“Good. I’m dying to hear music from this old beat-up relic.” He nudged her back. “Play.”
But the Sabrina song…
She didn’t have to play a single note of it. Stuck way back there at the end, she wouldn’t have to turn to the final melody. Block it out. Ignore it.
Like it wasn’t even there.
The narrow spine cracked as she opened the book to the “Feather Theme” and folded the binding back so the pages would stay put. With a single motion, she set the music on the piano and slid onto the bench, her fingers then finding the smooth, cool keys. Most were smooth. No, a few were smooth. Most had been roughed up by time and wear and abuse. But when she pressed three fingers down to form a simple G chord, the notes melted together pure and true.
She looked up at Brock, who stood a step back and behind her. “You fixed it.”
“Just needed a little internal work.” He winked. “I had a guy come out and tune it.”
She looked back at the piano. A beat-up version of its former beauty. But it could still make beautiful music.
Drawing a breath, Cheryl looked over the first six measures of the “Feather Theme.” It was like opening a forgotten file on her hard drive. Though she hadn’t looked at the music in ages, it was familiar, and it pulled her in. Her fingers followed, stumbling a bit at the beginning, but as the movement of the music settled over her, the muscle memory began to awaken and take over.
Suddenly there wasn’t a then and now with a slash separating the two. There was only the song, the music that had managed to survive in her heart. She was no longer Cheryl the hard and cold lawyer. Cheryl the beauty without a soul. Cheryl the used and then abandoned. She was Cheryl the song. Her own melody somehow sang beneath the notes that she played, harmonizing in a way that only her heart could hear. There was beauty in it. Real beauty—not the kind that she maintained with strict discipline. One that was her own, but not really from herself at all.
Inherent, not achieved.
Please…
Her eyes slid closed as she tried to grasp the intangible. Whatever it was that sang to her and for her, she wanted it to stay. The music hovered, its glow of warmth radiating over her and fueling the song that traveled from her heart to her fingers. No longer did she play what was written, but a song that her memory couldn’t immediately identify, yet was certain she knew.
“Be still my soul…” Brock’s baritone voice behind her shattered the isolation, but the music continued flowing through her heart and out her fingers. “…the Lord is on thy side.”
Breathing became labored. A hymn. She’d been playing a hymn, one that she’d learned about a year after her mother’s death. A shiver ran down her spine, and her arms trembled. Yet the music continued, and Brock continued to sing.
“Thy best, thy heavenly Friend through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.”
The final chord sounded, and then she curled her fingers into her palm. She bit her bottom lip, drawing a shuddering breath. What had just happened?
Brock’s warm palm lay on her shoulder. “I don’t remember hearing you play that.”
“I didn’t, not when we were older.”
“When did you?”
“I learned it when I was fourteen. I’d forgotten…” She pushed her hands, now folded together, into her lap. “I don’t know why I played it just now.”
He slid onto the bench next to her, his hand moving beneath her hair to cup her neck. “Maybe you needed to hear it.”
The song—the lyrics made her soul quake. That couldn’t be good. She and God, that heavenly “friend,” were strangers. They’d long since practiced a cold silence, and there wasn’t any possible way He would want to lead her to “a joyful end.”
Brock’s hand squeezed against her neck. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The word came rushed and punchy. Like a door slamming closed.
“You can talk to me, you know?” His hand slid down her spine. “I’ve learned to be a decent listener.”
While still staring at her hands, Cheryl forced a smile on her lips. It felt like those waxy versions they used to use at Halloween. Or maybe more like the kind the morgue would shape to the face of a corpse.
Brock didn’t need a corpse in his life.
She pushed her shoulders back and looked at him. “Listen, Brock. This has been fun. The kayak trip, and the piano…it’s all sweet. But I’m leaving soon, and I don’t see you following me, so maybe whatever this is needs to end here.”
He studied her, and the look in his eyes said he didn’t believe a word of it. “You hate your job.”
“It is what it is.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“Look, I have a life in LA. I never intended to stay here.”
“What do you have in LA?”
Her chest seemed to lock down hard as irritation took hold. “I don’t have to answer to you.”
“What about Nana?”
She growled. “I’m taking care of it. And it’s not your business.”
He continued to search her, his jaw clenching. “I think you’re running.”
“Think what you want.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. Mashing her lips together, she slid away from him to get up.
His hand locked on her elbow, and she looked down at his grip before meeting his stare.
Her heart stalled.
No man had ever looked at her with that depth. Her soul felt naked, and the thought that he could see, that he knew…
Shame crashed like ice shards over her heart.
No joyful end. Not for her. She’d made her choices long before this moment, and she would have to live with it long after it passed. Brock didn’t need to be a part of that nightmare.
She tugged her arm, but he maintained a firm, but not tight, hold.
“One secret.”
Her chest tightened harder. “No.”
“Just one, and I’ll let you go.”
Her lips trembled as she pressed them together. Surely she could think of one dumb thing to tell him. Something insignificant. Something that wouldn’t tie up her heart any further.
“How about I go first?” He stood, moving so he was in front of her. That look…
Oh, stop. I can’t do this…
One rough finger snugged under her chin, forcing her gaze to his.
“Brock, don’t.” She swallowed, cleared her throat, and pushed forward. “Okay, my secret…I can’t stay here. Not because I don’t want to. I just can’t.”
“That’s a mystery, not a secret.”
“That’s all I can give you.”
Truly. She’d never been that deep or honest with anyone, and she couldn’t offer any more. She stepped away from the halo of his body heat, and his fingers slowly uncurled.
Blinking, she looked away. “Good-bye, Brock.”
The music and the man who, for a moment, had warmed her soul. She left them both. They couldn’t be a part of her life.
~17~
Brock watched Cheryl as she passed through the doors leading outside, his heart in a jumbled knot.
She was leaving. Was he supposed to stop her?
It’d been stupid to think that they’d fall in love over the weekend. That wasn’t how it worked. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with women—love—in the first place.
Man, what was this squeeze in his chest about? Made it hard to breathe.
He followed her outside but turned to the deck rail rather than taking the steps down toward the driveway. Leaning on the railing, he traced her path with his gaze as Cheryl continued her retreat and ducked into her car. After a quick turn of the engine, she reversed and accelerated toward the highway.
Gone. She hadn’t even looked back.
That was what he got for listening to his imagination.
Love Cheryl? Sounded so…storybook while they were lying in the grass with her hand in his. What was God thinking?
Love her.
Seriously? She just left. Clearly his hea
d was wrong.
The words branded themselves in his mind—he could visualize them in capped, boldface type. And that tightness in his chest? He ran a hand across his sternum. Could be indigestion. Severe indigestion.
Or not.
God, You’re going to have to bring her back. Or maybe I’m supposed to go after her?
The music that Cheryl had played five minutes before drifted through his mind. Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side…
He wasn’t good at waiting. And trusting? Kayla had killed that.
I didn’t want a woman, remember?
The melody kept playing against his arguments, and he could still see those two words embedded in his thoughts.
Love her.
This was going to be much harder than he had thought.
~*~
She’d left the music on the piano. Intentionally. But the melodies, long locked away, collided into a medley of songs deep into the night.
All the more reason to leave. She couldn’t think here. She couldn’t capture control and keep her thoughts within the tracks that she’d determined acceptable. That moment of surreal…love? Wasn’t real. She needed to stick with real and manageable.
Brock was not manageable.
He’d been about to say something deep before she left. Something that was going to undo her, make her tidy, well-managed life explode with all sorts of messy details from the past. How ignorant it had been for her to imagine that she could maintain a charade—be with him and pretend the past didn’t exist. He tugged on her timeline, dragging her history forward as if compelled to unpack it, to examine each little horrible detail. Lawyers did that. They practiced until they became proficient at it, using the details to nail a conviction.
It never worked out well for the one whose baggage was being examined.
She couldn’t go there. She didn’t have to.
In the morning she’d pack the little bit of clothing that she’d pulled out of her carry-on and take her ugly rental to the Yampa Valley Regional Airport. The first flight west would be carrying her and her luggage. This time for keeps. The only thing separating her and escape was six hours, more or less, of sleep.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Sleep.
Practiced her relaxation routine. Sleep.
Slowly, the feeling of drifting began to carry her consciousness.
Please don’t let me dream…
~*~
Cheryl was certain she was the last person he expected to find on his front deck the following morning. Brock met her at the door, the shadow of his unshaven whiskers darker than usual. He looked into her eyes as he leaned against the doorframe.
“Thought you were catching a plane.”
“Me too.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“I don’t have an answer, so don’t ask.”
His eyes asked, but silence stayed on his lips. He leaned back, sweeping his hand toward the inside of his house as an invitation. Cheryl stepped over the threshold and then followed him as he moved toward the kitchen. The only sound that filled the air was the gurgling of Mr. Coffee as it spit out the last of its steaming brew.
“You look tired, Sherbert.”
Cheryl ducked away so he couldn’t examine her so closely. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“I was just making coffee. You want some?”
She nodded. He turned to the cabinet to grab another clean mug. His continued silence pricked her tongue into action.
“I was at the airport, and the flight was delayed because of the storms out west. Then I couldn’t find my ID to check my luggage. I swear I looked in every fold and zipper in my wallet and purse. In the middle of my search, Nana called and said she just had a feeling I shouldn’t be on that plane. And I…”
She’d known even before she settled in her little car that morning that she shouldn’t be leaving. But saying that…it would lead to talking about her dreams. She’d die if she had to do that.
The dream the night before had been altered. The voice behind her, telling her not to go through the door, had been Brock’s gentle tenor, and he was nearly begging her not to do it. And the music—there hadn’t ever been music in that awful dream. Last night, however, the faint chords of the Sabrina song drifted from behind a different door, a door that hadn’t been there before. Remembering all of it made breathing a challenge.
Brock stood motionless in her pause and then set the mug down on the counter, his intense look seizing her heart. Men didn’t look at her like that. Lust, yes. But this yearning in his gentle eyes, it was soul deep. He snagged a place deep inside, tugging on it like a lost treasure sunk deep into a murky bog. The pull was painful and terrifying. She’d been safe in that capsule of loneliness. Not happy, but safe.
But what would it be like to breathe? To touch the fresh air, to expand her lungs? To feel? The thought made her want to curl into a ball and hide in a dark place.
She moved to push a clump of hair that had fallen over her eyes. He beat her to it, and their fingers brushed as he tucked it behind her ear. His large, rough hand enclosed over hers and brought it to brush her knuckles against his lips.
“You had the same feeling.” He finished the sentence she’d left hanging.
Cheryl studied him as she slowly pulled her hand away from his. Most men would make that statement with a clip of arrogance, as if they were the magnetic force holding her whole world in place. Brock didn’t. Matter of fact, a tinge of wonder mixed in his tone.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a feeling like that…or at least, since I’ve followed it. Especially when it runs counter to what I want.”
He stepped away to pour her coffee. “Do you know what you want?”
A small, defeated laugh left her chest as she accepted the cup of coffee. He was always probing…
“No.”
Raw honesty. He’d said from the beginning no lies. Did that mean exposing everything? Brock seemed to want it all—everything she had locked in her heart.
But really, he didn’t. She was certain he really, really didn’t want to know.
Her stomach rolled, and she slouched as she wrapped her arms over her middle. Another quiver rattled her insides. What was she doing here? She should have been on a plane.
“Did you find your ID?”
Cheryl looked up to find him studying her, still with that depth that made her cower, but also with a hint of lightness that said if she wasn’t ready, it was okay.
She sipped her coffee and nodded. “It was in my wallet. I found it when I was going through my purse at Nana’s. After my flight left. It’d been there the whole time. I don’t know how I missed it.”
Brock leaned against the counter, his jean-covered legs stretched out and one ankle propped over the other. His blue flannel shirt hung only half buttoned—he’d probably shed it before noon as the warm summer sun pushed the temperatures upward, and he’d finish the day out with his trademark gray V-neck T-shirt. Everything about him said casual, easygoing. Everything about her was anything but.
He shouldn’t want her.
Pushing away from the counter, Brock stood straight and covered the three steps between them. Without pause, he reached for her coffee with one hand, and with the other he threaded her hair and moved to cradle her against his chest. Also trademark Brock.
The sound of the mug thunking against the counter was followed by the feel of his other arm tucking her close. She closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh musk of his scent, and savored the warmth of his arms. When she raised her arms and wrapped them around him, he strengthened his hold.
“Maybe it’s time to stop running, Sherbert.” A ripple of his breath passed over her hair as he whispered against her.
Life with this man…it’d be worth coming home for. Except she couldn’t stop running.
He wouldn’t be able to understand that. Not unless she told him.
But if she did that, this beautiful thing with him would be gone. And this time she
’d feel the rejection more deeply than with any other man because he’d melted her indifference.
She’d be alone again. She was certain she couldn’t endure that.
~18~
“How’s Nana holding up?” Brock rounded the table to Cheryl’s left, setting plates as he talked.
Earlier in his kitchen, he’d held her in silence for she couldn’t think how long. Willing to simply be, he hadn’t pushed her to talk about the day before, her leaving, or for promises for the future. When she was ready, she stepped away, and together they headed over to the lodge. Brock had let her hand go when they reached the piano, and she accepted his silent urging to play.
She’d heard his heart in his wordless embrace. Every beat against her cheek had felt like a tattoo embedding on hers. What was she to do? She’d meant what she’d told him before; she couldn’t stay. She really couldn’t fathom a life in Hayden when the memories, and with them, the suffocating sense of guilt, surfaced so easily. But with every moment spent with him, trying to imagine going back to her cold, lonely existence became harder. After this taste of life with Brock…how could she accept the emptiness of life before?
Stuck. So, so stuck.
But that didn’t have any bearing on what Brock had just asked her.
Cheryl spun on the piano bench to face him. “She’s fine. Honestly, I think Ethan’s overly concerned.”
“Oh, she’s had some interesting moments.” His mouth twisted to the side. “Did E tell you about her little trip up to Rabbit Ears?”
“No.” Unease twisted in her gut. They didn’t talk about Rabbit Ears Peak. Taboo for the Thompson family, and anyone connected to them. “When was that?”
“Couple months back. He’d been out here working, and when he got back into town, he found the bakery abandoned—and a couple of pans of bad-smelling rolls turning to charcoal in the oven.”
“What?”
“Yep. She’d left them and headed up the pass.”
“Why?”
Brock set the last of the plates on the table and looked up at her. The seriousness in his eyes said it all.
A lump grew in her throat. “She was looking for my mom?”
He nodded.
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