Playing for Love at Deep Haven (26 page)

“And why would I
do that?”

“Because I won’t
go unless you agree. I wrote ‘Driving Rain’ and most of the other songs on this
goddamned tour and no one else knows the licks like I do. You know it, and I
know it, and it’s the only reason you screwed me into going on the road. You
already showed your hand with that move: the Mechanics are a rising commodity,
and you can’t afford to have an amateur on this tour.”

“You’re a smug
little bastard, Z, even if you’re right. It’s a good thing you’re so talented.
Fine. Forty thousand, and you’ll be writing a popcorn hit for Mindy May for the
last five. A chart topper. By New Year’s.”

“Fuck,” he
whispered under his breath. The only thing he hated worse than writing a
contracted song was writing one for the teenybopper crowd.

“Fine,” he
groaned.

“Check okay?”

“No,” said Zach,
steel in his voice, all his chips on the table. “Who do you know at Masterson?”

“The publishing house?”

“Yeah.”

“Couple editors,
I guess. None of them that well. You know, executive dining room, golf outings,
Christmas party. Don’t have a lot of crossover, but I came up with a couple of
them.”

“Pick the one
you know the best.”

“Uh, Herman
Healey. I guess.”

“When we hang
up, you’re going to call Herman Healey and get a contract for my friend Violet
Smith. And he’s going to call her in the next hour on her cell phone and tell
her the good news that her book of poetry was picked up by Masterson and they’d
like to offer her a contract and a forty thousand dollar advance—I want you to
give
my
forty to Masterson. You got
that? Do that and I’ll go out on the road. And you can have the songs. We’ll be
even.”

“If it gets you
out on the road? Fine by me. I’ll make the call and arrange for an interoffice
check.” He could tell Johnny was writing everything down. “You know that’s an
absurd advance for a new author, Zach, right? Let alone for
poetry
. Who the fuck is Violet Smith?”

“Someone I knew
a long time ago. At Yale.”

“Ah. I see. No
business like unfinished business.”

“Except business
with you, you manipulative dick.”

“You need to be
here tomorrow morning, Zach. I’m trusting you.”

“I’ve never
given you a reason not to,” he answered. His heart hurt with what he was going
to have to do to Violet. “And one other thing, and this is a deal breaker,
Johnny. My name is never mentioned. Never. You understand me? She never finds
out I set this up. All she knows is that they loved her work and offered her a
contract. That’s it.”

“Sure, Zach.
Never figured you for the cloak-and-dagger romantic type, though. Still waters,
huh?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Practice studio
at ten o’clock.”

“Fuck you, John,
I said I’ll be there.”

He put the phone
back in the cradle. As soon as he’d asked for the deal, he knew what he was
going to have to do. Poetry-writing Violet had finally returned, with her
loose, crazy hair and heartbreaking creativity. He recalled the first few days
of their reunion and how critical she’d been of her poetry. If he told her he’d
bought her a book contract, not only would she lose faith in her talent again,
but she’d hate him for being an ass-kissing liar, and her self-confidence would
take a hit. It might jeopardize her writing. He couldn’t take something
important away from her for the second time in her life. No. He wouldn’t do
that.

He considered
Violet and her inability to tell him that she loved him. The way she’d deferred
conversations about living together and a future more solid than visiting him
in New York on Monday. Maybe she needed some space to figure things out a
little bit. Maybe she needed to decide if she was in this or not because he was
planning forever with her and she couldn’t even say “I love you.”

He headed to his
room to start packing. He fucking hated to leave her, but as much as it hurt
him to admit it, it might be for the best. It would give him a plausible reason
for taking the gig and give her the space to figure out what she wanted. And Zach
just hoped like hell that it was him.

***

Violet took a
deep breath before getting out of the car in the grand, circular driveway. The
Smalley compound consisted of the great house—a massive Nantucket-style cottage
with six bedrooms, a living room, dining room, great room, gourmet kitchen,
media room, and theater, and overhanging roofs that wrapped around the entire
dwelling and made for porches at every exposure—plus two small guest cottages,
in the same gray shingle, that sat on the right side of the property. From
there, an expanse of green lawn sprinkled with a few leftover hurricane leaves
sloped down to the seawall. A pert boathouse matched the design of the house
and cottages, and a dock with ample seating looked inviting despite the October
chill.

Violet had spent
many happy summer days here with
Shep
. Mostly happy.
Weren’t they?
Shep’s
easy blue eyes trained on hers
when he rolled them behind his mother’s back, making her grin. There was always
time for a boat ride or a dip, pickup games of touch football with other Yale
friends, and barbecues that lasted long into the night. She could almost hear
the phantom clink of glasses, filled with Mr. Smalley’s famous gin and tonics, and
smell the fire pit that would keep them warm on summer nights as they swapped
stories and listened to reggae on the outdoor sound system. Yes, she conceded,
despite her feelings for Zach, whom she had loved deep in her heart all along,
there had been room for this too.

She looked at
herself in the rearview mirror and realized, for the first time, how much her
appearance had changed over the last twelve days. Her chestnut hair waved free
and unbound over her shoulders, and she didn’t wear a stitch of makeup. The
hammered-copper hoop earrings Zach had bought her in Bar Harbor as a gift last
week looked edgy and artsy in her ears. She couldn’t deny they suited her. She
looked down at her jeans and Yale sweatshirt, her simple driving
mocs
. Gone was the self-conscious suburban wife. In her
place sat Violet Smith, recovered, remembered, and rejuvenated.

She rang the
doorbell, and a young Hispanic woman in a traditional black-and-white maid’s
uniform answered the door, her face widening into a surprised and delighted
smile.

“Miss Violet!”

“
Hola
, Alejandra,” said Violet, impulsively reaching out to
clasp the pretty, dark-haired girl to her. “
Qué
tal
?”

“All is good,
Miss Violet.” She leaned back, releasing Violet, and her expression grew sad.
“I was so sorry. About Mr.
Shep
.”

Violet winced,
then nodded. “Me too.”

“Alexandra?
Who’s at the door? Alexandra?”

Mrs. Smalley
appeared at the landing that split the staircase into twin steps. She had her
head bent to the side, fastening an earring, and she was dressed in an elegant
skirt suit in a soft, pink tweed. As she looked up to see Violet, her face
registered annoyance before carefully shuttering to blank cordiality.

“Why, Violet. An
unannounced visit. What a surprise.”

And not a good
one.

“You’ll forgive
me, dear, but I’m meeting Priscilla Prescott for lunch at the club. I only have
a moment to spare.”

Violet glanced
at Alejandra, who gave her a brief, sad smile before closing the front door and
heading in the direction of the kitchen.

“I won’t take
much of your time,” said Violet gently but firmly. “I came to give you
something.”

“I can’t imagine
what.”

Mariah Smalley
descended the stairs like a queen, her cream heels barely daring to make a
sound against the highly polished hardwood steps. When she got to the last
step, she gestured with one beautifully manicured hand to the left, indicating
that Violet should precede her into the study. Interesting choice. It was, by
far, the most austere and least welcoming room of the house, furnished in dark
woods with no view of the harbor.

Mrs. Smalley
waved away Alejandra, who returned with a tray holding a pitcher of iced tea
and two glasses.

“Violet isn’t
staying, Alexandra.”

The maid gave
Violet a pitiful look before turning back to the kitchen, her retreating
footsteps the only sound in the massive house. Mrs. Smalley sat behind her
husband’s desk and Violet sat gingerly in one of the guest chairs across from
her. She cracked her knuckles nervously, then reminded herself that Mariah Smalley
was just another human being. A grieving one, at that.

“Well, dear? I
only have a moment. Really.”

“I loved your
son.”

“That’s up for
debate.”

This surprised
Violet, and her emotions must have skittered across her face.

“You don’t think
I knew? That there was someone before
Shep
? Someone
you hadn’t let go of all the time you were together?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Mrs. Smalley
tented her hands on the desk before her, cocking her head to the side. “I’m
probably a terrible snob, but it might surprise you to know that your modest
beginnings were never my biggest complaint. It was the insult to him—that he
could choose you, and you . . . Well, was he
ever
first in your heart?”

It hurt Violet
to hear the veiled hope in the older woman’s voice. She wished she could answer
differently, but she needed to be honest. “No.”

“At least you’re
not a liar.”

“But I did love
Shep
. In my own way.”

“Not that you
ever told him that.”

Violet
swallowed. She didn’t know
Shep
had confided in his
mother.

“Whatever else
we fault you for . . . Well, as I said, you’re not a liar.” She shook her head
back and forth slowly, her eyes softening in remembrance of her golden boy.
“And I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but you made him happy.”

A lump settled in
Violet’s throat.

“Something about
you
resonated
for him. I suppose it
was, maybe, how totally different you are from me. He liked that. Your writing
and . . .” She gestured to Violet’s hair, looking thoughtfully at the younger
woman before looking away. “You look completely different now. You look alive.
You look like you’re in love. You never looked like this for
Shep
. It’s the tattooed singer, isn’t it? He’s the one? The
one you met before
Shep
at Yale. The one who was
first.”

Violet nodded,
looking down, not trusting her voice.

“Yes. I could
see it in your eyes.” She smiled sadly. “You have pretty eyes, Violet.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t
hate
you, dear. My boy loved a girl who
didn’t love him back. And then I lost him. You can see, of course, how it is.”

“I see.”

Mrs. Smalley
flicked her wrist to look at the time, then flattened her hands on the desk to
stand. “I really do have to go.”

Violet reached
into her jeans pocket for the little velvet sack and placed it gently on the
desk before
Shep’s
mother. She watched as Mrs.
Smalley opened the soft pouch and gasped when the ring slipped out onto the
burgundy leather blotter.

“Did he ask you—?”
Her eyes darted up to find Violet’s.

Violet shook her
head. “No. He had it with him. That day. The police gave it to me. But I think
. . . I think it belongs to you.”

A tear rolled
down Mrs. Smalley’s face, and she reached up to swipe it away. “It was his
grandmother’s. My mother’s. He asked for it years ago. I just supposed he’d
lost it or misplaced it when it didn’t turn up.”

Tears streamed
down Violet’s face. “I should have given it to you sooner.”

Mrs. Smalley
took a tissue from the leather holder on the desk and dabbed at her nose and
eyes delicately before slipping the ring back into the pouch. “Thank you,
Violet.”

“I’m sorry,”
said Violet, feeling the agony of lost chances, of not finding Zach sooner, of
not freeing
Shep
to find someone who would have loved
him as completely as he deserved to be loved.

Mrs. Smalley’s
face looked softer, maybe even relieved, as though their brief conversation had
given her some long-awaited closure. She shrugged, and it looked strange,
uncharacteristically casual on her proper frame. “He loved you. You made him
happy.”

“Thank you for
telling me that.”

The older woman
nodded, then took the ring and closed her fingers over it. Violet stood and
pushed the guest chair back under the lip of the desk neatly.

“And Mr.
Aubrey?” asked Mrs. Smalley, her features gentle as she gazed at the younger
woman who had been everything to her son.
“He’s—?”

“Yes.”