Joan Kilby - Meant To Be Hers

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

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.”