair, its temperature just slightly below that of the sun-filled glade, causing him to shiver. His back was against the reassuring solidness of the large rock he usually found himself near. He stretched his arms overhead, wiggling his bottom until he was comfortable.

  The sun was warm like just-harvested honey, its rich color painting everything around him with an amber-hued glow. He sighed in contentment. This was home to him, familiar and safe.

  The smell of pine was subtle and tickled his nose with its astringent odor. It was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. He glanced around, taking in the way the grass undulated in the breeze, and the graceful swaying of the bright yellow flowers on their stalks.

  He heard the subtle music of that glade with a musician’s ear, and appreciated the symphony with a small smile that relaxed him.

  Here was peace.

  Here was serenity.

  Eyes closing against the sun’s warmth and with a contented sigh, he slipped into slumber. A rustling, discordant in its randomness, woke him. Sitting upright, he shook the sandman from his eyes and followed the sound that disturbed his rest until he observed a woman bathed in a white light that nearly blinded him. Partially covering his eyes with one raised hand, he tried to get a good look at her, but the light prevented a clear view.

  “Who are you?” his dream self asked her, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she opened her arms as if to embrace him before falling, her white dress billowing around her, over the nearby cliff’s edge.

  He jumped upright, intent on saving her, but instead, he found himself eye to eye with an angel of such beauty that he cried out in shock and desire. Reaching for her, his hand gripped only air as the angel flew away without a backward glance, leaving him precariously perched on the edge of the cliff she’d just leapt from.

  He cried out once more, angry and desolate without her. He watched as she disappeared into the sun as if she was heading home, her beautiful form swallowed into the golden orb and lost to view.

  Tears, hot and wet, slid down his cheeks.

  “I don’t know who she is, but if you don’t stay on your side of the seat, you’re gonna regret it.”

  Brett woke to find himself curling up against the elderly woman next to him as if they were spooning. Appalled, he quickly moved away, apologizing. But the annoyed woman, once he was in his own space, ignored him, muttering under her breath, “Next time I’m asking for the seat NOT next to the drunk, drugged-out rock star.”

  She glared darkly at Brett before returning to her book.

  “I’m not . . . Oh, whatever,” Brett said, the protest that he was not a drunk, drugged-out rock star dying on his lips. What did it matter, anyway?

  They disembarked from the plane a few hours later, and Brett retrieved his suitcase and guitar with the rest of the band. Harry and Sticks hadn’t stopped talking the whole trip and were really hyped up by the time they arrived at their hotel.

  Brett immediately went to the bathroom for a shower in preparation for their trip to the venue to test out their equipment, do a sound check, and prepare for their performance later that night. They were due to be picked up in about an hour and would have about an hour and a half to make sure everything was in order for their performance. Most of the other bands and singers had arrived the day before, but Pink Melon had not been scheduled to travel until today, due to their busy schedule.

  They would be singing just the one song, the one they hoped would rocket them furth
er up the ladder to stardom, but after the bombshell dropped by Cooly, Brett had a feeling it would land them on the list of one-hit wonders.

  Leaning against the shower wall, hot water streaming down his naked back, he flexed his muscles and tried not to cry. The band’s breaking up wasn’t a bad thing. He had a feeling they were going in different directions anyway, but they’d only just cut their first album, and breaking out with this song, he worried what he’d be doing next.

  Back to studio musician?

  Backup in another band?

  Start another band?

  He owned the rights to the songs he’d written, only having to pay residuals to the other band members if he used the songs he’d written while with this band, so he could continue to write songs and make his living that way.

  Or he could go solo. He could do it—play small venues like colleges and small concert halls, or play with symphonies until he got his name out there again as a solo artist.

  But even as he thought it, he wasn’t sure that would work for him. He liked the comfort of being in a band, having a bunch of people he could rely on to distract him when things grew too dark in his mind.

  You probably couldn’t do it on your own, anyway, the dark voice whispered into his mind.

  Turning off the water and wiping his hand down his toned, taut chest to remove excess soap, he shrugged. I don’t have to decide right now. Let’s just get through tonight, he consoled himself. Then we can worry about the ten-year plan.

  “Brett, come on, man. Are you done yet? The rest of us gotta get pretty too, you know.” Brett chuckled at Harry’s comment.

  “Gonna take more than soap and water to pretty you up, man,” he shouted back through the door as he took a final glance at himself in the mirror. Other than the bags under his eyes from not enough sleep, he guessed he was presentable.