Joan Kilby - Meant To Be Hers

“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?”