Return to Me (2 page)

so self-righteous and sweet and perfect? The good Christian girl, always Daddy’s little helper.” She spat out a curse.

“Roxy!” Her father took a quick step forward. “That’s enough.

You won’t speak like that in this house.”

“You’re right. I won’t. Because I don’t intend to be in this house again. Not for a long, long time.” Her voice rose. “Not until I’m famous, and you both have to admit you were wrong. The next time you hear from me, my name will be on a CD. You’ll see.” She glared at her father, daring him to contradict her. When he didn’t say anything, she turned toward her sister.

Elena’s gaze was cool, her voice controlled. “You’re a spoiled, selfish brat, Roxy Burke, and I predict you’re going to get exactly what you deserve. You reap what you sow.”

I hate you!
The words were there, ready to fly. Burning her

mouth even as rage burned her chest. But words weren’t enough to express the depth of her hatred, to let her oh-so-perfect sister know how she felt about her. Besides, Elena never disappointed their father. Elena never did anything wrong. Elena was the perfect one, and Roxy was the foul-up. Well, this time was different.

Muttering one more curse, she marched out of the living room, brushing her sister’s shoulder intentionally as she passed. Seconds later, she slammed out the front door.

“I’ll show them.”

=

The Boise airport buzzed with early morning activity. Business men and women in their suits and shiny shoes, carrying briefcases full of important papers. Families with small children and too much

luggage, headed off on vacation. All of them would return to Boise in a day or a week.

But not Roxy. She wasn’t coming back. Not until she was famous.

“I appreciate you bringing me to the airport, Myra,” she said when they arrived at the first-class check-in line.

Myra Adams, her best friend since high school, set Roxy’s gui- tar case on the floor, then brushed her wiry brown hair back from her forehead as she straightened. “Hey, I’m glad for the chance for us to talk. I haven’t seen much of you since I got back from California, and who knows when we’ll see each other again? I’m off to Brazil in two more weeks, and you’re going to be a Nashville singing sensation.”

“Elena and Dad don’t think that’ll happen.”

“I’ll bet they do. They just don’t want you to leave. They’ll miss you.”

“You’re confusing
my
family with
your
family.”

Myra’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you being a little hard on them?”

Roxy didn’t reply.

“Okay.” Her friend chuckled softly. “Change of subject. Tell me what your plans are once you get to Nashville.”

Before Roxy could answer, the agent behind the counter motioned her forward. She handed him her ticketing information and ID while Myra set the two large suitcases onto the scale.

“One-way to Nashville, Miss Burke?”

“Yes.” Her stomach fluttered. It was happening. She was on her way. At last.

The agent looked at her driver’s license, her face, then the lug- gage. “Two bags to check?”

“Yes.”

About six and a half hours from now, she would step off the airplane and into the heartbeat of country music. Nashville, the city that had launched countless careers. As it would launch hers. She knew it. She could taste it.

“Here you go.” The agent held out her boarding passes and ID. “Your bags are checked through to Nashville, Miss Burke. Have a good trip.”

“Thanks. I will.” She turned toward Myra with a grin. “I’m going to have a
great
trip.”

Myra picked up the guitar case while Roxy grabbed the handle of her roll-aboard, then they headed toward the escalator.

Roxy checked her watch as they rode to the upper level. “I’ve got about forty minutes before I have to be at the gate.” She pointed to a row of hard plastic seats. “Let’s wait over there until I need to go through security.”

As soon as they sat, Myra picked up the conversation where they left off. “What will you do first when you get there?”

“Buy a car. A red convertible, I think.” Red was flashy. Her sister hated anything flashy. Roxy grinned. Maybe she would send Elena a picture of that flashy new car when she got it. “Then I’ll find an apartment. A place where I can entertain other people in the business, the kind of people who can help me get where I want to go. Like potential talent agents. That’s the other thing I’ve got to do right away. Find representation.”

“Isn’t that hard to do?”

“I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.” She tilted her head to one side. “Did I ever tell you my mom had some hotshot agent offer to represent her?”

“No. When was that?”

“The first year she and Dad were married. Travis Thompson’s agent heard her sing at some sort of benefit in Boise, and he told her if she wanted to go to Nashville, he’d make her a star.”

“Who’s Travis Thompson?”

“You haven’t
heard
of Travis Thompson?” “No. Who is he?”

Nobody in Nashville would have to ask Roxy that sort of ques- tion. One more reason she needed to get away from here. Nobody in Boise understood her or the music she loved so much. Her dad didn’t. Elena didn’t. Her best friend didn’t. Her boyfriend didn’t.

“He’s a singer with more gold and platinum albums than you can count. Entertainer of the Year several years running. He’s a country-music legend. He must be in his sixties by now and doesn’t perform as much as he used to, but he was huge in his day. Every- body in Nashville thinks the world of him.”

“Sorry.” Her friend gave her shoulders a small shrug.

Roxy opened her mouth to say more, then stopped. It was a waste of time. She’d never turn Myra into a country-music fan, any more than her friend could turn Roxy into a nature gal willing to traipse around the jungles of South America, studying bugs or whatever it was Myra planned to do there.

“Will you make sure to send me your address as soon as you’ve got your apartment in Nashville? I’ll write to you.”

“Sure. But where will you be?”

“You can call my parents. They’ll know how to get in touch with me.”

Roxy’s throat tightened. “I’m going to miss you, Myra.” She thought of her dad. She would miss him too. She might even miss Elena, although wild horses couldn’t drag that admission out of her. Not after yesterday. “Promise you’ll take care of yourself down in the jungle.”

“I will. And you promise the same. My jungle may be safer than yours.”

Roxy laughed. “I doubt that.”

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One

April 2007

There exists a strange moment between sleep and wakefulness when dreams cease and realism remains at bay. That was when Roxy’s heart spoke to her.

It’s time to go home.

Roxanne Burke had given Nashville seven years to discover her. She’d offered her voice, her face, her fortune — and eventually, her body — but despite her desperate grasps at the brass ring, country music and stardom didn’t want her.

Roxy was worse than a has-been. She was a never-was.

I’ve gotta go home.

Fully awake now, she covered her face with her hands as a groan rumbled in her chest. Did she have a home to return to? When she left Idaho, she’d burned her bridges with a blowtorch. She’d said hateful things to her father and Elena. She’d been young and foolish and full of herself. So certain she could take on the world. So certain she was meant for greatness. So certain . . .

Roxy opened her eyes and looked around the studio apartment. The clock said it was almost 6:00
P
.
M
. — depression and hunger had kept her in bed all day. Anemic light filtered through the mini- blinds, making the dismal room look worse than it was. Or maybe the lighting showed the place in stark reality. It was a dump, but it was the best she could afford.

Can almost afford.

She was unemployed
⎯
again
⎯
and five days late with the rent. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, when she pocketed a stale donut

from the break room at Matthews and Jeffries Talent Agency. Pete Jeffries hadn’t represented her in three years — she burned that bridge too — but she’d gone crawling to him, hoping for a gig of some kind. Something. Anything. In the end, she hadn’t asked. When she saw the pity in his eyes, she couldn’t stay. She’d seen herself as he saw her. Dark circles under her eyes. Waif thin. Limp, lifeless hair. Thrift-store clothes in need of an iron.

Pathetic.

Bile rose in her throat, and Roxy bolted from the bed, rushing to the bathroom. She heaved over the toilet, but there was nothing in her stomach to lose. Tears burned her eyes.

Go home.

Home . . .

Roxy’s shaky legs wouldn’t hold her upright any longer, and she crumpled onto the linoleum. Curling into a fetal position on the cool floor, she remembered the words she hurled at her father and sister the day she left Boise.

“Next time you hear from me, my name will be on a CD. You’ ll

see.”

Pride was a wretched thing. It had kept her from responding to

the messages people left on her answering machine. Her old boy- friend from back home stopped calling before the first year was out, but not her father and Elena. They persisted. Of course, that thin lifeline was severed when she no longer could afford a telephone.

Was her dad healthy? Was her sister married, maybe even a mom by now? Roxy didn’t know. No CD, no contact with her family. Like she’d promised.

Seven years. Seven years of silence. Would they even want to hear from her? Would they want to see her again?

Go home. Find out.

How can I go back? Look at me.

A year or so ago, Roxy had read a novel about ancient Rome. In it, Caesar invited a woman who displeased him to “open a vein,” meaning she could commit suicide rather than face a more agoniz- ing death. The woman climbed into a tub of hot water and cut her wrists with a sharp knife. The heat caused her to bleed faster, and death came without pain.

She looked down at her wrists. Was that true? Was it painless to end one’s life that way?

Maybe I should just get it over with. If I was dead, Dad and

Elena wouldn’t have to be ashamed of me. They wouldn’t ever know the whole truth.

She had no future in Nashville. She no longer had promise or beauty. She was a washed-out, used-up, discarded nobody.

I’ d be better off dead.

Yet even in her miserable state, Roxy didn’t want to die. Which was why she would go home, tail tucked between her legs, a capi- tal
L
for
Loser
stamped upon her forehead. She’d beg her father’s forgiveness and eat whatever crow was required. Better to eat crow than go hungry in this stinking hole.

She drew a deep breath, then pushed onto her hands and knees. Her head dropped forward between her arms. She gulped several times, begging the room to stop spinning. After it steadied, she sat on her heels and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Just the top half of her head, but that was more than enough. She groaned again.

Where would she get the money for bus fare? She’d lost her last waitressing job, and no one would hire her looking like this. The fair-weather friends she’d partied with when flush with her grandmother’s inheritance had long since disappeared. So had the handsome young men who used to ask her out.

Pete Jeffries was her last hope. Pete, with the pity in his eyes. She would have to go back to see him. She would have to beg his help before she could beg her father’s forgiveness.

Maybe Caesar’s open-vein solution was the better option.

=

This was the night. Elena Burke felt it in her bones. This was the night Wyatt Baldini would propose.

She stared at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. A dia- mond-and-gold choker. Teardrop earrings. A simple but stylish black dress that ended an inch above her knees. Red toenails and killer heels, complete with slinky straps around her ankles.

When a woman gets engaged, she should look like a million. Elena was no great beauty, but she came close to elegance tonight.

Someone rapped on her outer office door, then she heard it open. “Just a minute.”

“It’s me, Elena. May I come in?”

She stepped out of the bathroom that adjoined her office. “Of course, Dad.”

Jonathan Burke let out a low whistle when he saw her. “Well, look at you.”

“Wyatt and I are going to dinner. He’s supposed to pick me up in about fifteen minutes.” She closed the distance between them, leaning forward to kiss her father on the cheek. “What about you? What are you doing tonight?”

“A quiet evening at home.”

She shook her head but didn’t say anything. It was a waste of breath. They’d had that discussion a hundred times. There was no reason for Elena’s father, a widower, to spend his evenings alone. Still handsome, his hair now steel gray instead of the dark brown of his youth, he would be a catch in any woman’s book. He had

both intelligence and an enthusiasm for life that many men half his age didn’t enjoy.

Her father cocked an eyebrow. “Does Wyatt realize how lucky he is to have someone special like you to love him?”

She felt herself flush.

He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “It’s good to see you happy.”

Elena was like her dad in many ways. Right down to her passion for Burke Department Stores. She supposed it was in her blood.

Her great-grandfather, Dillon Burke, had opened a small cloth- ing store on Tenth Street back in the thirties, before the start of World War II. With hard work and smart decisions, Dillon and his son Arlen built that shop into an upscale department-store chain. Then her father multiplied the successes of his grandfather and father. Now there were Burke Department Stores in twenty-five states, and Elena was a vice president in the family firm, her father’s right-hand gal.

“Wyatt’s a fine man.” Her dad’s words pulled her thoughts to the present. “I’ll be glad to call him my son-in-law.”

He had spoken similar words many years ago. But not to Elena.

A shudder moved up her spine as she envisioned Wyatt . . . and Roxy.