Meant To Be Hers. Joan Kilby

      “You used to be brilliant. You could have smashed that concert,” she said. “Could’ve had a scholarship. Could’ve played Lincoln Center by now if you’d kept at it.”

      “Yes, I probably could have.” He didn’t bother defending himself. Carly was in no condition to take in his version of events. Maybe he’d tell her later but this wasn’t the moment. “I didn’t want to go to Juilliard.”

      Carly’s forehead scrunched in a deep frown as if she was trying hard to concentrate. “So you aren’t playing with a symphony orchestra now?”

      “No,” he said patiently. Had Irene never talked about him to Carly?

      “But you’re still a musician?”

      “Once a musician, always a musician.” He could tell her about the studio sessions but no doubt she’d find that incomprehensible, as well. Why would he settle for that when he could have been a concert pianist? A spurt of anger flashed through him that she thought he was a no-hoper for abandoning a promising career. Well, that was her problem, not his.

      “Whatever.” She gave up and snuggled deeper into the pillow. “’Night.”

      He refilled her water glass, turned out the light and closed the door. Years ago she’d sat on the window seat in the living room and read while he’d had lessons with Irene. He’d played to her even if she hadn’t known it, showing off, perfecting the pieces so she would be impressed. Was it any wonder that she didn’t understand why he gave it all up?

      He paused outside Irene’s bedroom where Carly had posted a Private sign. He’d never been in here and he didn’t know what made him open the door now. Looking for absolution? He scoffed at himself. There was none to be found, not here, not anywhere.

      Moonlight cast a silver glow over the room, illuminating a white-painted iron bed frame covered with a handmade quilt. An armchair with a floor lamp sat next to the window, a low bookshelf on the other side stacked high with music books. A guitar was propped in the corner and a flute case lay on the dresser.

      But it was the sight of Irene’s worn Birkenstock sandals next to the bed that clutched at his chest. They looked so empty. He understood Carly’s guilt, her sense of regret. Life was short. If he’d known Irene would pass, he would have accompanied her on the Alaskan cruise himself. She’d been like a second mother to him, like his only mother given he hadn’t spoken to his mom in over a decade. He’d let people down, especially Irene. But he was damned if he would apologize, even now. He’d done what he had to do to survive. Even so, his heart was heavy as he closed the door.

      Going downstairs, he walked through the darkened kitchen to open the back door and flip on a patio light. There was a clatter of metal on concrete and a pair of raccoons scattered, retreating a few paces. They’d been eating food set out for the dog, abandoning a sandwich in the water bowl.

      “Scat!” He stepped forward onto the grass and clapped his hands to shoo them away. “Rufus! Here boy.”

      The yard was quiet. Finn waited a few minutes then refilled the food bowl and carried out the dog bed from the kitchen and placed it against the outside wall. Not much more he could do tonight.

      He went back inside and through to the living room. The sofa was wide and long enough to be comfortable and the cashmere throw would keep him warm. He started to pull the curtains when his gaze fell on the piano, the richly polished surface gleaming softly in the glow of the moon.

      Seating himself he ran his fingers softly over the keys. No one was around to hear. He began to sing a song he’d composed but hadn’t offered for sale because he couldn’t bear to give all his songs to other musicians.

      Turning thirty earlier this year had felt like a big deal, as if he’d arrived at adulthood. He’d just sold a couple of songs to a famous artist and to celebrate he’d thrown a huge party, rocking on into the night. Now, only a few months later, that success felt hollow. Being estranged from his family, especially his mother whom he’d been so close to, was hard. And since Irene died, he’d been waking in the small hours, staring up at the dark ceiling wondering, what had he done with his life? Where was he going? Was this all there was, writing songs for other people to sing?

      Maybe his indie hit would turn out to be a fluke. More singers were writing their own material these days. Anyway, songwriting was an up-and-down business at best.

      Even though Irene had never said so, he knew she’d been disappointed in him, not for messing up at the concert but for giving up performing. She’d been his conscience, and though he’d deliberately ignored her advice at times, he would never forget all she meant to him and had done for him. And while she might be gone, there was no escaping himself. Or the fact that his mother, equally devoted to his musical education, was still around but might as well be dead for all the contact he had with her.

      He switched to a lighter piece, trying to shake off the negative vibe that had stolen over him. He was doing what he loved, that was the main thing, right? He missed that connection to an audience but he had a life that many musicians would kill for. He wasn’t making a fortune but he had enough to live comfortably. He had friends and a career that was challenging and satisfying. Wanting more would just be greedy.

      Accolades didn’t mean much to him, anyway. And he knew he would hate the media attention that came with fame. He was happiest like this, the words and music pouring out of him, gritty and real, but hopeful. Moments of feeling down aside, he’d never lost his core optimism, and he clung to it harder than ever now. If he only ever sang his songs for himself it would be enough. It had to be.

      * * *

      CARLY’S EYES OPENED in the dark. Faint sounds came from downstairs. Head spinning, she sat up and listened. Piano music. Finn singing. Stumbling out of bed, she crept out of her room and down the stairs to peer around the doorway into the living room. One look at his face and she changed her mind about going into the room. His eyebrows were pulled together, his expression intensely focused. She knew instinctively that he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.

      Nor did she want to cause him to stop. The piano notes were riffs upon riffs, complicated and mesmerizing. The words were tender, coaxing, laughing. His husky voice held a yearning tremor that hit her right in her gut. And her heart. The music was powerful in a way she’d never heard from him before. She tiptoed back to the landing and sat on the step, shivering, not with cold but with the force of his voice.

      Yes, he was still a musician. The question was, why was he keeping such a treasure hidden?

       CHAPTER THREE

      CARLY BURROWED DEEPER beneath the covers, trying to shut out the noise of a bird cheeping one note over and over, like a tiny jackhammer to her frontal lobe. Giving up, she pulled down the blanket and squinted into morning sun streaming through the undrawn curtains. Full consciousness hit her like a smack in the face as the previous day came back to her. Irene’s funeral, drinking way too much, singing, and talking till she was hoarse. Finn practically carrying her upstairs.

      She gulped water from a glass beside the bed that she didn’t recall putting there.

      Finn must have done it. Finn... Had she really put her arms around his neck and rubbed her body against his, inviting him to finish what he’d started as a teenager? Groaning, she pulled the covers over her head again. She would never have done that in her right mind. Sex with Finn wouldn’t be finishing something they’d started. It would be starting something they could never continue. She was going back to New York and he’d return to Los Angeles and never the twain shall meet.

      Suddenly she remembered hearing him singing in the middle of the night. Had she dreamed that? He’d sounded unbelievably good. Was that real or had she still been tipsy?

      Her phone rang. She scrabbled for it on the bedside table. “’Lo?” she rasped.

      “Carly? Are you sick? You don’t sound well.”