Meant To Be Hers. Joan Kilby

at the reminder that Irene’s was.

      Cursing her lack of tact, she touched his arm. “Sorry.” She couldn’t begin to understand what had been going through his head at that concert or why he’d blown off a chance for a place at Juilliard. Such a waste of talent.

      Finn poured himself another shot. Seeing his long, tapering fingers on the bottle—a pianist’s hands—brought back the memory of their first, and only, kiss. The stuffy heat in the third-floor turret of this house, his hands anchoring her hips, the slide of his tongue against hers. Remembering, a pooling warmth settled in her belly that had nothing to do with the scotch.

      He raised the bottle. “Hit you again?”

      She pushed her glass closer. He held her wrist to keep the glass steady and sloshed in another two fingers’ worth. Then he clinked glasses. “Here’s to you, Carly Maxwell. Long time, no see.”

      This time when she looked into his eyes, a rush of boozy affection washed over her. With his black hair brushed back from a high tanned forehead and his rakish grin, he looked like a pirate in a designer suit. “To the good old days.”

      He smiled and gave her a wink that made her heart skip. “What might have been may still be yet.”

      Peter, Irene’s attorney, entered the kitchen looking for someplace to put his empty coffee cup. He set it next to the sink. “Carly, while I’m thinking of it, come see me at my office next week for the reading of Irene’s will. I’m her executor.”

      Carly had been so busy organizing the funeral and calling people that she hadn’t had time to think about what was going to happen with Irene’s property and personal effects. She hoped Irene had remembered how much she loved the seascape that hung in the dining room. It reminded her of their beachcombing expeditions. “I’ll call first thing Monday to make an appointment.”

      Peter spied the bottle of scotch. “Is that alcohol? I sure could use a drink.”

      “What’ll you have?” Finn went to the cupboard over the fridge and started pulling down liquor bottles. “There’s also bourbon, gin, vodka and brandy.” He handed the bottles to Peter, who lined them up on the table. “Carly, are you okay with dipping into Irene’s stock of liquor?”

      “Of course,” Carly said. “She liked her guests to enjoy themselves.”

      “To Irene.” Finn raised his glass. “An awesome teacher and a good friend.”

      “To Irene,” Carly and Peter chorused.

      “Now,” Finn said. “It’s time to pay tribute to the lady.” He headed back to the living room. Carly heard him announce, “Booze in the kitchen, folks. Help yourselves. Then come and sing.”

      People began to stream into the kitchen. Carly helped them find glasses and ice then left them to it. She wandered back to the living room and stood against the wall between the fireplace and the bay window. Outside, the sun was setting spectacularly over Bellingham Bay.

      Finn organized Irene’s music students, past and present, coaxing a red-haired man to pick up a guitar from the stand in the corner of the dining room. A fortysomething woman in sleek black pants and a pullover took the cello from the same stand. A teenage boy produced a tenor saxophone and a twentysomething woman a clarinet. The rest Finn arranged into a choir circling the piano where so many of them had honed their singing skills.

      He sifted through bundles of sheet music and selected a piece. Then he sat on the bench seat. The instrument was a full concert grand in a richly gleaming mahogany. He ran his long fingers softly over the ivories. Around the room, heads turned and conversation hushed. Carly held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t play anything sad that would make her cry.

      With a ripple of notes and a flourish of his hands, Finn launched into a popular Gershwin show tune, one of Irene’s favorites. Startled, her aunt’s former students glanced at each other, then smiled. One woman began to sing, then another. One by one, the other instruments joined in and soon the pickup orchestra and choir were in full swing.

      Carly kicked off her high heels and took off her suit jacket, relaxing for the first time in days. The other guests drew closer, their gloomy expressions turning to smiles. Others hurried back out from the kitchen with drinks in their hands. Before long, the whole room was rocking, just as it used to when Irene threw a party. When the first song was over, Finn quickly got them started on another, pounding out the notes, embellishing with his own improvisations. Voices lifted in a rousing tribute to the woman they’d all loved. Music had been Irene’s life and Carly was grateful to Finn for transforming the tragic occasion into one of celebration.

      Bottles collected on the coffee table. Booze was poured directly into teacups.

      Carly drifted back to the kitchen. There the non-singers had gathered to drink shots and exchange anecdotes about their absent friend. The somber mood had evaporated and laughter outweighed the tears. Carly learned tidbits about her aunt that she’d never known as a youngster only coming for summer visits. About how Irene had been a breath of fresh air in the stuffy garden club, how she’d baked dozens of loaves of her special sourdough bread at Christmas for the homeless, how she’d done the limbo at the animal shelter fund-raising party.

      “Remember when she got Rufus?” Frankie, the next-door neighbor, had spiky black hair and an impish grin. “He was from a pet hoarder’s home and was skinny and mangy. He had so many issues no one wanted him. But she took him and worked with him and now he’s a beautiful dog.”

      Rufus. Carly squinted at her watch. Nearly 7:00 p.m. and the dog hadn’t had any dinner. She got to her feet, grabbed for the back of the chair and ended up clutching Frankie’s shoulder. Whoa. Getting a bit tipsy. The room swayed as she crossed to the laundry room where her aunt kept a big plastic bin of kibble. Carly scraped the bottom with the plastic scoop and got only half a cup. That didn’t seem like enough. She added a couple of egg salad sandwiches from the platter on the counter and carried his bowl outside.

      Dusk was falling. The sky glowed with the last light of day but the long backyard was full of shadows and the cedar trees along the back fence were a blur of black.

      “Dinner, Rufus. Here, boy.” She set his bowl onto the concrete patio.

      The dog didn’t come bounding up as she’d expected. Maybe he was patrolling the back fence, saying hello to the neighboring spaniel. Or digging in the soft dirt beneath the cedars. He was probably fine but she should check. Now where had she put her shoes? Her stockings were already ruined but even so, she didn’t fancy crossing the darkened lawn in what amounted to bare feet.

      “Carly?” Beneath the patio light, Brenda’s cheeks were rosy and her blond hair ruffled. “D’you know if Irene has more mixer anywhere? I couldn’t see any in the pantry.”

      “I’ll have a look.” Carly took one last quick scan of the yard, saw no sign of Rufus, and went inside.

      She found more tonic water and cola. Then the opening bars of “Happy Talk” from the musical South Pacific drew her back to the living room where the singers stood four and five deep around the piano. At the town’s summer solstice party every year Irene led the Fairhaven choir in this upbeat song. Carly had no musical talent herself but she knew all the words to all the tunes in her aunt’s record collection. She belted out the song, secure in the knowledge that her flat notes would be drowned out by the well-trained voices.

      Finn caught her eye and a moment of wordless joy passed between them. Maybe alcohol was making her brain fuzzy but it was wonderful to see him again. For years she’d put him to the back of her mind, never quite forgiving him for that summer. Whatever friction remained between them, he was probably the only other person in the world who had known her aunt as well as she did—and would miss her as much. Tears welling in her eyes, she smiled as she sang.

       CHAPTER TWO

      “THAT’S THE WAY, one foot in front of the