Whiskey River Rockstar (Whiskey River Series Book 3) Page 18

  “No. But at the same time I told myself I was doing it because I wasn’t a writer anymore. I was done. Past. And that, I think, got me to where I was…open when Kelsey came up with the answer. To where I could see the answer when it finally came. Before I think I would have just batted it away like everything else.”

  Jamie thought about what his friend had said as he drove back to the house. The Mustang tooled along smoothly, and he focused on the wind in his hair and the sun on his shoulders. This wasn’t a bad life, not really. Like Deck he had enough money to live comfortably for a long time, if not luxuriously. But he didn’t need luxury. Not if he had Zee.

  But it was a couple of days of turning it over in his mind before he could actually formulate the thought. Zee kept to her word, and neither said nor asked anything about it. It was as if she could sense his inner battle and left him to fight it, while still being almost always within reach. It was exactly the kind of support he needed, and that she’d realized it, that this was the way he had to do it, told him just how much she’d meant that apology. And that promise.

  And that she loved him.

  He clung to that memory as he fought through the automatic protest of his mind. His own personal identity had been wrapped up in his music for so long, it was like trying to accept that his eyes had changed color. Finally he reduced it down to the essentials.

  Just write it off. Count the years with Scorpions as a success. Do something else. He’d been a musician, now he wasn’t. Simple, really.

  And yet the hardest thing in the world.

  Could he really do it? How long before the need to keep trying, to keep testing that dead, empty place where the music used to live inside him faded? It had been a year now. But he hadn’t given up, hadn’t consciously quit. But did it even count as quitting if he was doing it in the hopes of the same kind of rescue Deck had gotten? And who was supposed to do it? Zee? She’d already done so much for him.

  He thought of what Deck had said. Maybe he needed to cut off that finger. That’d do it, if he chose a critical one. No guitar picking then.

  He nearly laughed at himself when he realized what he was thinking. Desperate wasn’t even the word.

  Then one afternoon he was up on the roof, clearing debris out of a rain gutter, when Zee’s car pulled into the drive. She’d had some work to do now that True was slowly gearing back up again. She parked next to the Mustang, and it made him grin again to see the clash of colors.

  Or because she’d admitted finally that she probably had chosen that color because it matched his eyes. Those nights were the only thing helping him hang on.

  And in that moment she looked around, as if searching for something. She spotted him as he dropped down from the roof, and her smile lit her face. And his heart.

  And in that moment he realized he could do it, if he had to. Because she would be enough. As long as he had Zee he could deal with the rest, whatever it was. Or wasn’t.

  *

  The first time she heard him say it, casually, Zee nearly stopped breathing.

  It had been a simple exchange with Charlie, who had just delivered the new outdoor table and chairs Jamie had bought to replace the ones that had disappeared. She’d been happily planning the barbecue he’d suggested they have here this summer when she’d come around the corner just in time to hear them talking.

  “Are you going to put together a new band?”

  “No. I’m done.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve had my run. It was fun while it lasted. You got the other chairs, right?”

  She dodged back around the corner of the house, out of his sight. She felt as if she’d been stabbed, the pain was so sharp. She could only imagine how it felt to him, to believe it enough to actually say it so offhandedly.

  It took her until late that night, when they were wrapped in each other, to work up to asking him about it.

  “Of course it hurts,” he said flatly. “But that doesn’t change it.”

  She kissed him. “I’m sorry. It just sounded so…matter-of-fact when you said it.”

  “It is a matter of fact. It’s gone, I’m done.” He sucked in a deep breath, and she heard him let it out slowly. “And saying it like that, to other people, it’s all part of convincing my head of what my heart already knows.”

  “I love you, Jamie.”

  He rolled over, pulled her to him. “I know. That’s the only thing getting me through.”

  She made love to him then, intent only on driving every other thought out of his mind. And judging by the way he groaned her name as he erupted into her, she succeeded.

  Gradually the newness of him being back in Whiskey River faded. People began to accept, both his presence and the fact that he quietly made clear time and again that he was just plain Jamie Templeton now, the rock star trappings left behind for good. Whatever advice Deck had given him, he’d clearly taken it to heart. But no matter how much she had gained by it, it still hurt Zee’s heart a little every time she heard him say it.

  And when he one day reached the point where, sitting in the tree house after an afternoon spent revisiting the time when it had been their refuge, he said he needed to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life, she knew the process was nearly complete.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.” He leaned back on his elbows, gave her a lazy smile she wasn’t positive was completely genuine. “Maybe let you support me.”

  She shrugged. “Fine.”

  He blinked. “Kidding. I’ve been careful. There’s enough money for quite a while.”

  “I know.” She gave him a sideways look. “But I also know you’re far from the type who’d be able to just do nothing.”

  He lay back down, looking up at the boards above them. “Maybe I’ll build tree houses.”

  “You’d be good at it.”

  “And I’d enjoy it.”

  She smothered the pang. Buried the memory of that man who’d once owned any stage he was on. “That’s what matters. And Templeton’s Tree Houses has a certain ring to it.”

  He smiled again, and this one she was certain was real. “It does.”

  “True could help you get started. He’d know all the suppliers you’d need.”

  He sat up. Studied her for a moment before he said softly, “That’s my Zee. Organizing, practical.”

  “You forgot one.”

  “What?”

  “Happy. She’s very happy.”

  He reached for her then. “Then I’ve done my real job.”

  She couldn’t doubt he meant it. The sincerity of it fairly rang in his voice, and echoed in the way he touched her. And she realized in that moment that in fact he’d come a lot further in this process than she herself had, was a lot closer to total acceptance. Perhaps he was even actually there already.

  She wasn’t so certain she would ever get there.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Zee sleepily reached for him before she even looked at the clock, which for her was an accomplishment. Even in the middle of the night, it was ingrained in her to check the time. But now there was something more important than that.

  This had been the most amazing summer of her life. Jamie had been like a different man, not only having apparently finally won the silent battle he’d been fighting, but also having let go of the pain that had been battering him. It had taken a while to finally find peace.

  But even as she was the beneficiary of his newfound peace, even as he found newer and more amazing ways to show her his love, and even as she reveled in the incredible sweetness they’d found together, she still had that qualm. The price for this had been his music. And as much as that hurt her, she knew it had to be much, much worse for him.

  Was that price too high? If he—

  He was gone.

  She woke up completely, abruptly.

  She had gotten used to never waking up alone. Sometimes they were at Aunt Millie’s, sometimes here, but they were
always together. At first she’d been loath to leave him alone to deal with the demons he was fighting, but after a while the simple joy of being with him was enough reason. And when he’d vanquished those demons, her happiness was complete. Except for that constant worry that the man she had now wasn’t whole, that he had excised a large part of himself and might never heal from the loss, no matter how well he hid it.

  Maybe it would just take time, she told herself. But how long? A year? Years?

  She sighed inwardly. All she could do was support him, love him, as she had been doing since that day he’d confessed the loss to her. Wholeheartedly, trying to make up for the piece of his heart that was gone.

  But now he was gone. And finally she looked at the clock beside the bed. 3:07.

  She glanced toward the bathroom door, but she already knew it was open, the room dark. She got up, stifling a yawn. She walked to the bedroom door; perhaps he’d just had trouble sleeping and had gotten up to avoid disturbing her. Given how they’d spent a couple of hours last night, that was hard to believe, but maybe. She glanced into the spare room as she passed the doorway, but it was empty.

  Maybe he just got hungry, she thought with a grin. All this activity had to sap a guy’s strength.

  She pulled the door open. There was no sign of light downstairs in the kitchen, but sometimes you couldn’t tell from here. She went down the stairs.

  No light. Not in the kitchen or anywhere else.

  The possibilities suddenly narrowed down to him sitting in the dark which, although it had happened often before when he was wrestling with the loss of such a huge part of him, hadn’t happened lately.

  She turned on the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen, which were the softest illumination she could think of.

  Nothing.

  She looked around for a note, anything that would explain this. Nothing.

  A walk, she thought, a tinge of desperation touching her thoughts now. She walked toward the front door, but stopped before she got there, because she could see through the window already that the driveway was empty. The Mustang was no longer where he’d left it last night.

  He was gone.

  She stood there for a long moment, arguing with herself internally. He’d seemed to be doing so well, but she had to remember what he was going through inwardly. Think of it as if he were having to accept an amputation of a huge part of him, because that’s in essence what it was. She’d sensed it came and went, by the times he got quiet and somewhat withdrawn, and trying not to dwell on the irony that he probably only seemed that way by comparison to the rest of the time he was so joyously with her.

  She set aside her own pain at that thought; she had to think only of him now. Had to remind herself that while her instinct was to go to him, to comfort him, that might not be what he needed just now.

  His way is not your way.

  The half-dozen words that echoed in her mind had gotten her through the times when she would have made a wrong move, when she had to consciously chose not to do what she would want done if it was her. If he was out there fighting this alone, because that was his way, she must leave him to do it.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t check on him, make sure that’s all it was.

  She was dressed and pulling her car out of the garage in less than fifteen minutes. She headed for Aunt Millie’s, telling herself she would merely go by and make sure the Mustang was there, then make sure he was all right—that being a relative term—and then she would leave him to it. Because she had to. If she’d learned nothing else by almost losing him forever she’d learned that.

  He wasn’t at Aunt Millie’s. The house, repaired now and awaiting fresh paint, sat dark and quiet, the driveway and garage empty.

  She turned around, puzzled now. Where on earth would he go at three in the morning? And why would he sneak out without leaving even a note?

  Because she didn’t know what else to do, she headed back toward her place. Still no Mustang in the drive. She kept going, trying to slow her racing thoughts as she drove. She wasn’t really thinking about it when she turned toward town, didn’t even realize where she was headed until she saw Booze’s statue and realized she was in the town square. Which was, at this hour, as quiet and empty as her house, except for a couple of cars parked here and there.

  But not completely dark, she realized, as she saw a faint glow coming from the front window of Booze’s Place. That was odd, although she supposed Jake, the manager, could be doing some late—very late—work, stocking or bookkeeping. She turned the car toward the light. Then hit the brakes as she recognized that the muted light seemed to brush gently over an unmistakable, very recognizable shape out front.

  The Mustang.

  He was here? At Booze’s Place? At this hour?

  Her mind kicked into high gear, racing through options. She didn’t like several of them. An image that reeked of old movies flashed through her mind, of a drunk pounding on the door demanding the bar be opened so he could get a drink. But Jamie didn’t drink, not like that. Of course, she didn’t have much in the house other than a couple of beers and a bottle or two of wine. Neither she nor True partook much, not after a drunk driver had ripped their lives apart all those years ago.

  But that crash had ripped Jamie’s life apart, too, so she couldn’t imagine that he’d been hiding a secret addiction only to fall off the wagon here and now.

  But it was strange enough that she had to stop, to make sure he was all right. She pulled in beside the Mustang. Got out, walked to the door. She could see the light was coming from the back, the bar area. She tried the front door, which was naturally locked. She walked through the narrow passageway between buildings to the back of the place, sparing a thought for a moment as she always did that she was in Whiskey River, where even at this hour in a dark alley she was relatively safe.

  When she reached the back corner and turned, ready to head and see if the back door was open, she instead stopped in her tracks.

  She’d almost forgotten about the somewhat battered upright piano that stood along the back wall of the bar section of the place. She never went in there, because it reminded her too strongly of the days Jamie had played there, as a teenager, before Scorpions, when he’d just been that kid everybody looked at warily until he began to play, and then gaped at when he began to sing. He must still have his old door key.

  But she was reminded now, powerfully, as music poured out of it. Something she’d never heard before, lilting, airy, yet powerful lower chords building beneath, until the two finally melded into an uplifting climb to a defiantly triumphant crescendo.

  Holding her breath, she went to the back door. It was closed, but unlocked. She eased it open. Saw him at the piano, his back to the doorway. Sometimes she forgot he played the piano this well. And that he’d said sometimes it was easier to write music with the fuller range of octaves at his fingertips.

  She inched inside, careful to make no noise. She closed the door just in time to hear it begin again, this time with his voice, that wonderful voice, singing lyrics that had already been written on the legal pad beside him. It was a story of love found, lost and regained, but more than that it was about seeing what was really important, and how sometimes you had to nearly lose it all to see it.

  She waited until he was done, not only because she wanted to hear it and didn’t want to risk interrupting the flow, but also because by the second chorus she was blinking away tears, it was so beautiful.

  And then, when he was done and sitting there, taking deep but steady breaths, staring down at his hands on the keys, she finally took those last few steps. And there was no stopping the tears when she read, written across the top of the page in his distinctive half-cursive, half-printed hand, “Zinnia Rose.”

  Her name hadn’t been in the lyrics—Jamie was subtler than that—but the title made it clear. She’d always hated her full name. Until now.

  He went very still and she knew he’d sensed her behind him. She had to swallow h
ard before she could get any words out. She kept her tone light, so he would know for sure it was a joke.

  “I was afraid you were out drinking before dawn.”

  He didn’t look at her. “Catchy. Make a good song.”

  “Hard to top what I just heard.”

  He stood then. And when he finally turned to look at her it was all there—the joy, the triumph, everything she’d heard in the music was alive in his eyes.

  Her thoughts were tumbling chaotically, and she had no idea where to begin, and so she merely asked, “Why here?”

  “My guitar’s at Aunt Millie’s, and this was closer.” He searched her face before saying, rather carefully, “I just woke up with it in my head, and it was so strong I had to try. I didn’t want to wake you because I was afraid it would just be…nothing again.”

  “And instead it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written,” she said softly.

  “It’s good,” he agreed tentatively. “Needs some work, but…”

  “Is there more?”

  The smile that curved his mouth then was like the sun that would be rising soon. “I think so. It feels…damn, it feels good.”

  He threw his arms around her in a fierce hug. She hugged him back, just as fiercely.

  He was whole again.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Stubborn thing, that muse of yours,” Zee said as she handed him a plate of fluffy pancakes and the bottle of syrup. The kind he preferred, had since—and probably because of—his childhood, that had a lot more sugar than maple in it, but since he didn’t do it often he didn’t worry about it much. But he noted that she had it on hand, even though he knew she preferred the more genuine kind. “Or maybe overworked.”

  “Maybe,” he said as he swallowed the bite he’d just spent a good minute savoring. “More like a contrary kid. She didn’t want to play until I said ‘Fine, I quit.’ Just like Deck told me.”

  She smiled at him then. “And then she was all, ‘Well, if you’re going to be that way about it?’”