Книга - Meant To Be Hers

Meant To Be Hers
Joan Kilby


Some loves can’t be deniedA lot has changed since for musical prodigy Finn Farrell since he spent his summers practicing with his piano teacher—and falling for her socialite niece, Carly Maxwell. After blowing his audition for Julliard, Finn turned his back on performing, his romance with Carly collateral damage.When their paths cross a decade later, it’s impossible to ignore much how they’ve grown apart. But what hasn’t changed is how comfortably they fit, or their heart-pounding attraction. Now a high-powered executive, Carly has a life a world away from songwriter Finn’s, but she has big dreams for both of them, if she can show Finn he’s worth it.







Some loves can’t be denied

A lot has changed for musical prodigy Finn Farrell since he spent his summers practicing with his piano teacher—and falling for her socialite niece, Carly Maxwell. After blowing his audition for Julliard, Finn turned his back on performing, his romance with Carly collateral damage.

When their paths cross a decade later, it’s impossible to ignore how much they’ve grown apart. But what hasn’t changed is how comfortably they fit, or their heart-pounding attraction. Now a high-powered executive, Carly has a life a world away from songwriter Finn’s, but she has big dreams for both of them, if she can show Finn he’s worth it.


When JOAN KILBY isn’t writing her next Harlequin Superromance title, she loves to travel, often to Asia, which is right on Australia’s doorstep, so to speak. Now that her three children are grown, she and her husband enjoy the role reversal of taking off and leaving the kids to take care of the house and pets.


Also By Joan Kilby (#ube5c60b3-9fbb-55b2-a188-9ff6a0f8665d)

Home to Hope Mountain

Maybe This Time

To Be a Family

Protecting Her Son

Two Against the Odds

In His Good Hands

Her Great Expectations

How to Trap a Parent

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Meant to Be Hers

Joan Kilby






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08468-0

MEANT TO BE HERS

© 2018 Joan Kilby

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


“Are you in your old room?” Finn asked.

“Uh-huh. Down the end of the hallway.”

“I know.”

Carly twisted her head to peer at him. “How d’you know?”

“I used to watch your lit window on summer nights.” He’d ridden his bike across town, from his family’s small home in a poor neighborhood to this heritage home on South Hill—which his mom called Snob Hill. Except that Irene was no snob and Carly...well, she’d never once made him feel lesser because of where he lived or who he was. But her father was an investment banker and Carly seemed to have inherited his drive to succeed in business. Finn had no problem with a good work ethic; he had one himself. But what had Irene said? Carly was pushing herself too hard, working all the time. What did she have to prove?

Carly’s face lit with a delighted grin. “You couldn’t have seen anything. I always drew the curtains.”

“Your silhouette was very sexy.”

“Liar. I was a beanpole.”

Not anymore, he thought. She was shapely in all the right places.


Dear Reader (#ube5c60b3-9fbb-55b2-a188-9ff6a0f8665d),

Writing this final letter to you is bittersweet—my first published romance novel was a Superromance and the line will always hold a special place in my heart.

It’s only fitting that my final Superromance, Meant to Be Hers, is a book of my heart. In my twenties I lived in a series of group houses where friends, friends of friends and strangers who became friends created a kind of family. We lived together, ate together, drank together, shared the rent and the chores and the ups and downs of everyone’s lives. Just as in Meant to Be Hers, a lot of the socializing took place in the kitchen and around the dining table. In the last group house I lived in I met my husband-to-be. We went from housemates to falling in love to getting married and starting our own family.

Meant to Be Hers is about other things, too—rediscovering a career passion, dealing with loss, navigating a path to happiness and, of course, finding that special person, the one you’re meant to be with.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing the journey with me.

Joan Kilby

PS: This isn’t goodbye. I’m still writing, with many more stories to tell. Look for them at joankilby.com (http://www.joankilby.com).


This book is for all my readers, everywhere. Because of you, I’ve spent my life doing what I love—telling stories.


Contents

Cover (#u69bc90d5-c9d0-534f-96b9-d2222543ed51)

Back Cover Text (#u2034bffb-6a6a-5683-a0ac-627f757dcea0)

About the Author (#u4f3e351d-0301-54b9-b4c4-6eecc8b0df64)

Booklist (#uaa522efd-b9e6-5d8b-9a8e-06515e3052e4)

Title Page (#uc01cac13-6d8e-520e-9e5c-8917b7b11974)

Copyright (#uc769cd86-739b-5c32-8120-dda6c514012e)

Introduction (#u901e19c9-36fa-5966-b370-c40ee2f5ee39)

Dear Reader (#u1c7c5896-28dd-53bc-8183-42d40f476a88)

Dedication (#uaa25678b-a638-5663-91d6-df98dc501648)

CHAPTER ONE (#uc21eaf3c-fbaf-5294-b38d-123a824a8143)

CHAPTER TWO (#u8fe5d150-72e6-538d-be0e-328e400c548e)

CHAPTER THREE (#u8cd3dfa8-769b-5033-bda1-4bc6a2eb3043)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u0fbad926-80e9-5b19-abab-d27fa50787af)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u94e35107-2a8f-5545-b058-b8850435ba97)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ube5c60b3-9fbb-55b2-a188-9ff6a0f8665d)

WHERE WAS FINN? Carly Maxwell scanned the funeral guests clustered around her late aunt Irene’s living room for the tall, dark-haired musical prodigy. Finn Farrell had been Irene’s star pupil, his family’s greatest hope and Carly’s teenage crush. He should be here. He’d disappointed her aunt enough during her lifetime. Did he have to add to it after her death?

Carly moved among the guests, pouring tea from a huge earthenware teapot, trying to hold herself together when all she wanted to do was curl up under the covers and bawl her eyes out. It didn’t help that she was still on New York time and jet-lagged.

“More tea, Brenda?” Carly paused before her cousin, a comfortably plump blonde in her early forties who had sunk deep into soft sofa cushions.

“Yes, please.” Brenda’s blue eyes were sympathetic as Carly poured unsteadily into a hand-thrown pottery mug. “You’ve been on your feet since early this morning. Can I take the tea around for you?”

“Thanks, but no,” Carly said. “If I stop moving I might never get going again.”

In fact, she hadn’t stopped the entire week, from the moment she’d heard about Irene’s death. Finn’s Facebook message had popped into her work inbox like a Molotov cocktail, exploding her crammed diary into shards of missed meetings, unreturned phone calls and hurried apologies. Rushing back to her apartment, she’d listened to voice mail messages from her aunt’s neighbor, Frankie, who was worried about Irene’s dog, and Irene’s lawyer, Peter King, who said her aunt had listed Carly as next of kin.

Carly had caught the red-eye from New York to Seattle, rented a car, and driven up to Fairhaven, Washington, an historic district at the south end of Bellingham. Grief-stricken and in a daze, she’d arranged for a celebrant, put notices in the newspapers and on Irene’s social media, organized the funeral home and the caterers. After the service Carly had invited everyone to Irene’s three-story Queen Anne home on South Hill for the reception.

Now here they all were. With barely a moment yet to shed a tear she had a feeling she would look back and think the organizing and activity was the easy part. Dealing with her grief was going to be harder.

“Sit down a moment, at least.” Brenda patted the taupe cushion next to her. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

Carly sank onto the couch, cradling the warm teapot against her navy suit jacket. “Could you hear me okay when I was giving the eulogy? I wasn’t sure if I spoke loudly enough.” She’d choked up, every painful pause thick with sorrow. Several of Irene’s friends and music students had also spoken. One young girl broke down completely and had to be led off by her mother.

“You were great.” Brenda clutched a damp, shredded tissue. “I couldn’t have done it.”

Carly blinked away the salty moisture burning her eyes. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Only fifty-eight.”

“Fifty-eight going on eighteen,” Brenda said with a watery smile. “She was so much fun.”

“Thank God she isn’t alive to witness her own funeral.” Carly glanced around at the somber faces. A girl drooped over the keyboard of the Steinway grand piano, softly picking out minor chords. The gloomy atmosphere was at odds with Irene’s uproarious house parties in happier days. “She would have hated all this weeping into hankies.”

“Everyone’s shell-shocked,” Brenda said. “Irene was so full of life, it’s hard to believe she could die so quickly. I guess that’s what can happen with a brain aneurysm.”

“Is it?” Carly asked dully. “I have no idea.”

“I Googled it,” Brenda said. “Sometimes people survive but have brain damage. Sometimes they go like that.” She clicked her fingers.

“Don’t, please,” Carly begged. “I can’t help thinking that if someone had been with her, she might have survived.” And not just anyone—her. If she’d accepted Irene’s invitation to go on the Alaska cruise, her aunt might be alive today.

“You shouldn’t torture yourself. That’s an impossible question to answer.” Brenda sighed and patted Carly’s arm. “It’s good to see you, even under the circumstances.”

“Are you staying in town long?”

“I have to go back to Portland tomorrow. Work.”

“I should be going back to work, too, but there’s too much to do here.” Carly chewed the inside of her cheek, tasting blood. The timing of Irene’s death couldn’t have been worse from her perspective. Her high-pressure job as a recruitment consultant for executives had started only a few months ago and already she’d had to ask for time off.

But she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Irene had been like a mother to Carly after her own mom died when Carly was nine years old. An only child, she’d spent every summer after that, and sometimes Christmas, with her aunt. At any rate, there was no one else to organize the funeral. Irene had never married and had no children. Her brother, Brenda’s dad, was on a sailboat somewhere in the South Pacific. He’d been notified by ham radio but it would be weeks before he could get back. Carly’s father, who might have helped, or at least been a support, was in London on business.

Where was Finn? If anyone should pay his respects to Irene, it was him. As far as Carly knew he hadn’t set foot in Fairhaven for twelve years, not since he’d fled town after his disastrous performance at that year-end concert. But she and Finn had been friends, good friends, or so she’d thought. Although what kind of friend ran off to Los Angeles and never contacted a person again?

She roused herself to put an arm around her cousin’s shoulders in a quick hug. “We should stay in touch. Come and visit me in Manhattan sometime.”

“I will,” Brenda promised. “And you’re always welcome in Portland.”

Rising, Carly glanced out the bay window overlooking the quiet residential street. A vintage red Mustang had just pulled in to the curb. Her heart leaped as a man, easily six foot three, unfolded himself from behind the wheel. He ran a hand quickly through his wild dark hair and straightened the long black waistcoat beneath the slim-cut, asymmetrical suit jacket in ebony satin.

Finn Farrell, at last. Carly saw him glance at the house and his mouth drew down, tight and sad. She could feel his grief from here and her own chest grew heavy. Then he took a deep breath, unclenched his hands and started purposefully up the front path. He was almost at the steps when around the side of the house, a dog barked. Rufus, Irene’s ditzy Irish setter. Finn changed direction and headed for the side gate, disappearing from view behind a camellia bush in bloom.

Carly carried on dispensing tea but her gaze kept drifting to the hall from which Finn would appear if he entered by the back door. She accepted condolences and offered hers in return. Her generous, loving aunt had touched so many lives.

A warm, furry body nudged the back of Carly’s thigh. Rufus had been distressed all week, restlessly searching the house for Irene and whimpering outside his mistress’s closed bedroom door at night. Now he bumped Carly’s hand, his red, silky body wriggling for attention, already forgiving her for banishing him to the backyard during the reception.

“Where did you come from?” she said, even though she knew Finn must have let him in. “I’m sorry but you have to go—Rufus, no!” The dog rose on his hind legs and planted his front paws on her chest. Tea jostled out of the pot onto her silk blouse. “Rufus, get off! Help, someone!”

“Down, Rufus. Sit.” Finn grabbed Rufus’s collar and hauled the dog off. He looked at Carly, his dark eyes connecting with hers. The years apart dissolved in a moment of shared grief. Then his gaze turned curious as he took her in, cataloging the changes, no doubt. Her blond hair a shade darker, and shorter, just brushing her shoulders. A few extra pounds. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes. He had those, too, as well as laugh lines around his mouth.

Coming as she did from Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Carly had once thought of the poor-but-talented Finn as a modern-day combination of Byron and James Dean—sexy, poetic and tragic. Naturally, she’d grown out of that silly fantasy. Poetic and sexy he might be but he wasn’t tragic, just unreliable.

“Take him out.” She dabbed at the wet splotch on her blouse. “Please.”

“Sorry I missed the service.” Still holding Rufus’s collar, Finn leaned in to kiss her cheek. His warm breath stirred old memories, which she ruthlessly shoved away. “I wasn’t thinking. As soon as I heard, I just got in the car and drove. Should have taken a plane.”

“Irene would have understood.” No matter how badly Finn had let Irene down, she’d always forgiven him. Carly wasn’t quite so generous. She didn’t mind for herself, but her aunt deserved better treatment. She forgot now why she’d wanted him here so badly. He caused ripples, disturbed the equilibrium. People were glancing over at the dog, at the larger-than-life figure Finn cut, shaken out of somnolence.

“How’ve you been?” Finn’s gaze searched hers, oblivious to everyone but her. “You look terrific.”

“Good. Well, not so wonderful at the moment obviously.” She felt her cheeks heat, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his face, drinking in the thick straight slashes of eyebrows, the curling bow of his upper lip, the sexy mole on his right cheek. The eyes that saw everything. Despite his trendy suit, he had a slightly disreputable air about him. How could she possibly feel a tug of attraction after all this time, and everything that had happened between them? Or rather, hadn’t happened.

“Help yourself to food.” She gestured to the dining room through the arched doorway where the table groaned with sandwiches and cakes. “Do you want tea? Or there’s coffee.”

“Yeah...no.” Finn’s gaze skimmed her classic dark suit and discreet heels. “You’ve gone all corporate. When did that happen?”

“When I grew up and got a real job.” The day she’d signed her current work contract she’d gone on a shopping spree to upgrade her wardrobe and was still paying off the resulting credit card bill. She gave him the same once-over. “You’ve gone all Hollywood.”

“Camouflage. It helps to look the part.” He swiveled to survey the clusters of dispirited guests. “Irene would have hated this. So hoity-toity, so stuffy.”

Even though he echoed her earlier comment, she was irked. Was that a judgment on her? “It is a funeral.”

“It should be a celebration of her life. She found something positive in every situation, no matter how dire. She brought people joy.” Finn’s eyes narrowed a moment and then he snapped his fingers. “I know. We’ll have a wake. A good old-fashioned Irish knees up. I know where she kept her good whisky.”

A trio of Irene’s women friends standing nearby—an older woman in a long skirt, a well-dressed businesswoman and a grandmotherly type—turned, their faces brightening.

Finn winked at them. “These gals are up for it.”

“Behave yourself,” Carly protested, biting back a smile. Typical Finn, he managed to fluster, annoy and amuse her all at the same time. “For Irene’s sake.”

“This is for Irene’s sake.” He removed the teapot from her hands and passed it to the woman with the expensive haircut. “Take care of that, please. We’ll be back.”

With one arm around Carly’s waist and the other hand in a firm grip on Rufus’s collar, he steered them out of the living room, across the entrance hall and down the corridor into the kitchen. Deciding it was useless to protest, Carly allowed herself to be led. It was a relief to get out of the gloom.

Finn shooed Rufus into the yard. “Sorry, boy. It’s only for a couple of hours.” Then he put his hands on Carly’s shoulders and gently pushed her into a chair at the long oak table in the middle of the country-style kitchen. “Sit down before you fall down. You look as if you’re about to break into a million pieces.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. She wasn’t, of course, far from it, but she wasn’t going to spill her guts to Finn. They’d been too long apart. She didn’t know him anymore.

“Now let’s see what we’ve got.” He rummaged through the cupboard above the fridge and took down a bottle of Glenmorangie. Grabbing a pair of water glasses he poured triple shots. Handing one to Carly, he raised his glass. “To Irene.”

Carly swirled her glass. She didn’t usually drink hard liquor but the smoky amber liquid beckoned. Still, she hesitated. “The guests...”

“We’ll get them a drink in a minute.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She took a tentative sip. Silky smooth and fiery, the scotch burned her throat and set up a warm glow in her empty stomach. As if by magic, her frayed nerves calmed. She took another swig. And another. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and thrust her glass forward.

Finn poured another two fingers of scotch. “Careful, don’t get plastered. This is sipping whisky. Have respect.” He gazed into his glass, a thumb rubbing the rim thoughtfully. “Did my parents come to the funeral?”

“No. I invited them, of course, but they couldn’t make it.” Carly paused, having gathered from Irene that this was a delicate subject. “Have you seen your mom lately?”

He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. “Not in twelve years.”

Carly sipped her scotch, grateful for the numbing haze as questions tumbled around in her head. How could he have stayed estranged from his mother for so long? What had he been doing all these years? Why had he stood her up?

She settled for the more immediate question. “How did you hear about Irene?”

Finn took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. “I Skyped with her last week. She told me about her hiking expedition to Mount Baker.”

Carly passed a hand over her eyes. “I still can’t believe she went by herself.”

“She was very fit, why shouldn’t she?” Finn said. “But I asked her to email me when she got back so I would know she’d gotten home safely. When I didn’t hear from her, and she didn’t respond to my phone calls, I asked Dingo to check on her.”

“Dingo? Is he your Aussie friend from high school?”

“Yeah, the ne’er-do-well who introduced me to rock music.” Finn’s grin flashed and then he sobered. “He told me Irene’s death had been reported in the local news that night. She was found on the trail by another hiker.”

Until this moment Carly had avoided forming a mental image of Irene at the scene of her death. Now she staggered to her feet and across the tiled floor to lean over the sink, her stomach contracting convulsively. It was wrong that her aunt should have died alone, possibly in pain, without anyone to even hold her hand. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Finn was instantly at her side. “I had no idea you were such a lightweight drinker, Maxwell. Do I need to take you to the bathroom and hold your hair?” He spoke lightly but his hand on her back was steady and comforting.

“No.” She swallowed, willing the wave of nausea to subside. Then she splashed cold water over her face. Finn handed her a towel to dry herself. When she’d recovered, she said, “Irene asked me to go on an Alaskan cruise with her this month. If I’d said yes she might still be alive. She and I could be watching humpback whales together right now. If something went wrong I would have been with her.”

Finn took her by the shoulders, forcing her to focus on him. “You couldn’t have known she was going to have a brain aneurysm. Her death wasn’t your fault.”

Maybe not. But she wished she’d made time for her aunt instead of chasing that Wallis Group account. An account she still desperately wanted. Carly dragged her sleeve across her damp eyes. “Did she know anything was wrong with her health? She didn’t say anything to me.”

“Nor to me.” He rubbed Carly’s arm. “Don’t beat yourself up. She had lots of friends. She could have asked someone else to go on the cruise. Or to go hiking with her. Even then there’s no guarantee she would have survived.”

“I know.” Carly filled her glass with water from the tap. Through the window she could see the backyard and the new leaves on the trees. A pile of tomato stakes rested against the fence next to the shed. April was the month Irene started to dig the garden beds for planting vegetables. Carly could picture her getting tools from the garden shed in the corner of the yard. Trundling wheelbarrow loads of compost over to the beds. Instead, the garden was overgrown with weeds and the grass needed cutting.

“Carly?” Finn said. “Are you okay?”

“I haven’t eaten much today.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “The scotch is hitting me hard.”

“I meant, in general.” He paused, his gaze searching. “I got the impression Irene was worried about you. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

Carly closed her eyes at the rough caring in his voice. She’d had a massive crush on him for years when she was a teenager, but though he’d been friendly and teasing, he hadn’t seemed to notice her in “that way” until the summer after he’d graduated high school.

He’d invited her to the year-end concert put on by Irene’s students and to the party afterward. That night he was to perform part of the repertoire he was using for his live audition for the Juilliard School of Music the following week. She’d bought a new dress and sat in the first row next to Irene, her palms damp and heart racing, not sure if she was more excited about his first major public performance, or what might happen afterward.

The concert was held in the high school auditorium and was open to the public. All his schoolteachers and classmates, his friends and their parents, and all of Irene’s other students’ families had been in the audience. Everyone knew of his talent and was rooting for him to be awarded a scholarship to the prestigious music school. The anticipation had been building for weeks and was a fever pitch by the night of the concert.

And then, disaster. Finn’s performance was a shambles. His fingers stumbled over the keys, he forgot whole passages, he stopped midbar and skipped notes. It was so unlike him. Then someone in the back booed and Finn stalked offstage without finishing. Irene had been gray-faced, speechless. His parents, Nora and Ron, had hurried out, their heads hanging. Every single person in the audience had felt some combination of shock, betrayal and disappointment. What should have been a jubilant celebration had turned into a debacle. Finn hadn’t gone to New York for his Juilliard audition, nor did he pursue what should have been a stunning classical career. A week after the concert he left town, never to return. He’d not only stood Carly up for the party, he hadn’t contacted her or answered her calls. She’d never seen him again until today.

“Why was Aunt Irene worried about me?” Carly asked. One more thing she would never be able to ask her aunt. It was hard to comprehend the fact that she was gone. That Carly could never again pick up the phone and hear her voice.

“Just that you were working too much,” Finn said. “I could have misinterpreted. Aren’t you a high school guidance counselor?”

“That was years ago,” she said. “I switched to human resources. Recently I got a job with an international head hunting firm.” She had loved counseling teenagers but one day she’d looked around and realized that her friends were leap-frogging to the top in their various professions whereas she was stagnating. Now or never, she’d told herself, and started applying for jobs that would make use of her dual major in business and psychology. She’d worked her way up the ladder and had recently landed a plum position at a prestigious company.

“Sounds like a big change,” Finn said. “Do you like it?”

“Love it.” Mostly. Irene was right about working hard. Most weeks she logged upwards of sixty hours. Kind of put a cramp in anything else she might want to do, like have a life. But the payoff would be worth it when one day she got that corner office and the word partner after her name.

“Irene told me you live in Los Angeles,” she said, changing the subject. “What do you do there?”

“Drink too much,” he said cheerfully and raised his glass.

“She had such high hopes for you.” The words fell out of her mouth and hung in the air between them.

“My life isn’t over yet.” Their eyes met and his smile faded at the reminder that Irene’s was.

Cursing her lack of tact, she touched his arm. “Sorry.” She couldn’t begin to understand what had been going through his head at that concert or why he’d blown off a chance for a place at Juilliard. Such a waste of talent.

Finn poured himself another shot. Seeing his long, tapering fingers on the bottle—a pianist’s hands—brought back the memory of their first, and only, kiss. The stuffy heat in the third-floor turret of this house, his hands anchoring her hips, the slide of his tongue against hers. Remembering, a pooling warmth settled in her belly that had nothing to do with the scotch.

He raised the bottle. “Hit you again?”

She pushed her glass closer. He held her wrist to keep the glass steady and sloshed in another two fingers’ worth. Then he clinked glasses. “Here’s to you, Carly Maxwell. Long time, no see.”

This time when she looked into his eyes, a rush of boozy affection washed over her. With his black hair brushed back from a high tanned forehead and his rakish grin, he looked like a pirate in a designer suit. “To the good old days.”

He smiled and gave her a wink that made her heart skip. “What might have been may still be yet.”

Peter, Irene’s attorney, entered the kitchen looking for someplace to put his empty coffee cup. He set it next to the sink. “Carly, while I’m thinking of it, come see me at my office next week for the reading of Irene’s will. I’m her executor.”

Carly had been so busy organizing the funeral and calling people that she hadn’t had time to think about what was going to happen with Irene’s property and personal effects. She hoped Irene had remembered how much she loved the seascape that hung in the dining room. It reminded her of their beachcombing expeditions. “I’ll call first thing Monday to make an appointment.”

Peter spied the bottle of scotch. “Is that alcohol? I sure could use a drink.”

“What’ll you have?” Finn went to the cupboard over the fridge and started pulling down liquor bottles. “There’s also bourbon, gin, vodka and brandy.” He handed the bottles to Peter, who lined them up on the table. “Carly, are you okay with dipping into Irene’s stock of liquor?”

“Of course,” Carly said. “She liked her guests to enjoy themselves.”

“To Irene.” Finn raised his glass. “An awesome teacher and a good friend.”

“To Irene,” Carly and Peter chorused.

“Now,” Finn said. “It’s time to pay tribute to the lady.” He headed back to the living room. Carly heard him announce, “Booze in the kitchen, folks. Help yourselves. Then come and sing.”

People began to stream into the kitchen. Carly helped them find glasses and ice then left them to it. She wandered back to the living room and stood against the wall between the fireplace and the bay window. Outside, the sun was setting spectacularly over Bellingham Bay.

Finn organized Irene’s music students, past and present, coaxing a red-haired man to pick up a guitar from the stand in the corner of the dining room. A fortysomething woman in sleek black pants and a pullover took the cello from the same stand. A teenage boy produced a tenor saxophone and a twentysomething woman a clarinet. The rest Finn arranged into a choir circling the piano where so many of them had honed their singing skills.

He sifted through bundles of sheet music and selected a piece. Then he sat on the bench seat. The instrument was a full concert grand in a richly gleaming mahogany. He ran his long fingers softly over the ivories. Around the room, heads turned and conversation hushed. Carly held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t play anything sad that would make her cry.

With a ripple of notes and a flourish of his hands, Finn launched into a popular Gershwin show tune, one of Irene’s favorites. Startled, her aunt’s former students glanced at each other, then smiled. One woman began to sing, then another. One by one, the other instruments joined in and soon the pickup orchestra and choir were in full swing.

Carly kicked off her high heels and took off her suit jacket, relaxing for the first time in days. The other guests drew closer, their gloomy expressions turning to smiles. Others hurried back out from the kitchen with drinks in their hands. Before long, the whole room was rocking, just as it used to when Irene threw a party. When the first song was over, Finn quickly got them started on another, pounding out the notes, embellishing with his own improvisations. Voices lifted in a rousing tribute to the woman they’d all loved. Music had been Irene’s life and Carly was grateful to Finn for transforming the tragic occasion into one of celebration.

Bottles collected on the coffee table. Booze was poured directly into teacups.

Carly drifted back to the kitchen. There the non-singers had gathered to drink shots and exchange anecdotes about their absent friend. The somber mood had evaporated and laughter outweighed the tears. Carly learned tidbits about her aunt that she’d never known as a youngster only coming for summer visits. About how Irene had been a breath of fresh air in the stuffy garden club, how she’d baked dozens of loaves of her special sourdough bread at Christmas for the homeless, how she’d done the limbo at the animal shelter fund-raising party.

“Remember when she got Rufus?” Frankie, the next-door neighbor, had spiky black hair and an impish grin. “He was from a pet hoarder’s home and was skinny and mangy. He had so many issues no one wanted him. But she took him and worked with him and now he’s a beautiful dog.”

Rufus. Carly squinted at her watch. Nearly 7:00 p.m. and the dog hadn’t had any dinner. She got to her feet, grabbed for the back of the chair and ended up clutching Frankie’s shoulder. Whoa. Getting a bit tipsy. The room swayed as she crossed to the laundry room where her aunt kept a big plastic bin of kibble. Carly scraped the bottom with the plastic scoop and got only half a cup. That didn’t seem like enough. She added a couple of egg salad sandwiches from the platter on the counter and carried his bowl outside.

Dusk was falling. The sky glowed with the last light of day but the long backyard was full of shadows and the cedar trees along the back fence were a blur of black.

“Dinner, Rufus. Here, boy.” She set his bowl onto the concrete patio.

The dog didn’t come bounding up as she’d expected. Maybe he was patrolling the back fence, saying hello to the neighboring spaniel. Or digging in the soft dirt beneath the cedars. He was probably fine but she should check. Now where had she put her shoes? Her stockings were already ruined but even so, she didn’t fancy crossing the darkened lawn in what amounted to bare feet.

“Carly?” Beneath the patio light, Brenda’s cheeks were rosy and her blond hair ruffled. “D’you know if Irene has more mixer anywhere? I couldn’t see any in the pantry.”

“I’ll have a look.” Carly took one last quick scan of the yard, saw no sign of Rufus, and went inside.

She found more tonic water and cola. Then the opening bars of “Happy Talk” from the musical South Pacific drew her back to the living room where the singers stood four and five deep around the piano. At the town’s summer solstice party every year Irene led the Fairhaven choir in this upbeat song. Carly had no musical talent herself but she knew all the words to all the tunes in her aunt’s record collection. She belted out the song, secure in the knowledge that her flat notes would be drowned out by the well-trained voices.

Finn caught her eye and a moment of wordless joy passed between them. Maybe alcohol was making her brain fuzzy but it was wonderful to see him again. For years she’d put him to the back of her mind, never quite forgiving him for that summer. Whatever friction remained between them, he was probably the only other person in the world who had known her aunt as well as she did—and would miss her as much. Tears welling in her eyes, she smiled as she sang.


CHAPTER TWO (#ube5c60b3-9fbb-55b2-a188-9ff6a0f8665d)

“THAT’S THE WAY, one foot in front of the other.” Finn put his arm around Carly’s waist to guide her up the staircase, no easy task given she wasn’t in full control of her limbs. He pretended he didn’t notice her left breast moving against his rib cage.

Outside a taxi sounded its horn, ready to take another group of guests home or to their hotel. When Finn had realized the party was getting out of hand he’d insisted drivers hand over their car keys. Brenda had purred at him as she put her keys in the bowl, evidently under the mistaken impression she was participating in a seventies-style, sexy free-for-all. He hadn’t seen her for a while and assumed she’d found a bedroom upstairs and was sleeping it off.

As he paused at the landing, Carly slithered out of his grasp and sat abruptly. She gazed blearily up at him, her blond hair mussed and her sky-blue eyes smudged with mascara. The top three buttons of her tailored white blouse were undone, exposing the curve of a creamy breast.

“Ya know,” she said, slurring her words and stabbing a finger at him. “Ya might be a screwup but you’re awesome. You turned a stuffy funeral into a f-fiesta. Irene woulda been proud.”

“She deserved a good send-off.” A screwup? Was that how Carly thought of him? True, he’d passed up a chance at a music scholarship after working his ass off for years. But at eighteen he’d changed his mind about wanting to be a classical pianist so it was no loss.

“How come you’re not drunk?” Hiccupping, Carly lolled against his leg, stroking the fabric of his suit.

“Didn’t feel like it.” He’d restrained himself when he realized Carly was going on a bender. Partly because he owed it to Irene to watch out for her. But also because his own emotions—grief over Irene’s death, his feelings for Carly, plus ambivalence about being back in Fairhaven—were too big and complicated to drown and too scary to unleash.

Tonight Carly had been like a tightly coiled spring with the pressure released, springing in every direction, out of control. Something was up with her, as Irene had alluded to in their last conversation. He’d like to know more, but he wasn’t going to get a meaningful answer in her present condition.

He grabbed her under her arms and tugged her gently to a standing position. “Ready to go?”

She swayed into him, draping her arms around his neck and plastering herself against his body, meltingly soft and warm. “Man, I am so ready.”

Her breath held a not unpleasant aroma of aged scotch and her hair gave off a perfumed scent he wanted to bury his nose in. His hands slid of their own accord down her back and settled on the flare of her hips. His gaze dropped to her full, pink mouth. Did she taste as good as he remembered from that time in the tower?

A few years ago he’d looked her up on social media, but she didn’t share anything publicly except a few photos of herself with work colleagues, and cute animal videos. His finger had hovered over the Add Friend button then he’d decided that even if she wasn’t still pissed off at him, he couldn’t bear to field questions about “what are you doing these days?” Followed by polite silences when she found out. Although he didn’t know why he thought that way. Everyone he knew in Los Angeles thought he was doing pretty darn good. And he was, only not in the way folks in Fairhaven had expected.

Her eyes drifted closed and she tilted her face as if expecting a kiss. Not being the kind of guy who took advantage of inebriated women, he wasn’t going there. Instead, he unhooked her arms from around his neck, faced her forward, and readjusted his grip. “Gee up, little pony.”

“Aw, I’m not a pony.” She clutched the banister and staggered up another step. “Maybe a Lipizzaner. They’re beeyootiful.”

“They’re stallions.”

“Stallions, really? All of them?”

“The ones that perform are. Almost there.” He coaxed Carly down the hallway. Judging from the snores emanating from behind closed doors, at least three of the five bedrooms were occupied. “Are you in your old room?”

“Uh-huh. Down th’end.”

“I know.”

She twisted her head to peer at him. “How d’you know?”

“I used to watch your lighted window on summer nights.” He’d ridden his bike across town, from his family’s small home in a poor neighborhood to this heritage home on South Hill—which his mom called Snob Hill. Except that Irene was no snob and Carly...well, she’d never once made him feel any less than an equal because of where he lived, even though her father was an investment banker and Carly seemed to have inherited his drive to succeed in business. Finn had no problem with a good work ethic, he had one himself. But what had Irene said? Carly was pushing herself too hard, working all the time. What did she have to prove?

Her face lit with a delighted grin. “You couldn’t have seen anything. I always drew the curtains.”

“Your silhouette was very sexy.”

“Liar, I was a beanpole.”

Not any more, he thought. She was shapely in all the right places.

He opened her bedroom door and maneuvered her inside. The single bed was unmade and clothes were piled on an open suitcase balanced on a chair. He got her a big glass of water and stayed beside her while she drank it. “Do you need anything else?”

She splayed her fingers over his chest and looked up at him. “You.”

It was the alcohol talking. “Not tonight.”

Regret stabbed him for what else he’d thrown away besides the scholarship. Carly? No, that was making too much of their friendship. Her New York family came from old money, and her future was blue chip. She might have a fling with a guy like him but when the crunch came, she would run back to her own kind.

“Come on, Finn.” Her finger slid up to rest on the pulse beating in the base of his neck. “Why don’t you finish what you started back when we were teenagers?”

For a moment he was tempted despite everything. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could still have a shot at finding out if that spark they’d had could burst into flame.

Yeah...no. Better not make this any more complicated or difficult than it already was. In a day or two he’d be heading back to LA, and out of her life. Anyway, he wasn’t the guy she used to know, the talented pianist with a bright future. Back then he’d been a big fish in the small pond of Fairhaven. Now he was a guy who played on studio recordings for other artists and wrote songs at night. True, one of his songs had become an indie hit, even though Screaming Reindeer had messed around with the tempo. Ruined it, in his opinion. That aside, all his demons were here in Fairhaven, writhing and wailing, buried just out of sight. He didn’t want to drag Carly down into his personal hell.

“In you go.” He gently pushed her into bed and pretended he hadn’t heard her proposition him.

She seemed to have already forgotten anyway, flopping onto the crumpled covers still in her dress. Her stockings were full of runs and one big toe poked through a hole. Not quite as well turned out as earlier in the evening but she was softer, more vulnerable.

Yawning, she punched the feather pillow. “Where are you bunking?”

“Downstairs on the sofa.” He thought about helping her out of her clothes and then decided against it. He was going to have a hard enough time sleeping as it was. “I planned to stay at Dingo’s but it’s late and I don’t want to wake him and Marla—”

“Rufus.” Carly suddenly bolted upright in bed, eyes wide. “I didn’t see him when I went out to give him his dinner.”

“He’ll be all right.”

“I should let him in.” She started to get out of bed.

“Stay put. I’ll get him.”

“But...”

“Go to bed. That’s an order.”

“Well, okay. Thanks.” She subsided onto the pillow and closed her eyes. He was about to turn out the light when she spoke. “Why’d you give it up? Music, I mean. You’re good. Professionally-speaking.” She slurred the word professionally almost to the point of nonrecognition.

Finn’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “Who says I gave it up?”

“You used to be brilliant. You could have smashed that concert,” she said. “Could’ve had a scholarship. Could’ve played Lincoln Center by now if you’d kept at it.”

“Yes, I probably could have.” He didn’t bother defending himself. Carly was in no condition to take in his version of events. Maybe he’d tell her later but this wasn’t the moment. “I didn’t want to go to Juilliard.”

Carly’s forehead scrunched in a deep frown as if she was trying hard to concentrate. “So you aren’t playing with a symphony orchestra now?”

“No,” he said patiently. Had Irene never talked about him to Carly?

“But you’re still a musician?”

“Once a musician, always a musician.” He could tell her about the studio sessions but no doubt she’d find that incomprehensible, as well. Why would he settle for that when he could have been a concert pianist? A spurt of anger flashed through him that she thought he was a no-hoper for abandoning a promising career. Well, that was her problem, not his.

“Whatever.” She gave up and snuggled deeper into the pillow. “’Night.”

He refilled her water glass, turned out the light and closed the door. Years ago she’d sat on the window seat in the living room and read while he’d had lessons with Irene. He’d played to her even if she hadn’t known it, showing off, perfecting the pieces so she would be impressed. Was it any wonder that she didn’t understand why he gave it all up?

He paused outside Irene’s bedroom where Carly had posted a Private sign. He’d never been in here and he didn’t know what made him open the door now. Looking for absolution? He scoffed at himself. There was none to be found, not here, not anywhere.

Moonlight cast a silver glow over the room, illuminating a white-painted iron bed frame covered with a handmade quilt. An armchair with a floor lamp sat next to the window, a low bookshelf on the other side stacked high with music books. A guitar was propped in the corner and a flute case lay on the dresser.

But it was the sight of Irene’s worn Birkenstock sandals next to the bed that clutched at his chest. They looked so empty. He understood Carly’s guilt, her sense of regret. Life was short. If he’d known Irene would pass, he would have accompanied her on the Alaskan cruise himself. She’d been like a second mother to him, like his only mother given he hadn’t spoken to his mom in over a decade. He’d let people down, especially Irene. But he was damned if he would apologize, even now. He’d done what he had to do to survive. Even so, his heart was heavy as he closed the door.

Going downstairs, he walked through the darkened kitchen to open the back door and flip on a patio light. There was a clatter of metal on concrete and a pair of raccoons scattered, retreating a few paces. They’d been eating food set out for the dog, abandoning a sandwich in the water bowl.

“Scat!” He stepped forward onto the grass and clapped his hands to shoo them away. “Rufus! Here boy.”

The yard was quiet. Finn waited a few minutes then refilled the food bowl and carried out the dog bed from the kitchen and placed it against the outside wall. Not much more he could do tonight.

He went back inside and through to the living room. The sofa was wide and long enough to be comfortable and the cashmere throw would keep him warm. He started to pull the curtains when his gaze fell on the piano, the richly polished surface gleaming softly in the glow of the moon.

Seating himself he ran his fingers softly over the keys. No one was around to hear. He began to sing a song he’d composed but hadn’t offered for sale because he couldn’t bear to give all his songs to other musicians.

Turning thirty earlier this year had felt like a big deal, as if he’d arrived at adulthood. He’d just sold a couple of songs to a famous artist and to celebrate he’d thrown a huge party, rocking on into the night. Now, only a few months later, that success felt hollow. Being estranged from his family, especially his mother whom he’d been so close to, was hard. And since Irene died, he’d been waking in the small hours, staring up at the dark ceiling wondering, what had he done with his life? Where was he going? Was this all there was, writing songs for other people to sing?

Maybe his indie hit would turn out to be a fluke. More singers were writing their own material these days. Anyway, songwriting was an up-and-down business at best.

Even though Irene had never said so, he knew she’d been disappointed in him, not for messing up at the concert but for giving up performing. She’d been his conscience, and though he’d deliberately ignored her advice at times, he would never forget all she meant to him and had done for him. And while she might be gone, there was no escaping himself. Or the fact that his mother, equally devoted to his musical education, was still around but might as well be dead for all the contact he had with her.

He switched to a lighter piece, trying to shake off the negative vibe that had stolen over him. He was doing what he loved, that was the main thing, right? He missed that connection to an audience but he had a life that many musicians would kill for. He wasn’t making a fortune but he had enough to live comfortably. He had friends and a career that was challenging and satisfying. Wanting more would just be greedy.

Accolades didn’t mean much to him, anyway. And he knew he would hate the media attention that came with fame. He was happiest like this, the words and music pouring out of him, gritty and real, but hopeful. Moments of feeling down aside, he’d never lost his core optimism, and he clung to it harder than ever now. If he only ever sang his songs for himself it would be enough. It had to be.

* * *

CARLY’S EYES OPENED in the dark. Faint sounds came from downstairs. Head spinning, she sat up and listened. Piano music. Finn singing. Stumbling out of bed, she crept out of her room and down the stairs to peer around the doorway into the living room. One look at his face and she changed her mind about going into the room. His eyebrows were pulled together, his expression intensely focused. She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.

Nor did she want to cause him to stop. The piano notes were riffs upon riffs, complicated and mesmerizing. The words were tender, coaxing, laughing. His husky voice held a yearning tremor that hit her right in her gut. And her heart. The music was powerful in a way she’d never heard from him before. She tiptoed back to the landing and sat on the step, shivering, not with cold but with the force of his voice.

Yes, he was still a musician. The question was, why was he keeping such a treasure hidden?


CHAPTER THREE (#ube5c60b3-9fbb-55b2-a188-9ff6a0f8665d)

CARLY BURROWED DEEPER beneath the covers, trying to shut out the noise of a bird cheeping one note over and over, like a tiny jackhammer to her frontal lobe. Giving up, she pulled down the blanket and squinted into morning sun streaming through the undrawn curtains. Full consciousness hit her like a smack in the face as the previous day came back to her. Irene’s funeral, drinking way too much, singing, and talking till she was hoarse. Finn practically carrying her upstairs.

She gulped water from a glass beside the bed that she didn’t recall putting there.

Finn must have done it. Finn... Had she really put her arms around his neck and rubbed her body against his, inviting him to finish what he’d started as a teenager? Groaning, she pulled the covers over her head again. She would never have done that in her right mind. Sex with Finn wouldn’t be finishing something they’d started. It would be starting something they could never continue. She was going back to New York and he’d return to Los Angeles and never the twain shall meet.

Suddenly she remembered hearing him singing in the middle of the night. Had she dreamed that? He’d sounded unbelievably good. Was that real or had she still been tipsy?

Her phone rang. She scrabbled for it on the bedside table. “’Lo?” she rasped.

“Carly? Are you sick? You don’t sound well.”

Oh no. Leanne, her boss Herb’s personal assistant. Leanne was only twenty-two and looked like a Vogue model if models were five foot nothing. She was terrifyingly efficient. Just plain terrifying, really. How did she get her makeup that perfect?

“I’m just...” Hungover. Nope, couldn’t say that when it could get back to Herb. Carly struggled to a sitting position. “The funeral was more...intense than I’d expected.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry about your aunt.” Leanne’s voice softened and there was a brief pause before she went on. “I hate to bother you at such a sensitive time but there are a couple of things I need to take action on.”

Carly gulped more water. “Fire away.”

“The senior partners are expecting you for their annual forward planning meeting on May eighth,” Leanne said. “I’ve been asked to confirm your presence.”

“Oh, I’ll be there.” She had to if she wanted to be included when the partners were divvying up the big accounts. She’d been courting the Wallis Group, trying to bring the large financial investment company into the fold for weeks. They had offices on three continents and getting their recruitment business would be a coup, both for the firm and for her, personally. After she’d done all the legwork she was damned if she was going to let another consultant snag the account out from under her.

Carly flipped through her phone for the calendar app. May eighth was two weeks away. She only had a few more days’ leave anyway. Since Peter was executor there was nothing left for her to do in Fairhaven now that the funeral was over. “No problem. Lock it in.”

“Excellent,” Leanne said. “Second item. I’m writing up a furniture order. Do you want a credenza or a bookshelf? You can’t have both.” There was a touch of the field marshal in her tone, as if Carly had asked for an entire suite of furniture.

“Um...” Carly tried to picture how best to fit her books and personal things into her new office but her brain was too fuzzy to think. “It’s Sunday, Leanne. You shouldn’t be working.”

“Well, I did try to get these things cleared up on Friday before end of working hours but you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Sorry. I was busy with funeral arrangements.” In between crying jags and looking through albums for photos of Irene to put on display.

“So...?” Leanne prompted.

Carly massaged her throbbing forehead. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Bookshelf or credenza.”

“Bookshelf.”

“Most of the other recruitment consultants chose a credenza.”

“All the more reason to take a bookshelf,” she said with a weak laugh. Silence. Carly scrunched her eyes shut as her stab at humor fell like a lead balloon.

“If you say so.” Keyboard clicks came down the line. “One final thing. Everyone’s getting new business cards. Do you want a serif or sans serif font on your cards?”

“Whatever is the house style will be fine.”

“The basic format is the same for everyone but Hamlin and Brand allow their employees small touches of individuality.”

Very small touches, Carly thought drily. “I honestly have no opinion on fonts. I’ll be happy with whatever you choose.”

“It should be your decision,” Leanne insisted. “I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. Get back to me by Wednesday.”

Carly bit down on her fist to suppress a groan. “Serif,” she blurted.

“No, don’t choose like that. You want to project the right image. I’ll send you some examples to look at.”

“All right. Fine. Goodbye, Leanne.” Carly clicked off her phone before the PA could say anything else.

She flung herself back on the bed, an arm across her eyes. Everything would be better when she felt stronger and more in control. Picturing her own office with a bookshelf and a new box of business cards on her desk made her feel a little better. In future she would be very firm with Leanne and not allow the woman to bully her. The Wallis Group account—if she got it—would represent another quantum leap on her trajectory from high school counselor to human resources officer and now international recruiting consultant with her own accounts. The prestige, the salary package, the boost to her curriculum vitae, all a huge step up. She’d better not blow this opportunity.

Until then, she had guests in the house and she needed to make sure Rufus was okay. Ignoring the lurch of her stomach, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, taking half the covers with her. Disentangling her feet from the bedding, she went to her suitcase for clean clothes but found only dress slacks, work skirts and silk blouses. Clearly she hadn’t been thinking about comfort when she’d packed. Turning to the closet she dug through her old things until she found a pair of leggings and a flannel shirt. Clutching the clothes, she stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.

Having a shower made her feel marginally better. The non-seductive clothing would send a distinct message to Finn. She had a suspicion she’d cried on his shoulder, too. That was acceptable though, right? After all, she’d just lost her aunt.

Finn had loved Irene, too. He would understand that Carly had been grief-stricken and prone to doing and saying things that she couldn’t be held accountable for the next day. When she saw him she would be friendly and polite, like the old buddies they were. Should she apologize for her behavior, or would that give it too much importance? Maybe he’d forgotten or it hadn’t even registered. The guy was seriously hot. Women must come on to him all the time.

Whatever. She didn’t have time to obsess over Finn. She had to find Rufus.

All the bedroom doors were shut as she walked down the hall to the staircase. How many people had stayed over? During the university school year Irene rented one or two rooms, mostly to music students but now and then to someone from another faculty. Luckily, the last group of tenants had already moved out for the summer and Carly didn’t have to deal with strangers.

In the kitchen, bottles and empty plates littered the counters and the terra-cotta tiled floor had sticky patches. The smell of stale beer made her stomach rumble queasily.

Ignoring the mess, she went outside, her bare toes curling against the cold concrete of the patio. “Rufus?”

“He’s missing.” Finn came around the side of the house looking disgustingly alert despite his worried frown. This morning he was wearing jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket over a dark green sweater. “I couldn’t find him last night and this morning the side gate was open. Hard to tell how long he’s been gone.”

Carly dragged her hands through her hair, pushing it off her face. “I should never have made him go outside. Irene loved that dog so much. If anything’s happened to him I’ll never forgive myself.”

“It’s not your fault. The latch was loose.”

“I shouldn’t have gone to bed without making sure he was here.”

“It’s my fault, too,” Finn said. “I didn’t search because it was late and dark.”

Carly sank onto a cedar planter at the edge of the patio. “Rufus is sweet but he has no street smarts. What if he’s been hit by a car?”

“We’ll find him.” Finn touched her shoulder then quickly withdrew his hand.

Too quickly. How hard had she come on to him? Was he wary of getting too close now? Perfect. Her first encounter with the crush of her life in twelve years and she’d made a complete idiot of herself.

“Maybe one of Irene’s friends knew he would need a home and took him,” she suggested hopefully.

Finn shook his head. “No one takes a dog and doesn’t mention it.”

“If they were drunk, they might.”

“Let’s go for a walk and look for him. For all we know he’s mooching around somewhere close by.”

“Let me grab something quick to eat first.”

Back inside she checked the fridge but nothing new had appeared overnight. Same old half-empty jars of marmalade and pickles, out-of-date yogurt and Irene’s sourdough starter.

She opened the jar of starter and sniffed the contents. It smelled fruity and yeasty, a bit overripe. “I think it’s gone off.”

Finn took the jar from her. “That’s the way it’s supposed to smell. But you probably need to feed it.”

“Feed it what?” Carly said. “Dead mice?”

“Flour and water,” he replied. “It’s a bit like a pet, one you knead but you don’t have to walk.”

Carly bit back a smile at his lame joke and moved to the leftover platters of food on the kitchen table. The past week had been a blur of funeral arrangements. Mundane activities like grocery shopping had gone by the wayside. Irene, who was renowned for her hospitality, would be spinning in her grave—that is, if she’d been buried instead of cremated.

Carly peeled back the plastic wrap on one of the plates and sniffed the stale sandwiches then chose a couple of the least squashed.

“Sure you want to eat those?” Finn asked. “They’ve been sitting out all night.”

“Salmonella poisoning couldn’t be worse than I feel right now.” She took a bite and offered the other sandwich to Finn.

“Pass.” He let a beat go by, then one dark eyebrow cocked. “I don’t like to start something I can’t finish.”

She choked on chicken and cucumber. “About that.”

“About what?” he asked innocently.

She’d forgotten how he liked teasing her. And how she always fell for it. Forget apologizing. Her minor indiscretion was no big deal. “Funny. But I’m not going to bite.”

He looked at the sandwich in her hand. “Are you making pun of me?”

Carly rolled her eyes. “Let’s go find Rufus.”

She grabbed a leash from the hook in the back porch then slipped on a pair of old tennis shoes and a hoodie and they set off down the block.

It was a typical Sunday morning in the small, Pacific northwest town. Many of the houses in this neighborhood were, like Irene’s, beautifully maintained period homes. Dads mowed manicured lawns and kids rode bikes. Cherry trees burst with pink blossoms and overhead, the sky was a deep clear blue. Off to the west, the bay was calm with white sails scudding past and a ferry in the distance.

Her gaze drifted to the top of the hill. Not five blocks away was a narrow strip of woods and beyond that, the highway. Six lanes of speeding traffic which might not stop in time for a goofy red dog. “He’ll never survive out in the wild on his own.”

“South Hill is hardly the wild,” Finn said. “He’s probably in some little old lady’s kitchen right now, chowing down on pork chops.”

He sounded so certain she was tempted to believe him. Casting him a sidelong glance she was struck by how good he looked. Today his clothes were casual but stylish, his black hair clean and shiny. “You said you’re still a musician. That’s pretty vague. What do you do exactly?”

“I’m a studio musician. I play backup on albums.”

“I heard you singing last night.”

He froze midstride, just for a split second, then resumed walking. “I thought you were asleep. Sorry to disturb you.”

“Don’t apologize. You were amazing.” Just because she hadn’t heard of him didn’t mean he wasn’t a big deal in California. “Have you recorded anything?”

“Did Irene never mention my studio work and that I also write songs for a living?” he said, mildly aggrieved.

“No.” Carly didn’t want to tell him that she’d always been the one to cut short any conversation about Finn. Mention of him shouldn’t hurt so much after so many years...but it did. “Don’t you perform?”

“Those days are behind me,” Finn said shortly. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Ru-fus.”

There was no answering woof.

“He doesn’t know either of us very well,” Carly said. “He might not come to us even if we find him.”

At the corner they turned to the right and trudged to the top of the hill before making their way down, back and forth along the streets, calling and peering into yards.

“Have you written any songs that I would recognize?” Carly asked.

“One or two, maybe.”

Was it her imagination or did he sound a tad touchy? She peered into a hedge but there was no Rufus hiding beneath the dark green foliage.

“So, your parents...” Carly began cautiously. “What happened? I gathered from Irene that you’re estranged from them, but she didn’t go into detail.”

“My mother wanted me to be a classical concert pianist,” Finn said. “Juilliard was her idea and she put a lot of pressure on me to go there. She’s never forgiven me for the wrecked concert or for bailing on the audition and pursuing my own music in Los Angeles.”

“Twelve years is a long time for her to stay mad at you,” Carly said. “Maybe while you’re here you could reconcile.”

“I’m mad, too.” Finn stopped, hands on hips. “I called her once or twice over the years but she wasn’t cordial. She’s blown this whole feud up.”

“Someone has to make the first move,” Carly said. “Just saying.”

“Not going to happen, at least not on my end,” he said with finality. After a moment’s silence he changed the subject. “When I was a kid my dog Prince got lost.”

Carly sighed and went with it. She didn’t have the energy to pursue the conversation about his mother anyway. “I remember him. He used to follow when you came to Irene’s for your music lesson. He was a German shepherd, right?”

“That’s right. He was actually a she but Princess didn’t seem to suit. She got scared during the fireworks on the Fourth of July, jumped the fence and ran away. We never found her. She probably got run over but I told myself that she ended up in the yard of another little boy and had a great home, even if it wasn’t with me.”

“That’s so sad,” Carly said. “I guess they didn’t put microchips in dogs’ ears back then. Didn’t she have a registration tag?”

“Registration costs money.” Finn kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. “Any spare cash was spent on my music lessons.”

“Oh.” His talent had been worth the sacrifices, but Carly could only imagine the stress on the rest of the family. Even the dog had missed out. How betrayed they must have felt when Finn chucked it all in and ran off to Los Angeles, especially his mother, who’d devoted herself to his classical music studies. It must have killed her when he’d thrown away his chance at attending Juilliard.

“This is hopeless.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, which had begun to churn again. “Let’s go back before I throw up in someone’s flower bed.”

“What you need is Rhonda’s ‘Morning After’ brunch special,” Finn said.

“I don’t know what that is, but I’m game for anything that will neutralize the toxins.”

Rhonda’s turned out to be a trendy corner café in the heart of the old town. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee drew Carly into a light-filled room where potted plants nestled between comfy couches and restored wooden furniture. Plum-colored walls were crowded with original local artwork. The Sunday café crowd was seriously chill with a fair sprinkling of kids. The buzz of genial conversation mingling with recorded jazz in the background was warm and welcoming. In one corner stood a raised platform with a microphone stand and a stool. Overhead, wooden ceiling fans whirred lazily.

“Find a table and I’ll order,” Finn said. “The works?”

“Yes, please. And a very large coffee. Black. Hot. Strong.”

She secured a table and tried to put Rufus and her abandoned funeral guests out of her mind to relax for a few minutes. Her gaze followed Finn as he wove his way to the counter. She wasn’t the only one watching. Women’s heads turned like dominos.

At the counter, the young waitress, a rounded girl with mousy hair, gazed at Finn with huge, adoring eyes. When he moved to the cash register to pay, she scurried over to ring up his order. He chatted to her, making her laugh. Good thing he wasn’t the cocky type or all that female attention would make him unbearable. But aside from his annoying habit of teasing Carly, he was genuinely kind, and his thoughtfulness and quiet strength had helped her through Irene’s wake. In fact, she thought drowsily, lulled by the warm atmosphere, she was very grateful for Finn’s presence in her life right now.

Carly shifted her gaze to the hand-chalked menu board on the wall behind the coffee machine. Real java done in any style with multiple choices of beans roasted on the premises. If New York wasn’t home, she would love living in Fairhaven.

“I waited while the barista made your coffee,” Finn said, setting a steaming mug in front of her. “Figured this was an emergency.”

“Thanks.” She took a sip and moaned in pleasure. “Ah, black, hot and strong. Just what I wanted.”

“Black and bitter, she said,” Finn murmured, his gaze cast up to the ceiling. “Bitter as the life she once led.”

Carly’s fingers tightened on the mug. Teasing was one thing but mocking her? “My life is not bitter, okay? Rather sad at the moment but not bitter.”

“No need to be defensive. I wasn’t talking about you.” Finn pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket and scribbled with the stub of a very sharp pencil. A silver ring etched with black runes circled his left index finger.

“I’m not defensive. Just setting the record straight.” She tried to read upside down but his hand covered the words. “I hope you’re not writing a song about my alleged bitterness.”

He ripped out the page and showed her. LOST: IRISH SETTER, answers to RUFUS. South Hill area. “Rhonda has a notice board. We can post this on our way out. What’s your cell number?”

She told him, thankful that his brain cells were working even if hers weren’t.

Flipping the notebook shut, he leaned back in his chair, one side of his mouth curling up. “So, would you like me to write a song about you?”

“No! I wouldn’t want my intimate secrets aired in public.”

Finn leaned forward. “Tell me more about these secrets. They sound interesting.”

“I hardly know you now,” she said primly. “Why would I tell you secrets?”

He grinned. “Last night you were ready to haul me off to bed.”

“You had your chance and muffed it,” she countered with a dismissive flip of her hand. “Too late.”

The waitress arrived just then with their breakfast. Chorizo, spinach and feta frittata with fried potatoes, mushrooms and roasted tomatoes. Healthy-ish, but with enough carbs and grease to soak up the lingering alcohol in her system.

The waitress lingered, pulling at her brown ponytail, as Finn took his first bite. “Is it okay?”

Finn smiled at her. “Delicious, thanks...” He read her name tag. “Annie.”

Annie broke into a wide smile that transformed her face. “I’ll be right back with your freshly squeezed orange juice.” With a little skip, she hurried back to the kitchen.

Carly stuffed a forkful of frittata into her mouth. “This is genius. And a lot of food.”

“Remember...” Finn gave her a wink. “If you can’t finish what you start, I’m your go-to man.”

“Stop that, right now.” She pointed her fork at him. “I know what you’re doing so don’t pull those innocent eyes on me. I’ve known you since you were a pimply-faced adolescent.”

“Ouch. So cruel.” He sipped his coffee. “Why did you think I could write a song about your bitterness? Alleged bitterness,” he amended when she bristled. “You have this perfect life in New York complete with a fabulous new job. What could be wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. My life is great.” She pushed a piece of chorizo around the plate. Yeah, the competitive culture at Hamlin and Brand was tough but she could handle it. In this dog-eat-dog world she needed to be a Rottweiler not a Shih Tzu.

“Glad to hear it,” Finn said. “Irene must have been worrying needlessly. She sometimes did.”

“I know, right? For someone so laid-back, she could stress out.” But Irene’s intuition was part of what had made her such a great teacher and musician in her own right. What did she know about Carly that Carly didn’t know herself?

Finn was still studying her face intently. Was he thinking about a song he was writing...or about kissing her? Goodness, why had that popped into her mind? Now she could barely breathe. Feeling heat creep up her neck, she dropped her gaze and concentrated on spearing a mushroom.

A buzz of static from the stage heralded the arrival of a man in jeans and a gray T-shirt with a sun-streaked brown ponytail. He bent to speak into the microphone.

“Welcome to open mike,” he said with an Australian drawl. “My name’s Dingo and I’ll be MC today. If anyone wants to add their name to the list of performers, we have a few slots free.”

“Is that your friend?” Carly asked, interested.

“Yep. He has a cover band that plays mostly sixties rock but he does this on Sundays.” Finn waved to Dingo. A pretty brunette sat at the table next to the stage, a sturdy blond toddler on her knee. When the little boy saw Finn he tried to launch himself across the café. “That’s his wife, Marla, and their ankle biter, Tyler.”

“We have a local hero in the audience today,” Dingo announced. “Finn Farrell, how about singing us your hit song?”

The crowd began to clap, encouraging Finn to play.

“What does he mean, your hit?” Carly asked.

“Just a song I wrote.” Finn shook his head at the stage, mouthing, “No.”

“Ah, right, sorry.” Dingo’s face twisted into an apologetic grimace as if he’d just remembered about Irene and was mentally kicking himself. “No worries, mate.”

The café crowd didn’t seem to notice this exchange. Dingo’s apology was drowned out by whistling and applauding. The clapping became rhythmic. Finn half rose and made a small bow with his hands palm out in gracious refusal.

Still, the audience kept clapping and calling out. Finn sank lower in his seat. Carly frowned. Couldn’t they see that he didn’t want to play? Unable to stand it another second, she moved her elbow and knocked over her glass of juice. It rolled off the table and clattered to the floor. Juice splashed everywhere.

“I’m so clumsy.” She leaped up and dabbed ineffectually at the mess. “Can’t take me anywhere.”

All eyes had now turned to her but the clapping stopped, thank goodness. Annie brought over a cloth and mopped up, retrieving the fallen glass. Meanwhile, Dingo strummed his guitar, bringing attention back to the stage. A murmur of approval rose from the audience.

Carly recognized a recent indie chart-topper. “I love this song.” She glanced at Finn, thinking he’d be pleased no one was looking at him anymore, and was surprised to see he was still tense.

He tapped out the beat with long fingers on his knee. Now and then he grimaced painfully. Before the song was even finished, he was on his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

He lifted a hand in Dingo’s direction and headed for the exit. Dingo sang the last bars but his worried gaze followed Finn across the café.

Carly grabbed her hoodie. She was almost out the door before she remembered the community noticeboard and quickly tacked up the notice Finn had composed.

“Slow down,” she called, running after him. He strode ahead, his long legs encased in skinny jeans, his broad shoulders hunched. Catching up, she grabbed his jacket sleeve, forcing him to look at her. His face was white and dotted with perspiration.

Shocked, she let go of his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”


CHAPTER FOUR (#ube5c60b3-9fbb-55b2-a188-9ff6a0f8665d)

FINN PULLED ON the neck of his sweater, sucking in air as Carly stared at him, eyes wide. Inside his tight chest his heart thudded like a drum solo. If he’d known Dingo was going to blindside him like that he would never have set foot in Rhonda’s café.

“What’s going on, Finn?” Carly said. “What happened back there?”

“You wanted to know if you’d ever heard a song I wrote?” he said. “That was my song. I wrote it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes popped. “I had no idea you were famous.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “The band who sang it is.”

“Why didn’t you sing?” she asked. “Why let Dingo do your song?”

“I don’t perform anymore.” He hated the way Carly was looking at him, all worried and wanting an explanation. He’d enjoyed hanging with her and hoped they could spend a day or two together before he went on his way. Not going to happen now.

He resumed stalking up the hill. It galled him that fans loved the Screaming Reindeer’s version, and today, Dingo’s. They were all fine musicians, no offense, but no one had ever heard the song the way he’d intended it to be played. The familiar dilemma stuck in Finn’s craw. He couldn’t have it both ways, simultaneously wanting anonymity and recognition. Craving the applause but not willing to risk making a fool of himself by choking onstage.

“Finn, wait,” Carly persisted, hurrying after him. “Why did you run out? Why do you look like you’re having a heart attack? And why are you scowling? Aren’t you pleased that people like your music?”

“I should be, shouldn’t I?” Finn strode briskly up South Hill toward Irene’s house.

Carly jogged behind, trying to keep up. “So what’s the problem?”

He threw her a black look. “Forget it. It’s no concern of yours.”

“You were my aunt’s favorite student,” she said. “Her concern is my concern.”

“I’m not a lost dog,” he growled. “You’re not responsible for me.”

“I care about you! You and I go back a long way. I thought we were friends.” She stopped and pressed a hand to her stomach.

Finn circled back and put a hand under her elbow. “Are you all right? You look sick.”

“I think I really am going to throw up this time.” Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. “I am never drinking scotch again.”

“Sit down.” He led her to a stone retaining wall and made her sit, gently pressing her head forward with a hand on her back. “Head between the legs. Never would have pegged you as being so high maintenance.”

“I’m not. Usually I’m the one looking after other people.” Her voice was muffled by the messy honey-blond hair falling over either side of her face.

Her slender nape looked so pretty and feminine. Finn blew on her damp skin and massaged circles on her back. Soothing Carly took his mind off himself and helped him calm down. There were better things to expend his emotional energy on than flogging himself for not being the man everyone had expected him to be.

Her breathing slowed and after a moment she sat up. “Thanks. I was afraid for a moment I was going to lose the hangover cure.”

He brushed the hair out of her eyes. Soft and silky, it slipped through his fingers as he tucked it behind her ears. “Sit here. I’ll go get my car.”

“No, just give me a minute. I’ll be all right.” She straightened and pushed his hands away. “I still don’t get why you walked out of the café.”

Finn’s sigh was more like a groan and came from someplace deep and dark. He wasn’t ready to spill his guts to Carly, not even after she’d witnessed his anxiety, so he continued talking about the side issue. “This is going to sound egotistical but I can’t stand hearing my music played by other people. Not the artists I sold it to, not even my friends.”

“Why not?” she asked. “It’s such a compliment. Aren’t you proud?”

“No one ever plays my music the way I hear it in my head.” His hands clenched. “It...grates. I try not to make a thing of it, but that’s the way it is.”

“That’s not egotistical,” she said. “That’s wanting to express your vision. You should play your music yourself, show the world how it’s supposed to sound and what it means to you. Why didn’t you take the opportunity today?”

“I wasn’t prepared.” But it was more than that, of course. Even now he could feel the band tighten around his chest and he struggled for breath. “After that failed concert I never performed before an audience again.” Not successfully, that is.

Carly lifted her head, eyes wide. “But...that’s totally messed up.”

“That’s me, messed up.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” Carly said. “The difficulty breathing, the perspiration on your forehead. That looks like anxiety to me. Are you saying you don’t want to perform, or that you can’t?”

“Can’t, don’t want to, what’s the difference?”

“Big difference. Huge.”

“It comes to the same thing.”

A crease appeared between Carly’s eyebrows as she tried to puzzle him out. “You played last night at Irene’s wake. You were right into it, enjoying yourself.”

True, but there hadn’t been an audience per se. He’d been surrounded by other musicians all singing or playing. He hadn’t even thought about it, just headed for the piano and tried to conjure Irene from the keys. Put him in front of a room of people watching and he would have frozen, as he knew from painful experience the few times he’d attempted it in Los Angeles bars.

“Well?” Carly was eyeing him like a therapist trying to bring her patient to the brink of a breakthrough.

“Don’t go getting any ideas that you can help me, or change me,” he said. “Your aunt tried to do that. It didn’t work. And I owed her a whole lot more than I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” Carly touched his chest with her fingertips. “Irene didn’t believe you owed her anything, either.” Sadly, she added, “She loved you.”

“I loved her, too,” Finn said quietly. He hated that he’d hurt her. And he hated that he’d let his mother down. But he’d also vowed that he wasn’t going to try to live up to anyone’s expectations but his own.

As if she’d read his mind, Carly said, “It’s yourself you’re hurting by not fulfilling your potential.”

Not fulfilling his potential. How many times had he heard that? Way too many. His life was not a tragedy.

“I’m better off than a lot of people.” And he was grateful for it every single day. Rising, he said, “Ready to go?”

They trudged up the steep hill, Carly half a step behind, silent, no doubt still taking in everything he’d said. Finn walked faster, his shoulders bowed by the weight of everyone’s unfulfilled dreams for him. Ahead, his Mustang beckoned. He longed to sink into the soft black leather, turn the music up real loud, and head on down the road. Out on the highway, all by himself, his problems wouldn’t exist. But he couldn’t leave town so soon after the funeral when Carly was still bereft over Irene and she hadn’t found Rufus.

He slowed as he approached the car, reaching into his pocket to jingle his keys. “Do you want to drive around, look for Rufus some more?”

Carly hesitated, glancing toward the house. “I should probably go inside, see if anyone’s still there.”

“Okay, well, I’ll cruise around for a bit before I go over to Dingo and Marla’s.”

“They’ll be worried about you,” Carly said.

“They’re cool.” But he felt bad about the way things had played out. Dingo would never deliberately make Finn feel uncomfortable. He’d only played the song as a nod to him. It was Finn’s fault for not confiding fully in his friend. He’d told Carly more in the past five minutes than he’d told Dingo in twelve years. How had she managed that?

“How will I get in touch with you?” she asked. “You know, if Rufus comes home.”

“Give me your phone.” When she fished it out of her pocket, he programmed in his cell number. “I’ll be in town for a few days. I’ll touch base later tonight, see how you’re doing. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks for helping me search, and for well, everything.” Her smile came and went quickly. “I wouldn’t have survived last night if not for you.”

“You were doing just fine.”

“No, I was floundering.”

“All you needed was a stiff drink.”

“Or five.” She made a face that was half grimace, half grin. “Thanks for the hangover, too. It’s a doozy.”

“Hey, I poured you two glasses. You did the rest.” She rolled her eyes but there was a sparkle there. Always leave ’em laughing. He opened his arms. “Come here, Maxwell.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped into his embrace. He folded his arms around her. With her head tucked beneath his chin and her cheek pressed to his chest, she fit just right.

“Everything’s going to be okay.” The words came out more gruffly than he’d intended. Truth was, he needed her emotional support as much as she needed his. Now he didn’t want to go but it was too late to make an excuse to stay.

“I know.” She hugged him hard, then kissed him briefly on the cheek before easing away, hands jammed in the front pocket of her hoodie. Her face worked and moisture filled her eyes. He was about to reach for her again when with a wave of her hand, she turned and walked swiftly up the steps. The front door opened and shut with finality.

He took a step toward the house then stopped. She’d said she was okay. Don’t push it. Things were better off uncomplicated. And the last thing he wanted was for her, or anyone, to try to fix him. His career and his relationship with his parents might be broken but he wasn’t.

* * *

CARLY CLIMBED THE front steps as the Mustang’s engine growled to life. From the porch she watched Finn do a U-turn and roar off. Here and gone, kind of like her whole experience of him. In the twenty or so years that she’d known him, she’d only seen snapshots of his life.

Childhood and long summer days when the sweetest music was the jingle of the ice cream truck. Then came the teenage years and the excitement of a new awareness. She’d eyed him covertly, managed the odd fumbling touch of hands, then that kiss in the tower...

She’d known nothing of the trials he went through during the rest of the year when she wasn’t around. He must have grappled with schoolwork that took a back seat to music, parental pressure and expectations, his family struggling to make ends meet.

In her limited viewpoint, his musical progress had come in spurts. One year he was a boy tenor playing simple pieces on the concert grand. The next summer his voice had broken and he’d graduated to longer, more complex music. She still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that he no longer performed. At the café he’d shown the classic symptoms of an anxiety attack. Maybe it wasn’t surprising considering how that concert had ended. It was a crime that his talent was lost to the world, whether he would have gone on to play his own music or classical.

Nor could she understand how he could have stayed estranged from his parents for so long. He and his mom had been so close. Did that conflict have anything to do with Finn’s inability to play in front of an audience?

She hated that he seemed to have settled into an obscure career. No doubt he enjoyed writing songs but once upon a time he’d wanted so much more. She was convinced he still did. He’d tacitly admitted as much by wanting to hear his music played the way he’d envisioned it.

With a sigh, she went inside the house. Leadlights spilled a jeweled glow on the polished wood floor of the foyer. Moving through the jungle of potted ferns, she entered the living room, an eclectic collection of antique and modern furniture, Persian carpets and avant-garde sculpture. Her aunt had talked of updating the house while retaining the period features but had never got around to renovating. Now that would never happen. Carly went around the room looking for stray cups and plates. There weren’t any. Someone must have already cleaned up.

Her heart hurt for Finn but it was no use trying to analyze him. Even as a teenager, he’d been a complicated character. Aside from any romantic or sexual fantasies she used to have about him—and they were just that, fantasies—she had no illusions she could help him. If he, with all his passion and drive for music, had given it up, how could she change his mind? Anyway, he’d made it very clear he didn’t want her to interfere in his life.

Before Rufus had run away, she’d been half hoping Finn would take the dog. Now she wondered what kind of a life he led in Los Angeles. Did he have a girlfriend or a long-term partner, or even a dog already? Maybe the place he lived in LA didn’t allow dogs. Although if he wrote top-ten songs he probably wasn’t hurting for money.

Carly carried the dishes along the passage and heard women’s voices in the kitchen. Brenda was at the sink, washing crystal glasses that couldn’t go in the dishwasher. Blond curls were stuck to her temples and she had an apron tied around her ample waist. Frankie from next door had put her hair up in a spiky black knot and was mopping the floor. The leftover food had been put away and the empty liquor bottles moved to the recycling box.

“You didn’t need to do this, but thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you both being here.” Carly hugged Frankie, leaning over the mop to squeeze the shorter woman’s narrow shoulders. Then she stepped carefully across the damp tiles to embrace Brenda.

Her cousin’s wet hands were warm on her back. “How are you feeling this morning?” Brenda said. “You looked as if you were having a good time last night. Irene would have been proud of the way you sang.”

Carly winced at the memory of belting out “Oklahoma.” “Someone should have reminded me that I can’t carry a tune in the proverbial bucket.”

“No one cares. What mattered was that we honored Irene with a fitting send-off.” Frankie nodded at a plate of blueberry muffins on the counter. “Hungry?”

“I had a huge breakfast at Rhonda’s café with Finn.” Carly drifted to the counter anyway, irresistibly drawn by the warm scent of fruit and vanilla.

“I made them this morning,” Frankie said. “Think of them as breakfast dessert.”

“Is that a thing?” Carly took a muffin and bit into a moist crumb bursting with blueberries. “Mmm. If it’s not, it should be.”

“That Finn sure can play the piano,” Brenda said.

“Not a bad looker, either,” Frankie said, winking. “If I wasn’t happily married...”

“Didn’t you and he go together years ago?” Brenda asked Carly.

“No.” There was only that one kiss. Things might have progressed if they’d gone to the party afterward instead of him running out of the concert. But that was water under the bridge. And she didn’t want Brenda and Frankie jumping to false conclusions. Her thoughts about Finn were jumbled enough as it was.

“Where is he, anyway?” Brenda asked.

“He had things to do.” Carly turned to Frankie. “Irene told me how you and she used to exchange recipes.”

“Yep, we bonded over baking.” Frankie slid the bucket along the floor and mopped under the table. She’d stacked the chairs on top for easy access.

“Would you like to have Irene’s sourdough starter?” Carly asked. “She’s kept it going for decades. I hate to throw it away.”

“Oh, honey, she gave me some long ago.” Frankie blew a wisp of damp hair off her forehead. “All her friends have a bit. I tried making bread but sourdough is an art and keeping the starter alive takes commitment. I’ve got three kids and a husband plus I work part-time at an aged care center.” She smiled cheerfully. “If I had to nurture one more thing I’d probably sit and cry.”

Carly turned to her cousin. “Brenda?”

“I can’t keep a cactus alive.” Brenda pulled the plug to empty the sink then grabbed a towel to dry her hands. “Throw it away and don’t look back. It’s not like you’re putting down a sentient creature.”

“I know but...” Carly licked blueberry off her finger. “It meant so much to Irene.”

“You can’t keep her alive by holding on to her stuff.” Brenda’s blue eyes turned gentle. “Dad and I went through this when my mom passed two years ago. The sourdough is only the beginning. You’re going to have a difficult enough job clearing out her things. You have to learn to be ruthless.”

“But... Irene’s estate will pass to your father, won’t it?” Carly said. “As her brother, he’s her closest relative.”

She would be happy to help her uncle Larry dispose of Irene’s personal effects but didn’t relish deciding the fate of her aunt’s collection of art objects and furniture.

“I don’t know.” Brenda shrugged. “It’s not like he needs it. He made a pile of dough when he sold his tech company.”

“The reading of the will is next week,” Carly said. “Maybe you should be there since your father can’t.”

“Sorry, I really do need to get back to Portland,” Brenda said. “Let me know what happens and I’ll pass it on to Dad.”

“Sure.” Carly nodded. “Have either of you seen Rufus? He went missing last night. Finn and I searched the whole neighborhood this morning.”

“No, I was wondering where he’d got to,” Brenda said. “That’s terrible.”

“I haven’t seen him, either.” Frankie straightened to wring out the mop. “Have you called the animal shelter?”

“Not yet. I’ll do that.” Carly pulled her phone out of her hoodie pocket and flicked it on to find a dozen messages. Her father; Althea, a friend in New York; Herb, her boss; a celebrant she’d contacted but not used in the end. She would reply to those TEXTs later. Finn’s message she opened and read aloud, “Checked the animal shelter. Rufus hasn’t been brought in.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up. Never knew that dog to miss a meal.” Frankie took the bucket and mop out to the laundry room. When she returned she glanced around the clean kitchen and nodded, satisfied. “I’ve got to take my son to soccer. ’Bye, Brenda. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I wish it had been under different circumstances.” Brenda turned to Carly. “I’m going, too. Sorry I can’t stay and help some more.”

“It’s fine. Thanks again.”

Carly walked them out, leading the way down the hall to the foyer. While Brenda ran upstairs to get her suitcase, Carly gave Frankie another hug. “I’m glad I got to talk to you last night. Now I know why my aunt liked you so much.”

Frankie squeezed her shoulders. “Come over any time for coffee. How long are you staying in town?”

“Not long,” Carly said. “A few more days.”

“With Irene’s passing I don’t suppose you’ll come west as often.” Frankie started down the steps. At the bottom she turned and looked up at the house, a wistful expression softening her pointed features. “I’ll miss hearing the music. In the evening, after her students had gone, she would play the piano for hours.”

“I remember.” Carly leaned on a post, smiling. “When I was young and had to go to bed early, I would lie awake, listening.”

“Mom!” A boy of about nine in a soccer uniform of a white jersey with green shorts and socks ran out of the house next door. “I’m going to be late.”

“Coming!” Frankie waved goodbye to Carly and hurried down the sidewalk.

Brenda bustled out, wheeling an overnight bag. “Take care and keep in touch, okay? You have my email. My cell number is in Irene’s address book next to the phone. Call me any time.”

“I will.” Carly hugged her and waited until Brenda had driven off in her rental car. Before she could head inside, a red Mini packed to the roof with overflowing boxes pulled out of the parking spot Brenda had vacated.

The door opened and a tall young man unfolded his thin limbs and emerged. In his midtwenties, he had dark blond hair neatly combed from a side part and wore thick glasses. His blue cardigan looked hand-knit and the pocket protector in his cotton shirt bulged with pens, a small ruler and a calculator.

He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and consulted it, looking up at the house.

“Can I help you?” Carly asked.

He wiped his palms on his pants and approached the open gate in the picket fence. “I’m Taylor Greene. It’s April 30. I’m a day early. I hope that’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

He adjusted his glasses and squinted at her. “Are you Irene Grant?”

“No, I’m her niece, Carly. Irene passed last week.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He made as if to drag his hand through his hair then carefully patted it instead. “The thing is, I rented a room in her house.” He gestured to his car. “I’ve brought all my stuff, ready to move in.”

Carly’s headache returned, tiny hammer blows to her right temple. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I had no idea she’d rented out a room or I would have contacted you to let you know it’s no longer available.”

Behind his thick lenses panic flashed in his eyes. “You don’t understand. I really need this.”

“The room isn’t available,” Carly repeated. “I don’t know what’s happening to the house but I imagine it will be sold.”

“I have a rental agreement,” he insisted. “I viewed the listing online and deposited the first month’s rent directly into her bank account.”

How could he not understand? Her aunt was dead. “I’ll return your money, of course.” Carly turned her palms out. “I wish I could help you but—”

“She was so kind and welcoming.” Taylor’s tone hovered between hope and despair. Behind his thick glasses his eyes beseeched. “Breakfast and dinner were included.”

“I’ll talk to her bank manager tomorrow and arrange a repayment,” Carly said. “You must see it’s impossible.”

“Please don’t say that. I’m doing my PhD and starting a new phase of my research tomorrow. I’ve booked the telescope. If I miss my slot I won’t get another chance for months. I don’t have time to look for another place to rent.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Anyway, I can’t go back.”

“Back where?”

“H-home.” His voice cracked.

Carly had a strong urge to run inside and lock the door. She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. All too easily she got entangled in people’s lives and tried to help them.

“Did your marriage end?” she asked reluctantly. “Did you break up with your girlfriend?”

His fair skin suffused with color from his collar to his hairline. “I still live at home. My father left my mother for another woman last year. Since then I’ve been all my mom’s got.” He broke off to take an asthma puffer from his pocket, sucking in a couple of deep pulls. “If I go back now I may not have the guts to leave again.” He stood there, arms slack at his side, resignedly awaiting her verdict.

Carly sighed. “You’d better come inside and we’ll talk about it.”

Taylor followed her into the house, craning his neck to glance around as she led him straight to the kitchen. “It’s even nicer than it looked online.”

“Have a seat,” Carly said. “Do you want a cup of coffee, or a beer?”

“A beer sounds great.” He sat at the table. “That’s something I should buy for myself, though, right?”

“If you were staying, yes.” She handed him a beer from the fridge and crossed her arms. “You say you’re doing a PhD. What’s your thesis topic?”

“Astrophysics,” Taylor said, “Pulsar activity.”

“Pulsars. What are those exactly?”

Behind his glasses, Taylor’s eyes glowed. “When a star explodes it leaves behind pieces no bigger than a grain of salt. Yet each grain weighs more than the sum total of every human being on Earth.”

“I didn’t know that.” Drawn in despite herself, Carly sank into a chair.

“The tiny grains emit pulses of light that travel clear across the universe.” Taylor waved raw-boned, big-knuckled hands as he warmed to his subject. “I’m hoping to pick up pulsars from trillions of light-years away.”

The scientific details meant little to Carly but she was impressed with the way Taylor lit up like a supernova when he spoke of his research. If only the clients she dealt with had that kind of excitement for their profession, her job would be so much more rewarding. Most of the people she interviewed had pat answers to standard questions. Many claimed to have passion, but it was clear they only said that because they thought it was expected. Taylor was the real deal.

“Can you show me the agreement between you and my aunt?” she asked Taylor.

“Sure.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through emails until he came to the simple contract. It was as he’d said. Irene had agreed to give him room and board for the summer term. “I have a copy printed out and signed by both parties in my files but that’s in the car. Do you want to see that, too?”

“Yes,” Carly said. “I’ll have to show it to my aunt’s lawyer when I meet with him this week, see what he says.”

“Does that mean I can stay?” he asked hopefully.

Carly hesitated. Everything in her screamed that she was making a mistake not turning him away now but he seemed so needy and she was a sucker for strays, always had been.

“For now,” she said. “I don’t know what the lawyer will say but it’s quite possible that whoever inherits this house will sell it. You’d better prepare yourself to find other accommodation as soon as possible.”

“Okay.” He shook her hand with big pumps. When he smiled, he was quite good-looking in a geeky sort of way. “Thanks, thanks very much. I’ll bring my stuff in.”

Carly watched his loping stride as he eagerly headed back to his car. Great. This was all she needed on top of everything else.


CHAPTER FIVE (#ube5c60b3-9fbb-55b2-a188-9ff6a0f8665d)

FINN DROVE SLOWLY down the main drag of Fairhaven, keeping his eye out for Rufus’s red-gold coat and the fringed tail that waved like a flag. The town had changed since he’d lived here. The Mexican restaurant was still there and the secondhand bookstore. But alongside the historic buildings there were trendy stores selling eco-this and organic that. The Alaska ferry and a cruise ship were in port and shoals of tourists roamed the streets.

It took all of three minutes to drive through town and then he was heading south on Chuckanut Drive. Now that his pulse had finally slowed and his breathing was even, he tried to put the incident at the café into perspective. Maybe sixty people witnessed today. What exactly had they seen? A guy declining an invitation to get onstage. Big deal. They didn’t know he’d broken out in a cold sweat or that his heart rate had shot to two hundred plus beats per minute.

Get over yourself, Farrell. Nobody ever died from embarrassment. He might be well known in songwriting circles but hardly anyone outside that world had heard of him. And that was just fine.

But it bothered him that Carly had witnessed his humiliation—again. He cared about what she thought of him. Twelve years on the shame of that concert still burned hot and bright, the pain still raw.

He slowed as he passed the mudflats at the mouth of Chuckanut Creek and came to Teddy Bear Cove. Irene used to walk Rufus here but the pebbled shoreline was empty. It didn’t seem likely the dog would have gone this far overnight. At the end of Chuckanut he looped back to Fairhaven along the freeway.

Taking the off-ramp back into town, Finn turned down a side road where the houses were smaller and the cars older. The Mustang’s engine rumbled as he cruised through the quiet, familiar streets. Slowing, he pulled to a stop outside the house where he’d grown up, gray stucco with an asphalt tile roof. The trim had been painted a cream color and the gravel driveway was paved. His parents were doing better since he’d left. Well, sure, they had more money to spend now that they weren’t paying for his musical tuition.

He saw the house as if with X-ray vision. The small bedroom he and his big brother Joe had shared, their walls covered with posters of rock bands and hot cars. The living room and the upright piano his mom had bought secondhand. She’d been his first teacher, showing him the scales and how to play simple tunes. There was the kitchen where the family had sat around the table playing board games in the evenings. And the backyard, scene of extended family gatherings with aunts, uncles and a mess of younger cousins.

A man with close-cropped gray hair and glasses, dressed in jeans and an old sweatshirt, came through the carport pushing a lawn mower. It took Finn a moment to recognize with shock that it was his dad, Ron Farrell. Twelve years had wrought big changes—the gray hair, creased forehead, a mouth bracketed by deep grooves. The signs of aging brought home just how long Finn had been away and how much of his parents’ lives he’d missed. He knew some things from talking to his brother but that wasn’t the same as spending time together, or hearing about the day-to-day stuff. He ached for that lost time.

His father was about to start the mower when he noticed the Mustang idling at his curb. “Can I help you?” Then his head jerked as he recognized his son. “Finn.”

Finn turned off the engine and got out of the car, searching his father’s face for signs of welcome but finding only a wariness that increased his sense of isolation. Awkwardly, he went in for a brief man hug. “Good to see you, Dad. It’s been so long.”

“I guess you’re in Fairhaven for Irene’s funeral.” Pain flashed in Bob’s eyes as if at the thought Finn wouldn’t have come to town to visit them. “Your mom and I were both working and couldn’t make it.”

“I missed it too but went to the reception.” Had he subconsciously skipped the funeral to avoid possibly running into his parents? He glanced at the house. “Is Mom home?”

“She’s at the store. Won’t be long.” Bob hesitated. “Can you stay? I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”

For a moment Finn imagined setting aside the past and making a fresh start. And then he remembered the last time he’d spoken to his mother, Nora, on her sixtieth birthday. Her stilted surprise that he’d called, her terse, cool replies to his queries about the family. He’d heard the party going on in the background and cut the call short to let her get back to her guests. What if when she saw him, she rejected him in person, told him she wasn’t interested in reconciling?

“Sorry, Dad, I can’t.” He slid back into the car. “I was just passing.”

Bob’s mouth drew down and he took off his glasses to rub them on the hem of his sweatshirt. “Your mom will be disappointed.”

“Will she?” Finn asked. When his father didn’t reply, he started the engine. “Thought so.”

Estrangement was better than another fight. Nora hadn’t cared about what he wanted, only about raising a prodigy. The bitter accusations and recriminations that had flown between the two of them in the weeks before the concert had escalated into a massive fight just before he’d walked onstage. He’d sat down at the piano shaken and scattered, not focused the way he needed to be. No wonder he hadn’t been able to play or even remember the piece. His brain had been a seething mess of fury and righteous indignation. The emotional repercussions stayed with him for days and weeks—years—afterward.

She’d never forgiven him for making a fool out of himself and her. It was as if she thought he’d choked on purpose to thwart her ambitions for him. As for him, his anger and resentment simmered undiluted. If he was stubbornly unforgiving it was because he’d gotten that trait from her.

Coming by the house had been a mistake. Nostalgia was insidious. It sucked you in and wrapped its tentacles around you, trapping you in a rose-tinted past colored by wishful thinking and stained with broken dreams.

Finn drove to Dingo and Marla’s house a few blocks away. They weren’t back yet from the café so he grabbed his guitar from the backseat and sat on their front steps. A couple of little girls played hopscotch on the driveway of the house next door, their high-pitched laughter carrying in the still spring air.

Finn strummed a chord and then picked out notes, pausing now and then to write down the melody in his notebook. When Dingo’s van pulled into the driveway some time later Finn stood and stretched, surprised to see by his watch that he’d whiled away nearly two hours.

Marla emerged from the van and went to the backseat to bring Tyler out. The little boy’s head flopped on her shoulder, his eyes shut and his small fingers curled into a fist. She walked carefully up the steps with him in her arms. “This is going to ruin his night’s sleep but we’ll have a quiet dinner hour.”

Dingo transferred his guitar case to his other hand and clapped Finn on the shoulder. “Beer?”

“Sure.” He followed his friend into the kitchen. “Uh, sorry about earlier at the café.”

“No, that was my bad,” Dingo said. “I was so stoked to see you that I completely forgot about Irene for a moment.” He grabbed a couple of bottles of craft brew from the fridge and handed one to Finn. “Are you okay? Marla and I were worried.”

“I’m fine.” Finn said. “It’s good to see you again. Been too long as usual.” In leaving town he’d also lost the tight friendship he’d shared with Dingo. They kept in touch and Dingo had visited him in LA a couple of times but it wasn’t the same. Dingo didn’t even know about Finn’s “problem.”

“Marla would have come after you but we could see you were with someone,” Dingo said.

Finn twisted off the cap on his beer. “Irene’s niece, Carly.”

“Ah, I thought she looked familiar.” He winked at Finn. “Hot.”

Finn shook his head. “Don’t even go there.”

Dingo got out a large pot and filled it with water. Then he pulled a package of pasta from the cupboard and a container from the fridge. “Chicken cacciatore leftovers. Hope that’s okay.”

“Better than okay. Marla’s a great cook.” Finn tossed his beer cap in the bin. “Anything I can do?”

Dingo squinted at him over the neck of the bottle. “You could fill in with the band next Saturday night at the bar.”

Finn laughed uneasily. “I meant, like set the table.”

“I’m serious,” Dingo said. “We’re short a lead singer. Rudy had to pull out because he took a job on night shift. We’ve got gigs lined up.”

Finn walked over to the sliding doors that opened onto wooden decking and the backyard with a toddler pool and sandpit. “I’ll probably have left town by then.”

Dingo dumped the penne into the pot of boiling water. He went quiet a moment, stirring with a wooden spoon. “I was actually hoping you would join the band for a while. We landed a gig as a warm-up act at the RockAround in Seattle.”

Finn turned around, eyebrows raised. “Congratulations, that’s awesome. You’re hitting the big time.”

Dingo didn’t smile. “It’s taken us a lot of years to get this far. We’re lucky to have the opportunity but we’ll blow it without a good lead.”

“Can’t Rudy hang in there?” Finn said. “This could be the start of better times.”

“They’ve got a baby on the way and his wife has preeclampsia,” Dingo explained. “She’s confined to bed and can’t work. No one is more bummed than he is.”

Finn felt like the biggest jerk on the planet but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t get anywhere near a stage without feeling anxious. A gig at the RockAround would probably bring on a full-blown panic attack. That wouldn’t do Dingo and his band any good at all.

“Sixties rock isn’t my shtick anyway,” he said. “It wouldn’t work out.”

“You love sixties music and you know it.” Dingo pointed the spoon at him. “Not only do you rock the keyboard, you’ve got a voice, man. A once-in-a-generation voice.”

Finn went to the cupboard and took down bowls. Dingo had worked hard for years with his band, playing high school reunions, weddings, any venue they could get. They were good. They deserved the opportunity to be heard on a bigger stage.

“Don’t say no before you’ve had a chance to think about it,” Dingo said. “Do me that much of a favor, please.”

No amount of thinking would make a difference. Even with the best will in the world he wasn’t capable of getting on a stage and singing in front of hundreds of people. The last time he’d tried to perform he’d frozen in front of a packed house at a bar in West Hollywood.

“The truth is,” Finn said, “I have performance anxiety.”

Dingo laughed knowingly. “Give me a break.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Not that kind.”

“You mean singing, playing? Are you kidding me?” Dingo frowned, his head tilted. “Mate, I had no idea. We’ve jammed together.”

“Yeah, but I don’t play in public,” Finn said. “Not even in a café.”

People didn’t get it. They heard him play among friends and didn’t understand that it wasn’t the same as performing in public. Even if he could rehearse with Dingo’s band he would still choke up on the big stage. He couldn’t risk messing up Dingo’s big chance.

“Wow.” Dingo scratched his beard scruff. “Have you, I don’t know, seen anyone about this?”

“Years ago.” Finn shrugged. “Didn’t do any good.”





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