Sweet Solace (The Seattle Sound Series Book 1) (3 page)

She snorted. “I bet you read a vampire or BDSM series. Something sensational.”

“Neither. My mom told me about Lia Moore’s books when I was going through a bit of a slump. When Mom died, I wanted to connect with her on some level. She, Lia Moore, I mean, is pretty deep.”

Her shoulders tensed, and she glanced at me from the corner of her eye. I wondered . . . There was no way.

“So what do you write? Anything as good as Lia Moore’s books? Last I heard, she was taking some time off to spend with her family.”

She stood, brushing the sand from the back of her jeans.

“She is. And no, I haven’t typed a word worth reading in years.”

I stood, taking her hand in mine. I was going to miss touching her palm, talking to her. We walked up the beach and sat on a bench, swiping off the sand so we could put on our shoes. We didn’t talk as I led her back along the dark sidewalk.

About a block from our cars, she turned toward me. “I know you didn’t ask for my opinion. This is overstepping the limits of friendship.” She took a deep breath and the words tumbled out. “From someone who’s been on the other side of loss, talk to Jessica. You married her for a reason. Love isn’t something to throw away or let slip through your fingers.”

Emotion rippled through me. I stared into her beautiful, earnest eyes, and I couldn’t tell her it was too late for Jessica and me. I’d signed the separation papers months ago and had the divorce proceeding date to prove it. I forced my lips into a smile as I tapped the side of her nose. “Still a romantic even if you aren’t writing about it these days.”

“Writing about love, for me, means believing in it. I hope you still do.”

“Tell you what. I’ll talk to Jessica if you promise to write another book.” I was a dick for not telling Dahlia the truth, but I wanted her to find something she loved again. The way she’d talked about my lyrics showed how much writing meant to her.

“You don’t even know if I’ve written anything worth reading.” She dug around in her purse until she pulled out a set of keys.

“I know you, Dahlia Dorsey,” I said. “Your words are worth reading.”

She smiled, a bright, happy beacon in the dark, weed-ridden parking lot.

“I hope life leads you back to love,” she said.

I rubbed her hair through my fingers. “Same goes.” Dropping her hair, loss blossomed in my chest.

She opened the door to her SUV and slid inside. So she didn’t have to look at me? “I’ve had my chance at love.”

“I still say you’re too young to have loved properly or to have a teenage daughter.”

“Bye, Asher. I’m glad we met again.”

* * *

D
ahlia drove away
. Her words slithered through my mind, sincerity dripping from her soft voice:
Love isn’t something to throw away or let slip through your fingers.

She was right. Problem was, I’d never loved my wife.

I turned and walked back toward where I’d parked. Dahlia’s panic attack had been horrible to watch. Her hesitancy at holding my hand depressed me. I’d always liked holding hands—for the connection, sure, but also for the imprint of the other person’s emotions.

Snuggling palms with Dahlia had been more intimate than most of the sexual encounters I’d had during my twenties. Maybe because I was sober now. Maybe because I craved a partner who saw and loved me, not my stage persona.

The constant need to guard my expression, my thoughts, animate my actions, be “on” . . . I was tired of all that shit. More, I was tired of trying to make sense out of my personal life.

Mason had been sullen and unresponsive when I called earlier. That wasn’t anything new. He was a smart kid and knew something was wrong between Jessica and me. I was lucky my wife and her lover, one of Mason’s friend’s dads, weren’t splashed over every entertainment station, website, and magazine. I figured it was a matter of time, which was why I’d wanted to keep our separation quiet. Mason didn’t deserve to deal with any more drama in his life.

When Mason had handed Jessica back her phone, she’d told me her lover made four times more a month than I did. Owning car washes.

I almost asked her how much Car Wash Dale’s soon-to-be-ex was going to keep, but I didn’t want to give Jessica any more ideas. She was ambitious. I couldn’t blame her, not after I discovered the extremity of the poverty she had grown up in. Like so many others who’d once not had enough to eat, Jessica was fixated on the zeroes in her bank account.

When she had first pushed me to tour more, I agreed. I wanted some of the trappings of success, too. And I liked the screaming fans, the late-night parties.

Over time, I changed my mind about what success meant. I was thankful I was able to do what I loved. That, right there, was worth a shit-ton of money. I was even more thankful I wasn’t working at a car wash all day, no matter how much Dale made. A car wash might be even worse than a soulless gray cubicle.

I headed up the elevator to my place on the tenth floor. I yanked out the key to my crap apartment as I headed down the hall.

Dropping my keys onto the kitchen counter, I pulled out the papers I’d carried around with me for the past few weeks. Jessica’s first salvo in the divorce war—a list of unreasonable demands designed specifically to piss me off.

Over thirty years later, and the family cycle continued. The kid in me wept bitter tears of resentment all over again. I was no better than my father.

“Moonshine Eyes” filled my head along with an image of Dahlia in the moonlight.
Love isn’t something to throw away or let slip through your fingers.

I didn’t want my soon-to-be ex-wife. Hadn’t for years. No, Dahlia was the only woman I’d ever yearned for.

I left Cactus Arrow because I didn’t want to fuck up her life. She’d seemed happy with Doug, devoted even. What right did I have to mess with that?

I breathed out. Pulled up the e-mail I’d typed to my lawyer in response to Jessica’s demands.

I didn’t want to fuck up Dahlia’s life now either. But I still wanted her. More after spending the night with her. I pressed Send on the e-mail.

Game on.

“
H
ow’d
it go last night?” Simon asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He slammed back a huge gulp of his drink. Simon always drank his first cup of coffee fast, the way most people took a shot.

“Well, let’s see . . . I cried all over Asher. And I mean snot and near-heaves.”

Simon’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “You did not.”

“Mmm hmm. Afterward, we went to the beach, and he said he was trying to work through his marital problems with his wife so his kid had a chance at normalcy.”

Simon shook his head, his dark hair the same shade as Doug’s. But Simon wore his longer, shaggier. Like Asher’s. Clearly, the sexy bedhead look was a rock-star thing.

I liked it better on Asher.

“I was surprised you came home last night.” Simon refilled his cup. No cream this time. He only doctored the first cup.

I’d spent my formative high school years in the Northwest, and I liked my coffee to taste, well, like coffee. I raised an eyebrow as I sipped from my own mug. “Seriously? I’m repressed. You know that.”

“You’ll cut loose one of these days. You don’t just stop the sensual daydreams. Ella’s made me read some of your books because she was sure you and Doug had a way better sex life than we do.”

I laughed so hard I spilled my coffee. “I miss feeling that good.”

“TMI, as Abbi would say,” Simon said, but he was grinning.

“You still have each other,” I said, my tone now serious. “Talk about what you want.” I looked down into my mug, thinking about the last few years of Doug’s life.

“You’ve never mentioned how bad the Huntington’s got,” Simon said.

I gripped my mug. He knew I hated talking about Doug’s illness. Remembering was hard. Not just the disease, but Simon didn’t know that. I measured his facial features as my heartbeat ratcheted. Simon’s eyes were concerned, sad.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t. I turned away, struggling against the anger and anxiety.

“He would’ve died much more slowly, and it would’ve been painful for you and Abbi to see that decline,” Simon said.

I fisted my hands so hard my short nails bit into my palms. “So it’s fine that he went skydiving and didn’t open his parachute?”

Simon came around the island and gripped my arm. “You remember how he acted when he couldn’t play his guitar anymore?”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “That’s not a day I’m going to forget.”

“He shouldn’t have taken that out on you, Lia.”

“There were lots of things he shouldn’t have done,” I snapped. I sucked my lip in. I’d kept Doug’s—my—secrets this long. I walked to the coffeepot and refilled my cup, pleased to see how steady my hands were despite my rapid heartbeat.

“I know he was upset, but the insurance company accepted it was an accident. Maybe you could, too,” Simon said.

“I still haven’t gotten all the money from them,” I said, pressing my lips together hard to keep them from trembling. I hated feeling this raw. I hated talking about Doug with Simon, the only one who could understand his brother’s needs and mine, too.

Simon turned and dumped his coffee in the sink. “Lia, you can say it: he was a coward.”

I stared at Simon. We’d worked hard to hold it together, to build a relationship based on more than anger and grief.

“I don’t want to be angry any more.”

Simon touched my tense shoulder. “You’ve been angry since Doug got sick and started acting out, and you deserve to feel that way. I’m still angry, too.” He glanced at the clock. “I need to go get El and the kids.”

I grabbed the sponge and wiped the counters. “I’m coming. Be ready in ten,” I promised.

* * *

A
bbi stood
next to a boy about her age, twirling her hair the way she did when she was interested in pursuing whatever she’d started. I thrilled. She was so perfect. Her eyes were bright, her hair glossy.

She was healthy. According to the predictive genetic test, Abbi had been spared the indignity of Huntington’s, and I should be more thankful for that. My daughter was worth all the pain of losing Doug, first to the anger of the disease and then to his “accident.”

Abbi laughed. The boy leaned in and wrapped her in a hug. Seeing her smile, I sighed, knowing she was going to be quiet and withdrawn the whole trip back to Rathdrum. Unless she decided to once again lament her forced existence in middle-of-nowheresville.

Sixteen wasn’t the age to explain concerns about crime statistics and traffic congestion so prevalent in big cities. I wasn’t sure if Abbi was upset with living in a small town or if she was angry we hadn’t moved closer to our family after her dad’s death.

I never wanted Abbi to live with the anonymity of moving every year, or every two if I was really, really lucky, like I had done as a teenager until ending up in Seattle. An introvert unable to open up quickly, I’d found my family’s moves hard even though it meant we’d seen parts of the world most other Americans merely dreamed of.

I hugged Ella. “Hey, how was the trip?”

Ella squeezed me tight before stepping back and sliding her hand into Simon’s back pocket. A piece of her flaxen hair drifted across her pixie face. “Nineteen teenagers and a seven-year-old. Just about what you’d expect. My four parent chaperones were a godsend.” She winked one of those bright green eyes at me, and I was charmed, as always, by my sister-in-law’s Britishness.

“Perhaps next time you can offer your time along with your daughter,” she pressed.

“I’m nowhere near as good with the kids as you are, Ella. Abbi and I get along because we’ve grown up together. I’m going to go say hi and meet her latest crush. That way Simon can tattle on me like he’s dying to do.”

As I walked over to my daughter, my phone rang. Bev’s name popped up on the screen. Crap. “Hey, Bev. I don’t have another book. Nothing new to report at all, actually. I’m your most pathetic client, and I don’t know if I can actually bear you saying the words to me.”

We’d had the same conversation a few times over the last few months. I figured the least I could do was spare her the pain of asking. I wasn’t sure why she kept me around. My sales had plummeted in the last year. She and I both knew I needed to do something, like write another bestseller, if we wanted to see any real income.

“I can’t call because I like talking to you?”

“Um, no. Wait, who is this? What did you do with my tough New York agent, scary-nice person?”

“You’re still a pain in the ass. Good to know some things don’t change. Fine, we won’t chat. I’ve got news, Lia. Great news. HBO wants to buy the rights to your Gardiner series.”

I stopped walking. “No.”

“Yeah. Garcia Jones wants to produce it. Garcia Jones!” Bev screamed in my ear.

“Ouch. My ear’s bleeding. Wow. You know how to surprise a girl.”

“This is amazing. Why aren’t you more excited? We sold your books to HB-freaking-O!”

“Yeah, I heard you. Cool. So now some young producer and a hungry director rip apart my stories and make them a better fit for the screen, meaning you make a ton of money, and I can’t ever watch HBO again without feeling sick.”

“You writers are all so emotional,” Bev muttered. “Let’s think about the nice fat check this is going to bring both of us for a moment, hmm? Garcia happens to love your books and wants you to collaborate on the project. He said, and I quote, ‘you’re a romance genius.’ Take that, romance queen!”

“I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“Well, you say yes and sign the docs. Because you won’t get a better deal than this one. I nearly swallowed my tongue when the offer came through.”

“Good?” I asked.

Abbi walked toward me, concern filling her dark blue eyes. I smiled at her and opened my arm for a hug. She stepped in, and I was shocked, once again, to find my daughter at eye level. She’d grown so much in just a couple years, both emotionally and physically. We’d always been close, but there was a relaxation in our relationship that hadn’t been there before. I was thankful for this new level of companionship.

I smoothed her hair from her face, and she pointed at the phone. Her eyes lit up when I mouthed “Bev.”

Abbi turned and walked over to her aunt and uncle. She bent down to help her seven-year-old cousin, Jeremiah, with his sleeping bag.

“. . . thousand, plus creative input for the screenplay, and a big fat option for the conclusion of the series.”

“I haven’t written the series ending,” I reminded her, not too worried about the cash amount she’d spouted and I’d missed. If Bev said it was good, it was.

“Well, get your ass on it because HBO wants it. In fact, the deal’s contingent on you finishing it.”

Anxiety crawled over my skin, tiny spiders of doubt and insecurity weaving a web I hadn’t been able to break out of for years. “We’ll see. E-mail me the details, and I’ll look it over while Abbi and I drive home.”

“No driving home. You’re flying to Lala-land in the morning, and you’re meeting with Garcia Jones and Paul Loomis, the director on the project.”

My heart pounded, too heavy and fast. “No flying.”

“Dahlia Moore Dorsey, do not make me come out there and hit you. I will. You know I will. And I’ll bill you for the ticket and the time it takes me to find you and give you a bruise.”

“I’m not flying. I can’t, Bev.” I didn’t want to discuss this anymore. Flying, even the thought of flying, was a major trigger for me, reminding me of Doug’s choice. I relived the look on Abbi’s face when I had to tell her Doug was dead.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself I was safe. My eyes sought Abbi, ensuring she was well, too. The vise in my chest loosened by increments, and I drew a breath.

I’d focus on my choices, make the best one. I couldn’t simply turn down this opportunity. That would be stupid, and I couldn’t let Doug’s death continue to have such a hold over me.

“I’ll drive,” I said, trying to sound firm. “So set the meeting up for this Monday.” I bit my lip, realizing I had to get Abbi home for school. “Actually next Monday would be better.”

“I’m sorry, Lia.” Bev sounded contrite. “I forgot about your flying thing.”

“If that’s the only way, then I just can’t.” I hated to give up the money, but if this deal was contingent on the fourth book . . . well, I doubted that would ever happen. My ability to write died a long time ago. I’d barely finished the last manuscript.

Bev grumbled. “Can you stick around Seattle a couple more days? Garcia said they were planning to scout the area for places to film. I guess they plan to do this right: on location and everything.”

My knees softened with relief. “Yes, okay. Sure.” Maybe I could figure this out. I wanted to.

“Give me a few to set it up.”

“You’re amazing, Bev. I hope they go for meeting me here. That’d be perfect.”

“It’s not just you. They want to talk to some people in the indie music scene there, too. For the sound track, I guess. At least that’s what Garcia said.”

“Oh. Well. That’d be really fun. E-mail me the details. I’ll let Ella and Simon know they aren’t getting rid of me today after all.”

“Good girl. And Lia, I hope you know this is a second chance most writers don’t get. They’re catering to you. Don’t mess this up. And write the last damn book.”

The phone screen blanked. I stared at it for another minute, bemused. Still shell-shocked, I met my daughter’s worried gaze.

Simon wandered over. “Ready to go? Everything’s in the car. Abbi said your agent was on the phone.”

I nodded.

“Good news?”

I lifted my eyes to his. “HBO wants to buy the rights to one of my series. Mind if Abbi and I stay another night or two so I can go to a meeting? I’ll cook.”

Simon smiled. “Magic words. If you’re cooking, you can stay another week.”

“I can’t. Abbi’s already missed two days of school. We have to get back before Monday. And it’s already Friday.”

“We told you you were welcome for as long as you need, Lia. We meant it.”

Though Ella was an amazing mom, calm in the face of just about every problem from a broken collarbone to Jeremiah’s biting problem when he was two, neither she nor Simon could do more in the kitchen than warm up food. Their music teacher salaries didn’t allow for many meals out. Whenever Abbi and I stayed at their four-bedroom bungalow near the beach, I always stacked the freezer full of meals.

I loved our arrangement. The kitchen was one of the few places I was still happy. I insisted on going to the market to ensure freshness of ingredients so that I could enjoy the process more.

As I’d told Simon, I wasn’t big on hotels, not after moving around so often during the first fourteen years of my life. The sterility reminded me of the apartments of my early childhood. I was thankful I could stay with Simon and Ella as opposed to some random, poorly cleaned room, and I was more than happy to buy groceries in exchange for the homey experience.

Not that I’d ever tell them, but I also enjoyed looking after Simon and Ella a little. To them, I was useful. Needed. Not just Abbi’s mom.

Abbi’s mom—that title wasn’t going to work for much longer. My daughter only had one more year of high school left.