Life Rewritten

by Margaret Watson

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she slid to the ground, trembling. The desk she’d been using to support herself was hard and unyielding. The knobs on the drawers poked her back and the floor of the barn was icy cold. The numbness that had descended while Sam was here vanished, replaced by panic.Would he really tell the world where she was? Expose her to every morbidly curious Redheads fan who wanted to see what remained of the wreck she’d been? Every collector who wanted the CDs?

  A story about her in Rolling Stone would be chum in the water to the tabloids. Reporters would park at the end of her driveway and wait for her to appear.

  They’d sneak onto her property, follow her around Otter Tail, pack the Harp when she performed with the band.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  But she could not become Chantal again, either.

  She’d have to destroy the CDs.

  She stood up and walked over to the large cabinet in the far corner of the showroom. It was hidden behind her sample furniture, pieces she showed potential customers.

  The simple maple storage unit was one of the first things she’d made when she set up her woodworking shop. She’d filled it with boxes from her previous life, then locked the door.

  The key was still on top of the cabinet, covered with a fine layer of sawdust. She wiped it on her jeans, then inserted it into the lock.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “SHH, REN. He’ll get angry if we wake him up.” Paper rustled. “Read your book for a while.”

  “I can’t read, Leo. You read it to me.”Sam opened one eye and saw Leo and Rennie huddled on the other bed, their heads together. He felt as if he’d hardly slept, and the darkness outside confirmed his suspicion that it was really early.

  He rolled over, and the kids were instantly still. It made him feel guilty and ashamed. Heather’s volatile moods had turned them into frightened rabbits.

  Just another reason to get them into that school as soon as possible.

  “Hey, guys,” he said, sitting up. “You interested in some breakfast?”

  “Yes,” Rennie said cautiously. Leo shrugged and didn’t answer.

  “I’ll take a shower, then we’ll figure out if there’s a good restaurant in town.”

  “In this hick place?” Leo’s ten-year-old voice was scornful. “They probably don’t even have a McDonald’s.”

  “As a matter of fact, they do.” He’d stopped there last night. “You want to go there for breakfast? I think they have one of those gym things.” He could let the kids play and he’d have a few minutes of peace.

  “Whatever.” Leo showed no enthusiasm for anything Sam suggested.

  “Okay, then we’ll see if there’s another restaurant.”

  The boy glowered at him. “McDonald’s is fine.”

  “You two get dressed while I’m in the shower, then we’ll leave.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Sam sat at a table in the restaurant and watched Leo and Rennie climbing up ladders and sliding down chutes. He couldn’t take much more of this. If he had to stay in that motel room for another night, he’d lose his mind.

  Clearing the remains of their pancakes and sausage, he found a local newspaper and opened the want ads. Maybe he could find a vacation house to rent for a few days. Being cooped up in a small room with him was probably making the kids just as nuts. Having some space to spread out would be good for all of them.

  DELANEY STOOD AT HER kitchen window, watching the sun’s watery light wash over her barn as her coffeemaker gurgled. Anticipation of that first soothing swallow warmed her as the rich scent filled the room. The bright yellow walls of the kitchen glowed in the soft light, and the blue accents—the towels on the stove, the cookie jar and stand mixer on the counter—soothed her. She was safe here, in her kitchen. In her house.

  Or rather, she used to be. This morning, safety was an illusion. Sam McCabe had made sure of that.The coffeemaker gradually quieted, and she poured the strong brew into a mug. Steam tickled her nose. What was she going to do about McCabe? She’d been attracted to him last night, for God’s sake. Not a real attraction, just the adrenaline of performing, but still. For a few minutes in his car, she’d welcomed that flare of lust. It had been a long time since she’d reacted to a man. She’d almost wondered if that part of her had dried up when she’d dried out. That she’d only wanted sex when she was drunk or high.

  Apparently not.

  Shame scalded hotter than the coffee she swallowed. He hadn’t been interested in her. He’d wanted her CDs. That was all.

  Beneath her fear, anger stirred. He still thought his brother was perfect, that she’d led Diesel astray, and somehow that gave him the right to bully her and make demands.

  She set her mug sharply on the table. Last night she’d been a coward. Instead of destroying the CDs, she’d fled back to her house without even opening the cabinet.

  She’d do it this morning. The next time he asked for those recordings, she’d give him a box of charred and twisted pieces of plastic. Tell him he could have the damn demos.

  She didn’t bother with a jacket as she hurried outside. The cold of the barn enveloped her as she stepped inside, and she quickly started a fire in the wood-burning stove. But instead of opening the cabinet, she wandered through the showroom, cataloging the pieces and visualizing her schedule for their completion. And every time she caught a glimpse of that maple cabinet tucked in the corner, it loomed larger.

  When it was the only thing she could see in the showroom, she walked over and stood before it. Putting a painful task off never made it easier.

  The key was still in the door. She turned it and pulled the cabinet open.

  The scents of rosin and stale cigarette smoke drifted out, reminders of her former life. She was careful not to look at the old guitar case on the bottom shelf. She couldn’t face that. Not now.

  As she hauled out the boxes and set them on the floor, emotion pinched at her heart. Grief for Diesel. Shame at the spectacle she’d let Chantal become. Regret for the mess she’d made of her life.

  But as she rummaged through the cartons, the memories seduced, as well.

  The set lists, photos, concert playbills, the news stories, all fueled the old longing. Instead of living in Otter Tail, making furniture, playing the drums and singing one night a week, she could be touring again. Listening to the screams and cheers of the audience. If she agreed to what Sam wanted, maybe she’d even be recording again.

  She stood up and kicked the boxes to the side. That’s why she never looked at this stuff. It was too tempting. Whispering in her ear, telling her she could be Chantal again, that she’d be smarter this time. That she wouldn’t make the same mistakes.

  Toxic murmurs. Dangerous ideas.

  Quickly she dug out the carton of demo CDs and set it on the concrete floor. Then she shoved everything else back in the cabinet.

  If she was smart, she wouldn’t open this box. She’d put it into the stove and incinerate it.

  But she’d never been smart. She lifted off the cover and stared at the neat stack of plastic cases, each holding a CD. She’d hoped these songs would help her and Diesel straighten out. Become musicians again, rather than a sideshow.

  Instead, they’d helped kill him.

  When he’d told Heather he and Chantal were going to take a break from the Redheads and try something new, his longtime girlfriend had freaked out. Afraid the money train would stop, she’d given him an ultimatum. End his affair with Chantal, throw her out of the band, or Heather was leaving and taking the kids. She’d make sure he never saw them again.

  Slowly, as if it would burn her fingers, Delaney reached for the plastic case on top. There was no liner, no notes, only the number 4 written on the disk with a Sharpie.

  She didn’t need notes. She knew exactly what each CD held.

  Moving slowly, as if her whole body hurt, she walked over to her boom box and slid the disc into the slot. She sank to the floor as the first notes poured out of the speakers.

 
She and Diesel were both good vocalists, but their voices together had been magic. The hard rock of the Redheaded Stepsisters had disguised their power, but on these tapes, backed only by his guitar and her drums, their voices soared.

  Sam was right. These CDs were gold. If the recordings were released, they’d bring in a flood of money. There would be enough to put Leo and Rennie in private schools ten times over. Money to give them whatever they wanted in life.

  Except their father.

  She sat with her forehead on her knees, her arms curled around her head, and listened to one song after another. One CD after another.

  Her music. Diesel’s lyrics. Songs about forgiveness. Family. Connections.

  Love.

  How could she destroy this last window into Diesel’s soul?

  How could she not? If she released them, she’d be destroying herself.

  “You sound amazing.”

  She jerked her head up to see Sam, standing a few feet away. Scrambling to her feet, swiping furtively at her cheeks, she kept her back to him and turned off the CD player.

  “What are you doing here? Get out. Now.”

  “That’s one of them, isn’t it?” He’d moved closer. “Jeremy was right. They’re brilliant.”

  “No one was meant to hear them.” The weight of her sorrow was crushing her heart. “Go away.”

  “My brother was an incredible musician. So are you.”

  “I’m going to burn them all.”

  “Don’t do that.” He was right behind her now. She sensed his hands hovering over her shoulders. “Please.”

  His fingers felt warm through her sweater. Almost comforting. She jerked away.

  “Don’t you have any decency?” Her voice was scratchy, and she tried to clear her throat. “Leave me alone.”

  “Decency? No. I’m not a decent man. But I’m not going to leave you here crying.”

  She whirled to face him. “You think you caught me in a weak moment? That you can take advantage of that weakness?” She forced the tears back. “You’re out of luck. I don’t have weak moments anymore.”

  “Trust me, Delaney. Weak is the last word I would use to describe you.”

  His hair was untidy, as if a woman had dragged her fingers through it. His leather jacket hung open, and he wore an ivory fisherman’s sweater, the collar of a blue shirt poking out at the neck. His jeans were old and faded, the cuffs unraveling above his boots.

  She walked to the CD player and pulled out the disc, snapped it back into the jewel case. Replaced it in the carton.

  She picked up the box and hugged it to her chest. “Did you come back to threaten me again? Don’t bother. I’m not changing my mind. Write your article for Rolling Stone.” She shrugged, hoping it concealed her dread. “I’ll deal with it.”

  “I didn’t come back to torment you.”

  She rolled her eyes and headed toward the maple cabinet in the corner of the room. “Right. You’re here because you enjoyed our scintillating conversation so much last night, you wanted to do it again, right?” She slid the box onto a shelf, locked the door and put the key into her pocket. “So if you didn’t come here to fight, what do you want?”

  “I wanted to see if you’d thought about the music, and I see that you have.” His gaze lingered on her cheek, and she rubbed it, horrified to find it wet.

  “You wouldn’t really destroy them, would you? That would be…it would be a sacrilege.”

  She slapped the door of the cabinet hard enough to make her palm sting. “If I could have destroyed them, they’d be gone by now.”

  His shoulders relaxed, and he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, she saw new resolve there. “Then we have room to negotiate. Not right now—the kids are at a story hour at the library, and I have to pick them up. But we’ll talk soon.”

  “Just because I can’t destroy them doesn’t mean I’m going to turn them over to you.”

  “I’ll introduce you to Leo and Rennie. You’ll see how much they need them.”

  “It sounds as if Leo and Rennie need far more than a box of old CDs.”

  “I told you, they need the money. And maybe you need to reclaim your identity.”

  She shook her head. He had no idea who she was. “If that’s what you think, you didn’t listen to a word I said last night. Get out of here, Sam.”

  “I’ll be busy for a couple of days. I found a house to rent—a good deal. You have some time to think about my offer.”

  “I’ve already done all the thinking I intend to do. So go ahead and write your article for Rolling Stone.”

  THAT NIGHT, she was the first band member to arrive at the Harp. After opening the cabinet and listening to the demos, she’d wanted to call Paul and cancel. To stay at home and sort through the complicated stew of fear and longing that Sam had whipped up.

  Instead she’d packed her drum kit and left early. She wasn’t going to let memories and grief make her a coward.After assembling her drums, she glanced up at the top shelf of the bar and the bottle of Grey Goose Quinn kept there. Lingered on it.

  “Hey, Delaney,” a raspy voice said.

  It was Myrtle Sanders, the owner of the local motel.

  “Hi, Myrtle.”

  “I heard you were playing tonight.”

  “It’s usually only Fridays. Do you come here on Saturday nights?”

  “Haven’t up until now.” Myrtle reached into her pocket, then scowled as she yanked her hand out without the Marlboros. “I came to hear you sing. Patrick—” she tilted her chin toward a table in the center of the room “—told me it would be worth it.”

  Patrick O’Connor, a retired teacher, raised his drink in their direction.

  “Good,” Delaney managed to say. “I hope you enjoy it. Do you have a favorite song we could play for you?”

  “How about something from Tony Bennett?”

  Yikes. “We’ll give it a try.” Delaney usually sang the ballads. She’d planned to do fewer vocals tonight, to keep temptation at bay, but as she watched Myrtle sit down and order a drink, anger began to burn.

  Singing less would be as spineless as not coming at all. She wasn’t going to let Sam turn her into a coward. Forcing her to rummage through her memories had awakened her need to perform, to stand before a crowd and hear the roar of applause.

  Myrtle had come to hear her sing. So, by God, she’d sing.

  Delaney headed for the bar and slid onto a stool. Her foot bounced on the ledge, and she fingered the AA token in her pocket.

  Quinn walked over. “Hey, Delaney. The usual?”

  She wanted to ask him for two fingers of the Goose, neat. Liquid courage. But she managed a nod and a smile. “Thanks, Q.”

  By God, she would sing the way she wanted to sing. Maybe it was her last chance. Once Sam wrote his article, once the news broke, she wouldn’t be able to play with Paul and Hank and Stu. It would bring chaos down on her friends and the pub.

  So she’d go all out tonight. She’d sing as if her voice would disappear tomorrow, drum like it was the last time she’d hold the sticks. She’d put herself out there for everyone to see. And hear.

  If she was going down, she would do it her way.

  Twenty minutes later, as she and the guys huddled together to discuss the playlist, she said, “Paul, I want to sing tonight. Put in some songs that’ll let me really crank.”

  He stared at her. “Seriously?”

  Her heart thumped, but she nodded. “Yeah.”

  “It’s about time, Del.” He grinned and slapped Hank’s hand. “We’ve been waiting for this.” He erased the list he’d started and began a new one. “Man, we’re going to rock tonight.”

  Before she took her seat behind the drums, she added, “And Myrtle Sanders wants to hear some Tony Bennett.”

  “She’s got it.”

  No one left after the first set. Or the second. In fact, it seemed as if the pub got more crowded as the night went on. By the time the band finished playing, Delaney was drenched
in sweat and her throat was raw. But she was floating as she disassembled her drums.

  She’d sounded good. Better than good. And the four of them together had been juiced. Energy had jumped from the band to the crowd and back again.

  Her skin felt too small for her body and blood raced through her veins. The adrenaline was flowing and she knew it would be a long time before she got to sleep tonight.

  She’d done it. Without any Grey Goose, without any drugs.

  Without sex.

  Sam’s image appeared in her head, and she pushed it away.

  Before she could leave, people crowded around the band.

  “You guys were incredible tonight.”

  “Awesome.”

  “When are you playing again?”

  As Delaney waited for the crowd to thin, Myrtle came over. “You did a very nice job on ‘Smile.’”

  “Thanks, Myrtle.” Damn straight she had. And she’d do it again next week, and for as long as she could.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SAM HAD SAID HE’D GIVE her some time to think, and he had. After harassing her about the CDs twice in less than twenty-four hours, he’d dropped out of sight.

  He would get the same answer no matter when he showed up again. But Delaney was on edge, waiting for him to return.Sunday and Monday, she’d jumped at any sound outside the barn or house, expecting him to appear and demand a decision. She blamed him for ruining several pieces of wood and disrupting her schedule.

  On Tuesday, she’d begun to think he wasn’t coming back. She congratulated herself on defeating him, then tried to focus on work.

  Finally, this morning, she’d started on a new piece. A spindle bed. The sawdust dancing in the sunlight, the tangy aroma of freshly cut cherry wood, the hum and roar of her tools, all of it settled her. Reminded her that Sam and the world he’d held out to her, the world of recording and touring, were an illusion. Her workshop, her tools, the wood—that was reality.

  The motor of the saw vibrated beneath her hands as she guided the length of cherry across the table. When it cleared the blade with a final shriek, she switched off the machine and removed her earphones. A Tony Bennett and k.d. lang duet played on the stereo in the background.