by Nora Roberts
when I tried to teach you to cook?”
“I remember that you said I was hopeless, but that Marianne took ineptitude to new heights.”
“You finally caught on to the spaghetti.”
“I still make it once a week whether I want it or not.” He was crying, slow, silent tears that slipped between his closed lashes.
“Why don’t you put off the Plaza awhile and stay here?” When he shook his head, she went on. “Tonight then. Just for tonight. It’s so lonely without Marianne, and I’ll show you the improvements I’ve made in your spaghetti sauce.”
She sat with him, holding on, when he buried his race in his hands and wept.
IT WAS RAINING when she touched down at Heathrow. A soft spring rain that made her think of daffodils. With her camera case slung over her arm, she walked through the gate. Johnno met her and gave her a smacking kiss. Then kept his arm around her to steer her through the terminal. “Pete’s having your luggage sent over.” He turned her away from baggage claim and toward the exit doors.
“Remind me to kiss his feet.”
When he opened the door of a limo, Emma lifted her brow.
“I hate airport traffic,” Johnno claimed. When he’d settled in, he poured two glasses of Pepsi and offered her a bag of chips. “Besides, this way we can eat. How’d you handle the flight?”
“With Dramamine and prayer.” She dove into the chips. Eating on a plane was a luxury her stomach couldn’t afford. “Don’t worry. I stocked up on both for the tour.”
“Glad to have you aboard.”
She stalled, asking questions, keeping it light. He said nothing when she reached up and closed the privacy glass between the backseat and the driver.
“I appreciate your coming to pick me up.”
“I figured you had a reason.”
“Yes. Can I have a cigarette?”
He took two out, lighted them both. “Serious?”
“Very.” She took two long pulls on the Gauloise. “Luke came to see me a couple of days ago.”
“He’s in New York?”
“Yes … We had dinner.”
“That’s nice. So how is he?”
Keeping her eyes lowered, Emma took the envelope out of her purse. “He wanted me to give you this.”
She turned to study the dreamy rain while he opened the envelope. He read in silence. There was only the quiet hum of the motor, the gentle lap of rain, the muted music of a Chopin prelude from the speakers. She waited, a minute, then five, before she looked at Johnno again.
He was staring straight ahead, his eyes blank. The letter lay in his lap where he had dropped it. When he turned to look at her, her heart wrenched.
“You know?”
“Yes, he told me.” Not knowing what else to do, she took Johnno’s hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry, Johnno. So sorry.”
“He’s worried about me.” Johnno’s voice was dull as he stared back down at the letter. “He wants to make sure I go in for tests. And he—he wanted to reassure me that he’d keep quiet about our relationship. Jesus.” His head fell back on a hollow laugh. “Jesus Christ. He’s dying and he wants me to know my reputation’s safe.”
“It matters to him.”
His throat was raw. There were tears in it, he realized and took another rough drag on his cigarette. “He was important to me, dammit. Now he’s dying, and what am I supposed to say? Thanks, old man. Damn sporting of you to take my secret to the grave.”
“Don’t, Johnno. It’s important to him to do this his way. He’s—Luke’s trying to tie up his loose ends. He needs to tie up his loose ends.”
“Oh fuck. Oh bloody fucking hell.” The grief and the fury raged inside him. There was nothing he could vent it on. It did no more good for him to curse the disease than it had done for him to curse fate for making him what he was. He took out another cigarette, fingers shaking as he fought with the lighter. “I arranged for some very discreet, very expensive testing about six months ago. I’m clean.” He dragged in smoke while he crumpled the letter in his fist. “No nasty problems with my immune system. Nope. No problem here.”
Because she understood, her voice was brisk. “It’s incredibly stupid to feel guilty because you’re well.”
“Where’s the justice, Emma?” He smoothed out the letter, then carefully folded it and slipped it into his pocket. “Where’s the frigging justice?”
“I don’t know.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “When Darren was murdered I was too young to ask myself that question. But I’ve asked it, Johnno, hundreds of times since. Why is it the people we love die, and we don’t? The nuns say it’s God’s will.”
“It’s not enough.”
“No, it’s not enough.” She searched her conscience. She supposed she’d known all along that she would tell him. “Luke’s in New York. He’s staying at the Plaza for a few weeks. He didn’t want me to tell you.”
He tightened his arm around her. “Thanks.”
When the limo pulled up in front of Brian’s London home, Johnno kissed her. “Tell Brian … tell him the truth. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“All right.” She watched the limo disappear in the misty rain.
Chapter Twenty-Six
EMMA SWITCHED TO a wide-angle lens and crouched at the foot of the stage in the London Palladium. There was no denying that Devastation was as dynamic in rehearsals as they were in concert. She was delighted with the shots she’d taken so far, and was already readjusting her schedule to work in darkroom time.
But now she was shooting the empty stage, the instruments, amps, and cables left behind while the group took an hour’s break. There were electric keyboards, horns, even a grand piano. What interested her now, what she wanted to immortalize in her way, were the underpinnings of music-making.
The scarred and sacred Martin made her think of the man who played it. Stevie was as battle-worn and as brilliant as the instrument he had favored for almost twenty years. Its strap, a bold, eye-popping mix of colors, had been her last Christmas gift to him.
There was Johnno’s Fender bass, painted a slick turquoise. On its stand next to the Martin, it looked frivolous and funky. Like the man, it was a competent, clever instrument under a coat of fancy varnish.
P.M.’s drum set had the band’s logo splashed across the front. From one angle it looked so ordinary. Then, on closer inspection, you could see the complicated arrangement of bass and snare and cymbals. The cautious addition of three sets of drumsticks, the gleam of chrome trim that P.M. still insisted on polishing himself.
Then there was her father’s custom-made Gibson. The absolutely plain, working man’s guitar with its simple black strap. Not a frill, not a flash. But the wood gleamed, pale gold. And when the strings were plucked it had a tone that brought tears to your eyes.
Lowering her camera, Emma stroked a gentle hand down the neck. She snatched it back quickly when she heard the music. For an instant, she’d thought her touch had brought the guitar to life. Feeling foolish, she glanced stage left. There was music, and it did indeed sound like magic.
Quietly, she crossed the stage, and followed it.
She saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor outside a dressing room. The music echoed, haunted the hallway. His long elegant fingers caressed the strings, slid over them like a lover while he sang softly, for himself.
“While you slept I lay awake / Moonlight streamed across your face, played in your angel hair / While I watched you sighed my name and wishes did I make / That I could creep into your dreams, stay forever with you there.”
His voice was warm and soft. As he bent over his guitar, his dark blond hair dipped to hide most of his face. She didn’t speak, afraid to disturb him, but she crouched and lifted her camera. When he glanced up at the click of the shutter, she lowered it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
His eyes were gold, like his hair. They met hers, and held. His face suited his voice. It was poetically pale, smo
oth, the gold eyes longly lashed. His full, sculpted lips curved, shyly, she thought.
“No man’s going to think of you as an interruption.” He continued to strum the guitar as he studied her. An absent caress. He’d seen her before, of course, but this was the first chance he’d had for a good, close look. She’d pulled her hair back into a careless ponytail, leaving her face unframed so that the delicate features stood on their own. “Hi. I’m Drew Larimer.”
“Hello—oh, of course, I should have recognized you.” And would have, Emma realized, if she hadn’t been so dazed and breathless. She stood to move over and offer a hand. “Lead singer for Birdcage Walk. I like your music.”
“Thanks.” He took her hand, kept it until she knelt beside him. “Are pictures a hobby or a profession?”
“Both.” Her pulse began to scramble as he continued to stare at her. “I hope you don’t mind that I took yours. I heard you playing and wandered back.”
“I’m glad you did.” More than he wanted to say. “Why don’t you have dinner with me tonight and take a few hundred more?”
She laughed. “Even I don’t take that many while I’m eating.”
“Then leave the camera behind.”
She waited until she was sure she wouldn’t stutter. “I have work.”
“Breakfast then? Lunch? A candy bar.”
With a chuckle she rose. “I happen to know you’ve got time for little but a candy bar. You’re opening for Devastation tomorrow night.”
He didn’t release her hand, had no intention of allowing her to slip quietly away. “How about I get you into the show and you have a drink with me after?”
“I’m already coming to the show.”
“Okay, who do I have to kill?” He held the guitar in one hand, and her fingers in the other. His denim shirt was nearly unbuttoned and revealed pale, smooth skin one lithe move he was standing beside her. “You’re not going to walk away from me on the eve of my big break, are you? I need moral support.”
“You’ll do fine.”
He tightened his grip when she started to draw away. “My God, no matter how trite it sounds, it’s the truth. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Flattered and flustered, she tugged on her hand. “You need to get out more.”
His smile was slow, devastating. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”
She tugged again, torn between panic and laughter. She could hear voices and movement from the stage where the musicians were wandering back. “I really have to get back.”
“At least tell me your name.” He ran a thumb over her knuckles until her knees turned to water. “A man’s entitled to know who broke his heart.”
“I’m Emma. Emma McAvoy.”
“Oh Christ.” He winced as he dropped her hand. “I’m sorry, I had no idea. Jesus, I feel like a complete jerk.”
“Why?”
After dragging his fingers through his hair, he let them fall. “Brian McAvoy’s daughter, and here I am making a fumbling pass.”
“I didn’t think it was fumbling,” she murmured, then cleared her throat when his eyes met hers again. “I do have to get back. It was … nice meeting you.”
“Emma.” He paused, enjoying the way she hesitated and turned back. “Maybe sometime over the next ten weeks, you can find time for that candy bar.”
“All right.” She let out a long breath as she walked back to the stage.
He sent her a Milky Way tied with a pink ribbon, and her first love letter. Emma stood in the doorway long after the messenger had left, staring down at the note.
Emma,
I’ll do better when we get to Paris. But for now, this is just a reminder of our first meeting. When I play “In Your Dreams” tonight, I’ll be thinking of you.
Drew
She looked down at the candy bar. If it had been a basket of diamonds, she would have been no more enchanted. With no one to see her, she spun a trio of pirouettes in the wide foyer, then, on impulse, grabbed her jacket and raced from the house.
Alice answered the door again, but this time she didn’t cry. Her lips curved, just slightly, as she looked at Emma. “You came back.”
“Yes. Hello, Alice.” She could hardly keep her feet from dancing. She leaned over and surprised her old nanny by kissing her cheek. “I came back. I was hoping to see Bev. Is she home?”
“She’s upstairs, in the office she keeps here. I’ll tell her.”
“Thank you.” She not only wanted to dance, she wanted to sing. Never in her life had she felt like this. Giddy, nervous, and absolutely beautiful. If this was infatuation, she had waited much too long to experience it. There was a bouquet of daffodils and hyacinths in a vase by the door. Bending over them, she knew she’d never smelled anything sweeter.
“Emma.” With a pencil tucked behind her ear and big black-framed glasses perched on her nose, Bev hurried down the stairs. “I’m so glad to see you.” She wrapped her arms around Emma and hugged. “I know you mentioned when I saw you in New York last winter that you’d be coming over, but I didn’t think you’d have time to visit.”
“I have all the time in the world.” With a laugh, Emma hugged her again. “Oh, Mum, isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“I haven’t had a chance to so much as sniff the air, but I’ll take your word for it.” Bev held her at arm’s length, her eyes narrowed behind her reading glasses. “You look as though you’ve lapped up the cream and the saucer as well. What is it?”
“Do I?” Emma pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Do I really?” Laughing again, she tucked an arm through Bev’s. “Oh, I had to talk to someone. I couldn’t stand it. Da’s off somewhere meeting with Pete and the new road manager. He wouldn’t have done me any good anyway.”
“No?” Bev slipped her glasses off, setting them on a table as they walked toward the parlor. “What couldn’t he have helped you with?”
“I met someone yesterday.”
“Someone?” Bev gestured to a chair, then sat on the arm of it herself as Emma continued to move around the room. “A male someone, I take it.”
“A wonderful male someone. Oh, I know I sound like an idiot—the type of idiot I’ve always promised myself I’d never be, but he’s absolutely gorgeous, and sweet and funny.”
“Does this gorgeous, sweet, and funny man have a name?”
“Drew, Drew Latimer.”
“Birdcage Walk.”
With a chuckle, Emma gave Bev a hug before she began her nervous pacing again. “You keep up.”
“Of course.” She frowned a moment, then called herself a prissy fool for worrying about Emma having a romance with a musician. Pot calling the kettle, she reminded herself and smiled. “So is he as wonderful to look at in person as he is in pictures?”
“Better.” She remembered the way he had smiled at her, the way his eyes had warmed. “We just sort of ran into each other backstage. He was sitting there on the floor, playing the guitar and singing, like Da does sometimes. Then we were talking, and he was flirting with me. I suppose I babbled a bit.” She shrugged. Babbling or not, she wanted to remember every word of the meeting. “The best part, the very best part is, he didn’t know me.” She swirled back to grab Bev’s hands. “He didn’t have any idea who I was.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Yes. Oh yes. He was attracted to me, you see. Me, not Brian McAvoy’s daughter.” She did sit then, for an instant, then was up again. “It seems everyone I’ve dated has wanted to know about Da, or what it’s like to be Brian McAvoy’s daughter. But he asked me to dinner before he knew. It didn’t make a difference to him. Then