Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady) (34 page)

When she closed her eyes and leaned her head back, he knew that the music was what she wanted. He drifted away then, caught up in developing the song, although he could still feel her there with every second.

He jotted a note on the page in front of him, working on that difficult passage, the transition that didn’t seem to work. He stumbled over it, replayed the sound track from the beginning, trying to get the right feel for it.

After the first few minutes, George realized that Lyle wasn’t going to flash anger and rejection at her with those deep blue eyes. She didn’t know why she’d come down to him, but she knew she had no right to seek companionship after the rejection she’d just given. But she was here, regardless.

She let the music take possession of her.

It was a catchy tune. The rhythm had that irresistible something that hit songs seemed to have. She thought there should be words, too. She thought of his poems and she hummed softly, fitting wordless sounds to music. Her fingers itched to pick out the rhythm on a guitar.

She saw the guitar sitting idle in the corner. He seemed deeply intent on the sounds he was making, his eyes far away as his ears listened critically. She certainly couldn’t interrupt him.

She smiled a little, watching his absorption. Musicians. They had their own world, apart from the rest of the people. This was the other half of the man, the dreamer who made music and put words to it. His poems had a rhythm like music, so she should have known. His reddish hair was falling over his forehead, but he didn’t know it. He was writing a word, touching a key.

He was having a problem with that passage, yet it seemed to her that the answer was in the notes he’d already written. She couldn’t have expressed it in notes or words, but if she had a guitar in her arms she thought she could play the music. He didn’t seem to notice as she crossed the room. It wasn’t her guitar, but it was the same type. Her fingers found the notes softly, the sound strengthening, following his lead, the music filling and flowing between them.

As the sounds of the guitar faded, the tune grew, renewed, from Lyle’s synthesizer. George found her fingers improvising, the volume swelling, her own voice humming wordless sounds that had to fit with the rhythm and the mood.

The music faded slowly, leaving its heat behind. She let her fingers go lax on the guitar strings.

His eyes were on her, a disturbing light in their depths that might almost be anger. She was suddenly and unexpectedly frightened of him.

“I’m sorry,” she began, but he shook his head, denying anger. She strummed a chord, picking up the melody of his tune. The sound of music from her fingers made her comfortable, gave her confidence. “Lyle, you should try selling that song. It’s terrific!”

“Should I?” His eyes sparkled quiet laughter.

She frowned at his equipment, realizing, “This is obviously a professional setup.”

“I’m trying,” he said simply. He jotted something on the notebook in front of him. “I liked that echo you put in, repeating the melody – I was having a hell of a time with that passage.”

He pushed an impatient hand through his unruly hair, saw her watching.

“Need a haircut,” he mumbled.

She was surprised to realize that he was embarrassed. He always seemed so strong and confident. Even in his concern over Robyn, he seemed to know instinctively what to do.

His discomfort disarmed her. Impulsively, she said, “I’ll cut it, if you like.”

He smiled then. “Sounds like a gift from heaven.”

Her smile caught from his. She’d been frightened, coming down here after the scene in the bedroom, but it was all right. He was going to let her pretend it had never happened. She said gaily, “You’re taking a chance, you know. I’m no expert, but Jenny did let me cut hers.”

His fingers brought the synthesizer to life again. “Could you cut it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed as the music swelled, flowing over them both. This time the rhythm completed, the hesitation gone as Lyle filled in the notes she had supplied.

“I think I’m getting it.” He threw a switch, then held out a piece of paper for her to take. “Here’s the music – a bit rough, but would you try it for me? I’d like to hear it with just the guitar. And could I talk you into singing the words? You do have a singing voice, don’t you? You were humming like a pro.”

She took the paper from his hands, wishing she didn’t have to say meekly, “I don’t read music very well. I just learned to play by ear.”

His fingers brushed soft curls back from her face as he wondered why she should apologize for anything. He was watching her, seeming to see something reassuring in her eyes. “Feeling better now?” he murmured, nodding in answer to his own question. “Play the music as best you can remember it, would you? I’d like to hear it. Then perhaps I’ll teach you to read music. It’s certainly time you learned. I— what’s wrong?”

She blinked away a vivid memory of Scott towering over her in a West End coffee house, his eyes filled with the quiet anger that hurt so much. He had stared at her as the music faded away, then there had been the uncomfortable silence of the others, as if they’d known he shouldn’t have found her here. She had scrambled to her feet.

“I’m sorry, Scott! I’m late again, aren’t I? I’m sorry!”

“Georgina, don’t you think it’s time you grew up, time to stop playing about like a teenager? It’s time you learned a sense of responsibility.”

“George?” Lyle’s voice was sharp. She stared down at the guitar in her arms, wishing she’d done more to be the wife she should have been. Scott had asked so little, and she’d seemed to have such trouble giving it.

“George?”

She met Lyle’s eyes, saw the question in his fade as if she had answered it without words. He knew. She felt ashamed, and confused, without understanding the reason for either emotion.

“Will you sing my song, George? I’d like to hear it.”

She looked down at the paper. He was making this too easy. He should be angry. Upstairs, in his arms, she’d done the unforgivable. And she was still doing it, remembering Scott and letting Lyle see her thoughts. What kind of woman was she?

He played the tune softly for her, as if he knew that she needed no more than a reminder to fix the notes and the rhythm in her mind.

She fled her discomfort, took refuge in the music. The words were soft and haunting, fitting for the notes that her fingers coaxed from the guitar. It was a song of love and healing. As she sang it, George could see Robyn growing strong and confident until she walked away from her father to a love and a life of her own.

“Robyn’s song,” she said softly as the music faded.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly.

She picked out the melody again, low and haunting. “It could be a hit,” she said warmly, humming the refrain. “You should—” She broke off at the hint of laughter in his eyes. “No, you already have, haven’t you?”

He shook his head. “I’m trying, George. Breaking into the music industry isn’t easy. I’ve had a few songs picked up, but no hits yet.”

She picked out a tune on the guitar, notes she remembered hearing once on one of the radio stations. “It’s yours, isn’t it? I heard it on the radio in Vancouver.” She saw the pleasure in his eyes and was glad she’d put it there.

“I didn’t know it had made it to the airways, though. Was Annie Carson the singer?”

“I think so. Yes.”

He nodded, adjusting the dials, then switching the synthesizer off. “I think Annie did all right with it, but it didn’t make the top ten or anything like that. George, why didn’t you tell me you were a guitar playing lady with a voice?”

“I just play at it, but you— Lyle, what are you doing stuck out on a lighthouse in the middle of the Pacific?”

“The edge of the Pacific,” he corrected.

She frowned at him sternly, angry at the waste of his talent. How could he promote his songs from here? He had to get closer to the music world, mix with the people who could be singing his songs. “Don’t joke about it. I don’t understand why you’re making music like that, and living in a place like this! Your songs are very distinctive. They have that something that—” She waved an expressive arm. He followed her gesture with his eyes.

“Is it so bad here?” he asked curiously. He shuffled his papers together and placed them carefully in the top drawer of the desk. “I rather like the house. It’s got—”

“It’s not the house,” she retorted angrily, “It’s the island! Five hundred feet of rock and grass!”

“Six hundred feet!” He was angry too. “And a fabulous ocean view!”

She shrugged impatiently, standing up and pacing restlessly. Just talking about the smallness of his island made her feel stifled, trapped. “Five hundred or six hundred, it’s too small! Don’t you think you should be out in the world, instead of hiding out here, out of contact?”

“George!” His voice dropped, yet somehow became more harsh. “Since you know nothing about the circumstances, don’t you think you should stop trying to make me angry by telling me how to live my life?”

“I—” She realized suddenly that somehow her attack was hurting him.

He moved sharply. She could hear his breathing, shallow and disturbed, but his voice was carefully casual as he said, “We both need some fresh air. Come on, let’s get outside. Put on some shoes and socks while I check on Robyn, then we’ll go for a walk.”

She was glad to escape the disturbed emotional atmosphere that had grown in the music room.

Outside, the night air was cool and salty, the fog engulfing the far end of the island. Lyle took George’s hand as they walked down the outside stairs. The wind had stopped. She should pull her hand away. But it was dark. He knew the way, and she didn’t. Her fingers curled around his.

At the front of the house he led her towards a steep path that twisted down to a small beach. Their silence was easy and companionable. Where had the anger gone?

“Can you climb?” he asked, his hand holding hers tightly as if he would keep her safe against the night.

“I think so.” She wanted the exertion, the feeling of movement to get her away from too much emotion. She flexed the muscles of her thigh, said, “Of course I can.”

He laughed softly, leading her towards the path, asking whimsically, “What’s the longest you’ve ever stayed in bed?”

She had to hang onto his hand going down the steep path. She couldn’t see the ground below her feet. With anyone else she might have felt nervous. With Lyle it was somehow impossible to be uneasy.

She wondered if they could forget what had happened tonight. They could be friends then, like brother and sister.

“The longest I’ve been sick, you mean?”

“Mm-hmm.”

It was nice, walking together, feeling his warm, callused hand around hers. If they were friends— there weren’t many friends that lasted forever, but Lyle would. He had come close to something deep inside her. Someone she could always come back to. She’d have two people then. Lyle and Jenny.

She said, “I don’t usually get sick. This shipwreck. Chicken pox when I was a kid. And last year I was in hospital for a few days.”

He stepped onto the sand, turned back and closed his hands securely around her waist to swing her down the last couple of feet. His hands remained warm against her as he stared down in the misty darkness. “What happened?”

She felt so secure, so safe. Was this unfair? Was she teasing him by standing in his arms? “My cousin and I were on the west coast of the Queen Charlotte Islands – sailing – and I had a big feed of clams.”

“Red tide?” He either saw or felt the motion of her nod of assent. “You were lucky to survive it.” He sounded frightened.

“Jake came,” she explained, wanting to reassure him. “He came just in time and flew Jenny and I into Queen Charlotte.”

“Who’s Jake?” Then he remembered, “Jenny’s husband? Your cousin’s husband?” His arm slipped up over her shoulder as he turned her and started them walking over the sand.

There was nothing sexual in the feel of his arm on her shoulder. Earlier he’d wanted her, but that could have been just a natural male reaction to a scantily dressed woman in his arms.

That was it, of course. It had happened, and it was over now. So she could relax, let herself enjoy this. What had they been talking about? Oh, yes – Jake and Jenny.

“Yes— well, they weren’t married then. She was running away from him, and he was firmly in pursuit. They’re married now, and very happy— I didn’t know this beach was here. Why didn’t I see it from my window?”

“It’s covered by the water at high tide.” She shivered and he drew her closer. “Are you dressed warmly enough?”

“It was just that bit of wind.” Funny. She’d never been friends with a man like this before. Was it like this having a brother who was close?

“Tell me about Jenny.“

She did, her voice warm with her affection for her cousin as she told Jenny and Jake’s love story.

Then she found herself telling Lyle about their childhood, the escapades she and Jenny had gotten into.

“It was me,” she told him with a laugh. “I was always in trouble, always refusing to stay where I should be, to do what was expected of me. My mother was always upset.”