Redeeming Rafe (21 page)

“I’ve had an idea,” Jackson said.

“And this is news? You always have an idea, and it always involves bossing us around,” Gabe said.

“Shut up, Gabriel, and listen,” Jackson said. “It’s a good idea. Now that Beau knows about the baby, we were going to have my people do a press release. But I was thinking I’d like to tell the people of Beauford first, even if it does go viral on Twitter immediately. So what if we all show up for open mic night at The Café Down On The Corner on Thursday night? We’ll call Christian, Nickolai, and Noel, too. We can get some sitters for the kids. I’ll sing a song or two, and Emory and I can share our news.”

“Is Ginger all right with this?” Emory asked, referring to Jackson’s manager, who’d been with him since the beginning of his career.

“She will be once I tell her she is,” Jackson said.

High on good news and the magic of the night, resounding approval went through the crowd.

Rafe encircled Abby from behind. “How about it? Is my classy Boston girl up for a night out?”

“Maybe,” she said, “if you’ll do something for me.”

“What’s that?” His cheek was cool against hers.

“Make me a s’more?”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” Rafe dropped a kiss near her ear. “How about you bring that long pearl necklace to bed with you later?” And he laughed and winked as he stepped toward the fire.

Like Miss Laura’s, The Café Down On The Corner served two functions: restaurant by day and a bar by night—only Billy Joe and Robin Reynolds didn’t deny anyone entrance. As long as there was a seat—or standing room, for that matter—anyone was welcome, and there was always a seat for Jackson Beauford and whoever he brought with him, especially on open mic night. Jackson didn’t go weekly, but he dropped in often enough that the place was always packed on Thursday nights with fans hoping for an impromptu mini concert. Jackson had discovered his rhythm guitarist, Chase Callahan, playing there, so there was never any shortage of musicians who showed up on the chance that Jackson might happen in and give out another golden ticket.

Abby and Rafe stood on the sidewalk along with the rest of their party, except Jackson and Emory, who Dirk had insisted stay hidden in the car for now.

Abby knew the drill. She’d been here with them before. Dirk would go in first and do recon—locate, and appropriate if necessary, a table against the wall. He would also check to be certain the exits weren’t blocked and cast about his magic Dirk-danger detector for potential trouble.

After Dirk was as satisfied as he was going to be that the place was safe, and after they were all seated, Jackson would try to sneak in without being recognized, because he didn’t want to disrupt whoever was performing.

Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t.

Dirk stepped out of the front door and motioned to them. “Table for twelve against the south wall,” Dirk said. “Leave the head for me so I can see the whole room. Leave the two seats against the wall to my left for Jackson and Emory.” And he stepped aside to let them pass.

As they moved inside, conversations swirled around them.

“Table for twelve,” Christian said, “yet there are eleven of us. I guess everybody’s coat is my date again.”

“Why do we get no special treatment?” Nickolai said. “Gabe Beauford and I are famous, yet no one is trying to protect us from mad gunmen.”

“I’ll protect you,” Dirk said. “After my wife, the people who pay my salary, and the other women. You’ll be next on the list.”

“We’re screwed, Glaz,” Gabe said. “As good as dead.”

“Don’t say that,” Noel said.

“Do not worry,
zvezda moya.”
Nickolai took Noel’s hand to lead her through the dark room. “I am a good fighter. I don’t fight often on the ice, but when I must, I leave my mark.”

The place looked different at night. Not only was it dark, but also the tables had been pushed together to accommodate large groups, and the place smelled like bar food instead of the turnip greens and fried chicken that were always on the meat-and-three lunch menu. Every table except the one they were bound for was full, and people were leaning against the wall.

The young guy on the little stage, singing “Drunk on a Plane” was so beautiful that it was certain that heads turned when he walked down the street. Not Abby’s type, even if he hadn’t been practically a child, but really pretty. Not long ago, she wouldn’t have noticed him, just as she wouldn’t have cared how her dinner tasted or how the fall leaves swirled around her feet. This was what it was like to go from being wispy and transparent to an emotional corpse to living—and loving.

“Here, you sit by Gwen.” Rafe pulled Abby’s chair out. “You don’t want to sit by Gabe. He’ll eat your food.” Rafe squeezed in between Abby and his twin.

“I will anyway, if I want to,” Gabe said. “I’ve got long arms. I can reach.”

Billy Joe and Robin appeared almost instantly with pitchers of beer and platters of nachos, hot wings, and barbecue pork sliders.

Rafe slid an arm around Abby. “Do you want some wine?”

“No. I’ll drink beer.”

He widened his eyes and grinned. “Really? I wouldn’t have figured you for a beer drinker.”

“Maybe there’s a lot you haven’t figured about me.”

“Yeah? Think I’m going to get the time to learn those things?”

“All the time you want.”

He inched his face toward her. “Careful what you promise. I might be talking about a long,
long
time.”

Hell’s bells and the devil’s harp. Those eyes, always those eyes. Abby’s stomach flipped. “I might be fine with that.”

Abby had never been kissed in public before—at least not like this. She’d never approved of public displays of affection, but maybe that was because she’d never had any. But approve or not, she didn’t pull back, even though it was going on way too long. There was something about a public kiss and letting the world know that she belonged with someone that felt good.

When they finally parted, everyone was pretending not to have noticed, but they were all amused. Abby was amazed to see that she had been so enthralled that she’d missed Jackson and Emory slipping into their seats.

“One thing’s for sure, Neyland,” Gabe said. “We aren’t the new couple on the block anymore. Nope. We’re yesterday’s news. Might as well get matching recliners, a case of Vicks VapoRub, and get out of the way.”

“Don’t knock Vicks,” Jackson said. “Aunt Amelia swore by it. It saved us many a doctor’s visit.”

“Maybe we ought to slather Rafe down with it,” Gabe said. “He’s had an odd look about him lately.”

“I’ll keep my look, thank you.” Rafe took a sip of his beer. “And my girl.”

Emory reached across the table and covered Abby’s hand. “Don’t pay any attention to them. It’s good to see you happy. And Rafe.”

The pretty boy on stage morphed into “A Promise Kind of Smile,” a song Jackson had written for Emory that had later become a big hit.

Jackson groaned. “Makes me wish I’d never recorded it.”

“Is he that bad?” Dirk asked.

“Yeah, actually,” Jackson said. “Though he’d look good in a video, so he’s got a good chance of making it.”

Billy Joe appeared and squatted down between Dirk and Jackson. “You’ll be out of your misery soon. That’s his last song. Jackson, do you want to go on next?”

Jackson looked up and down the table. “Sure. If I wait for the next performer, somebody might realize I’m here, and I don’t want to run anybody off the stage. Even him.” He looked toward the pretty boy. “Even if he is butchering my song. I’ll do about thirty minutes. That’ll give everybody time to eat—though everybody doesn’t have to leave when we do.” Abby knew from past experience that when Jackson finished, he’d leave as soon as possible. If he stayed, the crowd would clamor for him and refuse to listen to the next performer—and Jackson didn’t think that was fair.

“There’s something else,” Billy Joe said. “There
is
somebody who knows you’re here. That reporter, Carson Hamilton-Knox from
Twang Nashville Scene Magazine.
I told her to keep quiet until you were ready. She comes around pretty regular, trying to sniff out a story. Nice enough. But I’ll make her leave if you want.”

Jackson shook his head. “No. I know her. Actually, it’s okay. I have an announcement to make when I’m done singing. Everybody will tweet it anyway. We’ll let Carson have her story. She’s a decent writer.”

Just then the last strains of Jackson’s song faded away.

“You ready?” Billy Joe asked.

“Sure.” Jackson reached behind him for his guitar case.

Billy Joe climbed on the stage. “Let’s have another round of applause for Justin Collins.” The applause was enthusiastic—at least from the women. Justin flashed a million dollar smile and left the stage.

Abby leaned into Rafe. “Any minute now, that boy’s going to want to kill himself.”

Rafe nodded. “I believe it. He saw you and knows he can’t have you because I can beat the shit out of him. That would make any man want to kill himself.”

Abby laughed. Had anyone ever flirted with her like this? Yes, once. She’d gone to an all-girls prep school, but there had been a boy in her freshman poetry class at Harvard. She’d enjoyed his teasing for a few days, until he’d actually asked her out and she’d had to tell him she was engaged. She hadn’t had a ring yet, but hadn’t she been locked in with Gregory since birth? The boy had sat across the room after that. But the flirting had been nice at the time, and it was even better now.

“You’re the sweetest man alive, but I don’t think I’m on that kid’s mind. He’s about to realize he sang Jackson’s song in front of him.”

Rafe squeezed her leg under the table.

“And guess who’s in the house, tonight!” Billy Joe said. “Mr. Jackson Beauford!”

The crowd went crazy.

As Jackson brought the house down with his music and his jokes, Abby drank beer, ate greasy, messy food, and reveled in loving this moment in time with her friends around her and Rafe beside her.

Finally, Jackson put down his guitar and stepped up to the mic.

“Thank you all. You’re very kind.”

And they were screaming for him to sing again.

He put up a hand. “I appreciate it. I don’t have another song in me right now, but I do have something to tell you, and you’re going to be the first to know.”

That quieted them. “I have a lot of my family with me tonight—both blood and chosen. And I want to talk about family.” He looked at Emory and held out his hand. “Emory. Please.” He stepped to the edge of the stage and helped her up. “Say hello to my wonderful wife.”

More applause.

“In many ways, all of you here are my family—some because you watched me grow up on these streets and saw my first public performances right here. Back then I wasn’t old enough for beer so Billy Joe and Robin let me sing for Cokes. And others of you are family because of the kinship that exists between a performer and his audience. Never discount that.”

He hugged Emory closer to him. “And it’s for that reason that Emory and I wanted you to be the first to know. We’re adding to this family—ours and yours—as we prepare to welcome a baby.”

It was a bittersweet moment for Abby. She was so happy for her friends, but if things turned out with Rafe like she suspected and hoped, she would never have a moment like this with him, never give this beautiful man a child.

But that was selfish. She already had so much, and it was getting better all the time. Besides, this was Emory and Jackson’s moment, one they deserved. They’d had their share of heartache.

Tears stung Abby’s eyes as she rose with the rest of the room and joined in the applause and cheers. Emory and Jackson waved and beamed like royalty as tiny strobes from cell phone cameras chased around the room.

She turned to smile at Rafe, and he drew her to him and said, “I’m glad I found you.”

And he
had
found her, because she’d been so lost.

The next morning, after everyone had had breakfast and Rafe had gone out to ride Arion, Abby sat on the nursery floor putting puzzles together with the children.

Gwen stuck her head over the Dutch door. “Abby, you’ve got company. I put them in the rose parlor.”

“Company?” How could that be? Almost everyone she knew lived here. Any others would have just come upstairs to find her.

Gwen nodded and looked perplexed. “It’s your parents and in-laws.” She opened the door and came inside. “I’ll watch the girls. They want you to bring Phillip.”

“What?” For the first time, Abby understood why people asked that question when they had heard clearly what had been said. It was to buy recovery time. But there wasn’t enough time in the world to recover from this.

“The rose parlor.” Gwen dropped into the floor with the twins and took the puzzle piece Abby was holding. “Parents. Lots of them.”

“No! Snow Pony!” Phillip yelled as Abby hauled him down the stairs by the hand. Rafe had promised the kids that when he got back from his ride, he’d take them to ride the pony. So when Abby and Phillip left the nursery, Phillip thought that’s where he was going. But once he realized they were headed down the front stairs instead of the back ones that led directly to the back door, Phillip proceeded to throw an almost unheard of tantrum. “Ride Snow Pony!” He stamped his little foot.

“Not yet,” Abby said. She didn’t need this—any of it.

Phillip stiffened at her side, refusing to take another step. “Snow Pony! Daddy!”

Hell’s bells and the devil’s whole damn orchestra.

She snatched Phillip into her arms and brought his face level with hers.

“Phillip. I want you to listen to me. We are going to see your grandparents. Grandma and Grandpa. Grand Meg and Grand Nate.” He stopped screaming long enough to look puzzled. He hadn’t seen them since Christmas. They had all bought iPads and sent her one so they could Facetime, but Phillip would seldom sit still long enough to do it. “Grandma and Grandpa. Grand Meg and Grand Nate,” she repeated. “From the pictures I show you. They want to see you. They love you very much. But you have to listen to me. Do not say
Daddy.
You must not say that. Do you understand?”