Joan Kilby - Meant To Be Hers

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.”