Playing for Love at Deep Haven (25 page)

She sat in the
control room, headphones on, watching him through the glass, feeling her body
grow impatient for him to finish so they could use the studio for something
other than recording music. She had a sudden idea and grinned, moving her hands
to the button of her jeans. She unbuttoned and unzipped, slipping them off and
kicking them under the soundboard. The cool leather of the chair on her bare
thighs made her shiver as her body started heating up.

He finished the
second take of “Forged in Fire” and asked her, “How did that sound?”

She took off the
headphones and threw her sweater over her head before touching the button to
speak. “Amazing.” She wiggled a little on the seat, her half-naked body utterly
turned on and so sensitive, she knew her insides would flood hot the minute he
kissed her.
Now come in here and have sex
with me.

He wasn’t
leaving the stool and seemed to be mouthing something. She put the headphones
back on. “Huh?”

“You ready for
one more?”

“One more?”
I’m sitting here in my bra and underwear. No
more songs. Sex. Sex now!

“Yeah. One I
wrote. Um . . . a while ago.”

She stood up and
looked at him through the window. She knew that he couldn’t see her clearly—the
lights were dim in the control room. But it was almost like he
could
see her. His eyes were focused on
the glass, his hands rested on the guitar strings lightly, waiting for her
response.

“Vile?”

She pressed the
button. “How long ago?”

“’Bout nine
years.”

“Oh.” Her heart
hammered in her chest and she sat back down on the leather chair, leaning down
to pick up her sweater and drape it over her lap. “Y-yeah. I’m ready for one
more.”

“Okay. This is
for you, Violet.”

She bit her
bottom lip, cracking her knuckles nervously, then leaned her elbows on the
counter and turned up the sound a hair as Zach started a gentle, folksy guitar
riff. She watched his fingers as a beautiful melody emerged, beautiful and hopeful,
nine years in the making, completely and utterly inevitable.

Chapter
18

It had been
years and years since Zach had played the song, but his fingers moved easily,
remembering the deceptively easy-sounding chords that had taken him so long to
perfect. He started writing “Say the Words” as therapy about a week after their
ill-fated night and finished it four weeks later, painstakingly choosing the
most beautiful chords and working out a special bridge. It was a pure folk
song, a man and his guitar, because that was her favorite.

Been a week

(You said I love you)

Just a week

(And so I left you)

I couldn’t say the words

Even though my heart could scream them.

Even though I knew I’d mean them.

Been a week

(And I’ve been dying)

Just a week

(And I’ve been crying)I couldn’t say the words

Even though my heart could scream them.

Even though I knew I’d mean them.

He was relieved
and frustrated at the same time that he couldn’t see her face. This song was so
far out of his comfort zone, it made his stomach turn over, but she deserved to
hear it. It was the song he’d wanted to share with her the day he approached
her. He had hoped it would prove to her that he did love her. That he had been
longing for her. That he was ready to be with her. But he was too late, or so
he’d believed at the time.

His eyes burned
as he approached the bridge, the most gut-wrenching part of the song. He didn’t
want his voice to waver, so he took a deep breath before continuing.

And your face haunts my waking

And your eyes taunt my aching

Heart that bleeds to death inside me

’Cause your body’s not beside me

He recalled the
dark nights lying alone in his bed, hoping she’d stop by to say hello, to tell
him she missed him and they could still be friends. Just to let him be around
her as he sorted out his complex and frightening feelings. But she’d been
unexpectedly strong, staying away from him completely, lying low. She knew his
schedule and had made sure she never showed up somewhere he might be. In fact,
he’d barely seen her during those few weeks, and with every passing day without
her, he realized what he’d lost. He realized what he’d pushed away.

Been seven days

(You need to know)

For seven days

(You’ve owned my soul)

I couldn’t say the words

to her

even though my heart could scream them

But now I’ll say the words

to her

and now she’ll know I mean them.

He finished the
last few chords quietly, then his hands stilled the strings. He looked up at
the sound booth, searching for a sign of her in the darkness.

“Violet?” he
called, but she didn’t answer.

He stepped off
the stool and put his guitar gently against it, thinking how alone it looked in
the spotlight, thinking how it was nothing without him, and he was nothing
without her.

Did she like it?
Hate it? Hate him? She couldn’t seem to make herself tell him that she loved
him even though he could see it in her eyes. Not saying it meant a piece of her
was holding out, holding back, and selfishly he wanted all of her. He needed
all of her, even though he understood her fears better than anyone.

He grimaced and swallowed,
worried about her silence. He left the studio and pushed open the door to the
sound booth.

The back of the
leather chair faced him as he entered the warm, dim room.

“Vi?” he said,
not knowing what to expect.

The chair turned
slowly until it revealed the half-naked girl of his dreams, his one and only
muse, the love of his life, the other half of his soul. Her face was wet, but
her smile was blinding, and suddenly he found himself on his knees before her.

She reached out
to cup his face without a word, holding his eyes before leaning down to kiss
him as he pulled her off the chair and into his arms.

***

Monday morning
found Violet bright eyed and bushy tailed. Three songs completed and she still
hadn’t told Zach she loved him, but the fourth song, which she was sharing with
him tonight, was going to tell him everything. Everything. Her insides tingled
in anticipation. Ready or not, she was determined to plow through her fears and
tell him how she felt.

She supposed it
was a combination of Sophie’s advice and his song to her on Saturday night—the
way he understood how hard it was for her to say the very words he’d had
trouble returning so many years ago.

Over the past
week and a half, they’d decided to lean in to fate and give things between them
a real-life chance. Zach would head back to New York on Friday, and Violet
would join him there next Monday, after visiting her mother and staying Sunday
night in Greenwich. They’d figure out the rest along the way, but it felt like
the rest of her life was finally starting. She only wished she could honor
Shep’s
memory somehow—to say good-bye to him and his
goodness once and for all—but maybe she could love Zach and grieve
Shep
at the same time. Who was to say the two were mutually
exclusive?

She stepped out
of the shower, toweled off, and reached for her toilet bag, but it slipped off
the countertop and the contents spilled out. She bent down to pick them up,
something shiny catching her eye in the corner.

Oh. Oh God.

She’d put
Shep’s
engagement ring in a small velvet bag after the
accident, and she must have put it into her toilet bag for safekeeping. And now
here it was.

She put
everything else back in the bag, then reached for the ring, sliding down the
vanity to sit on the cold tile floor, taking a deep breath as she held it up in
front of her eyes. It had been a Smalley family heirloom, a massive round
diamond surrounded by emerald-cut baguettes in an ornate platinum setting. He’d
had it cleaned right before his death, probably in preparation to give it to
her.

She thought back
to that morning in their apartment.
Say,
Vi, I was thinking we should make things official. You and me.
I was thinking we should . . .
He’d
stopped talking because of the dread on her face. And at the root of her dread
was Zach Aubrey, whom she’d never stopped loving. And now she was with Zach,
and
Shep
was gone.

Suddenly she
thought of Mariah Smalley’s angry eyes at the tavern last Monday night, and she
realized there was a way for her to honor
Shep
one
last time. There was a way to say good-bye.

She stood up
abruptly, placing the ring gently on the vanity counter. She needed to get
dressed. She needed to drive to Bar Harbor.

***

Violet had
seemed in a rush to leave, but she’d been cagey about where she was headed.
Before she left, she held his face with sparkling eyes and told him to be ready
for a celebratory dinner later. She had their last song . . . and something to
say.

His heart had
leaped at the promise in her eyes, and he’d kissed her longingly before she
left. Everything in his life felt like it was coming together. After these four
songs, he was out of the songwriting rat race. And although he hadn’t broached
the subject of living together again, he was encouraged when she said she’d
join him in New York next Monday. More and more he liked the idea of them
living together in New Haven and he even started wondering about teaching
adjunct classes at Yale. He’d been well-known in the music department for the
short time he was there, and surely they could use a Juilliard graduate. The
idea of spending time back at Yale, soothing the wounds incurred there,
appealed to him. But more than anything, he’d have the most important thing—Violet—back
in his life. And he intended to keep her there. For good. They could take their
time finding a little place in New Haven and establishing a rhythm to their
life together. Mostly, he’d never take her for granted. He’d never be selfish
again. His life would be about her—what she wanted, what she needed, loving
her. Because life without her simply wouldn’t be worth living.

He bummed around
the house for a while, testing out some of Johnny’s magnificent guitars in the
studio and stalling the inevitable call to Malcolm to see what he thought of
the three finished songs. He checked his watch after an hour and decided to
bite the bullet.

Malcolm’s phone
rang straight to voice mail, which surprised Zach, then quickly filled him with
dread. He knew Malcolm. Zach had been on tour with him four or five times and was
his favorite songwriter. Malcolm never turned his phone off unless he was
recording. Zach called the Cornerstone offices and was quickly transferred to
the studios.

“Cornerstone
Studios.”

“Tracy? It’s
Zachariah Aubrey.”

“
Heeeey
, Z. How’s it hanging?”

“To the left.
Malc
around?”

“Yeah, he’s on a
bender and being an asshole. Been in the studio for, like, twenty hours now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Ace
wrote some pretty good shit, Z. Surprised everyone.”

Zach leaned
against the kitchen counter, his heart thudding mercilessly in his chest.

“Z, you there?
Want me to interrupt the session?”

Fuck, yes. Interrupt the fucking session and let
Malcolm tell me that the deal’s off. And if he does, he will never, ever get
one of my songs again. Never.

“Yeah, Tracy.
Thanks.”

“No problem. You
have a great day.”

The phone buzzed
twice before it was picked up.

“Studio 6, this
is Mike.”

“Mike, it’s Z.”

“Hey, Z! Where
the fuck you been, man?”

“Maine. Put
Malcolm on.”

“Aw, shit. You
just missed him. He and the band left with Ace.”

“Where’s
Johnny?”

“Oh, he’s, uh .
. . He’s . . .”

“I know you’re
gesturing to him, Mike. Put him on the phone. Now.”

A moment later,
John’s voice fill the line. “
Zeeeee
!”

“Dickhead.”

“Back up, Z. You
can’t talk to me like that.”

“The fuck I
can’t.”

“I told you to
get it in writing, didn’t I?”

“I reconfirmed
with him three days ago. He said he’d buy the songs.”

“And I told you
he was a slippery bastard. It only took a little convincing to get him to go
with Ace’s shit instead.”

Zach couldn’t
believe how blind he’d been. He fisted his empty hand, growling, “How badly did
you need a guitarist for the Mechanics, Johnny? Are you really that much of a
scumbag? You pushed Ace’s songs on
Malc
so I’d go on
tour?”

Johnny laughed.
“What can I say? You’re the best,
Zachy
. I figure I
send you on tour, you come back, and we talk about a few more songs.”

Zach’s face
flushed hot, and his breath caught. “I’m not taking jobs with Cornerstone
anymore.”

“Didn’t you say
something about needing money?”

Zach covered the
mouthpiece of the phone and yelled, “
Fuuuuuck
!” at
the top of his lungs.

“Feel better now?
Let’s talk business.”

“Do the right
thing, Johnny. Buy the songs just like
Malc
would’ve.”

“No can do. I’ll
buy ’
em
at the regular price.”

What would you do if you could do anything?

Write poetry.

Violet’s face
flitted through his mind. He needed her to have enough to pay back her advance
and buy out her contract. He needed her to be safe and taken care of. He needed
all forty for her.

 
“I need more money than that.”

“Great. Get your
ass back here by tomorrow. You leave for Zagreb on Friday. Thirty-six cities.
Forty-two shows. I’ll pay you thirty-five for the songs and the tour. Win-win.”

For you, you sleazebag fucker
. Zach winced,
but he had no other choice. He’d have to go on tour.

“On one
condition.”

“I can’t pay you
more per song, Zach.”

“I don’t want
more. I just want it all. Every penny. Up front. Plus five that I’ll owe you.”
He rubbed his thumb trying to figure out what he was going to say to Violet. “Forty
thousand for the songs and the tour.”