A Daughter's Story (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

T
HE
NUMBER
OF
TIMES
Chris had felt grief were so few and far
between he could remember all of them. He relived each and every one as he sat
at Citadel’s that Friday night and nursed a second glass of not-cheap whiskey. A
single shot this time.

Every hurt, every disappointment, every little insecurity he’d
ever felt, came back to him as he sat there alone, trying to hold on to
faculties he refused to do without.

There was the time his father had called home and asked him to
bring his mother to the phone, and Chris, running into her room to get her, had
found her beneath a naked man he’d never met in the bed that his parents
shared.

He touched briefly on the night Sara had given him back the
diamond engagement ring she’d accepted several months before, but didn’t allow
himself to linger. The void that Sara’s leaving him had created was soon filled
again—by Sara. She was another man’s wife now, but she was Chris’s best
friend.

He thought about calling her, telling her about Ainge, and took
another sip of Scotch instead. Part of the reason she’d left him was because she
couldn’t live with the constant possibility of his death on the ocean. He didn’t
need to bring the possibility any closer to home.

Which left Chris with his morose trip down memory lane.

There was the morning he’d received the call that his parents
had been killed in a pileup on the freeway just fifteen minutes from home. That
was also when he found out they’d been on their way home from a court hearing
because his mother, who’d already broken his father’s heart, had filed for
divorce.

The last time had come a couple of days ago, when word had
spread that Wayne Ainge had gone overboard, when they’d all waited as rescue
crews attempted to get the young man up from the bottom of the ocean in time to
save his life, and then heard the news that they’d failed, that the boy was
dead.

Oh, and there was Christmas Day. He always had invitations for
the day, places he was wanted and welcome. But for some reason that day got to
him. Which was why he was usually the lone boat out on the ocean on December
25.

Still, only a handful of sad memories in forty years… He was a
lucky guy.

“You playing tonight?” Cody was back, tipping the bottle over
the top of Chris’s glass. He might have stopped him. Probably should have.
Instead, he allowed the younger man to fill his glass and then raised it to his
waiting lips.

The piano up on the dais was the reason he was there.

“Yeah,” he answered after he sipped.

Nodding, Cody headed down the bar. Chris was pretty sure he
heard him say “Good,” but he could have just imagined it. No matter. He didn’t
play for Cody. Or for anyone.

He played because music was good for the soul.

And because he could.

He played because doing so helped ease the tension that came
with lobstering every day of your life.

* * *

S
HE
’
D
GIVEN
R
OB
twenty-four hours to get out of the house. She’d told him she was going
to stay with her mother. She’d known she could. Truthfully, she hadn’t planned
anything. Contrary to her normal way, she’d spoken without first analyzing the
various ramifications of her decision.

She didn’t have a house to go home to. She’d left her mother’s
and she wasn’t going back that night.

Her attachment to her mother was probably part of the reason
Rob had cheated on her. A woman with her mother attached to her hip couldn’t be
much of a turn-on.

A woman who couldn’t climax probably wasn’t much of a turn-on,
either. Lord knew she tried, but her body didn’t seem to be capable of letting
go.

And even if her relationship with Rose had nothing to do with
any of her problems, Emma needed to be away from her mother long enough to be
able to breathe on her own.

First, she needed a place to spend the night.

She’d walked out without packing so much as a toothbrush.

She kept one at her mom’s. Along with pajamas and changes of
clothes. Maybe she should go back. It made sense to go back. What was one more
night going to hurt?

She could start her new life tomorrow. Right after she changed
the locks on her doors.

And what if Rob was at her townhome tomorrow, waiting for her?
What if he tried to change her mind? There she’d be, going straight from her
mother’s house back to the secure life Rob offered her—albeit a life spent
putting up with Rob’s philandering ways.

No, she couldn’t go to her mother’s. She couldn’t show up at
home tomorrow, the same woman she was today—the woman who hadn’t been exciting
enough to hold her man’s interest.

She couldn’t go home as the woman who settled for safety and
security.

If she was going to change her life, it had to be tonight. She
had to take a chance. To do something, anything, that wasn’t her norm. She had
to be someone different.

Switching from her MP3 player, which was loaded with
classics—soft and soothing music that was there to relax her after a day with
rambunctious high schoolers—Emma stopped at the first satellite radio station
that was blaring a beat.

The LED dash display broadcast the song title and artist in
little green letters. She recognized neither and turned up the volume. She’d
drown out her thoughts. And if she ever found a song she knew, she’d scream the
words at the top of her lungs and pretend that she was singing along.

* * *

T
HREE
HOURS
INTO
Friday
evening, Chris was on his third drink. He wasn’t drunk, but even the ageless hag
at the bar was beginning to look a little better.

Awaiting his turn on the piano, he listened to his competitors
pounding the keys of the baby grand on the raised carpeted dais that was the
restaurant’s centerpiece. The dais turned; the tables surrounding it did
not.

The gleaming black instrument shone under professional
spotlights and was the only furniture on the stage.

Chris’s number in the single elimination competition was up
soon. He’d won the last draw of the night, which meant that he’d be up against
the pianist voted by preselected judges as the best of the bunch. Chris liked
the spot because he could stay onstage after he’d finished his set and play for
as many hours as it took to wipe away the tension from the past week.

He didn’t need another win. He needed relaxation. He needed
peace.

He needed to forget the grieving faces of those who’d loved—and
lost—a man of the sea.

* * *

T
HE
PLACE
SMELLED
as heavenly as
she’d remembered—a mixture of spices, freshly baked rolls and prime cuts of
steak marinated in Citadel’s secret sauce. Locals didn’t usually patronize the
glitzy establishments on the tourist strip in downtown Comfort Cove, but a son
of one of the teachers at school had played in a piano competition there a
couple of times and Emma had accompanied the divorced mother on both
occasions.

Now, sitting alone at the bar—something she’d never have
considered doing before—she sipped a glass of white wine and concentrated on
convincing herself that she could stay right where she was at least until she
finished her drink.

Making deals with herself.

If she stayed fifteen minutes, she could make a trip to the
ladies’ room to reassess.

If she stayed half an hour, she could think about getting a
table. Maybe even order something to eat. If she made it an hour, she’d have to
call someone—her divorced teacher friend, probably—and let her know where she
was.

If she had more than two glasses of wine she’d call a cab.…

To take her…where?

Raising the heavy crystal glass to her lips, she gulped. She’d
figure that out later. There were plenty of hotels downtown.

And because she paid her credit card off every single month,
she had plenty of limit to cover whatever exorbitant fee they’d charge.

She’d show Rob.…

No. She was there to show herself something. To save her
life.

She sipped again, raised her gaze and took in the people around
her. A couple of men sitting alone at the bar, both dressed in suits with their
ties loosened at the collar. A woman who was also alone and probably there on
business. Just not the white-collar kind.

There were couples—both at the bar and filling the tables
around the center stage—but those she ignored. And there were families, healthy
groups of people who laughed and talked and fought and took one another for
granted. She’d spent a lot of her youth wondering what it felt like to be one of
them.

And then she’d grown up and realized she could make a family of
her own. That’s where Rob had come in. They had plans to make a family.

And she’d kicked him out.

She had to phone him. To apologize for her hastiness. He’d be
expecting the call. So maybe she should text him instead.

“And I did it my…”
She suddenly
heard the famous melody and it caught her attention.

Reaching beneath her jacket to make sure that her red silk
blouse was still tucked into her black slacks, Emma sat up straighter. The words
continued to play in her mind.

But they’d been placed there by the pianist up onstage. The
timing seemed odd. Fortuitous. As though this song had been chosen for
her.
A song about facing the end of one’s life with
absolutely no regrets.

And the way to do that?

Live by the dictates of your own heart. And only your
heart.

Have I ever done that?

Emma sipped her wine.

She watched the pianist’s strong masculine fingers fly over the
keys. She’d seen him play before. He’d won the competition on both the nights
she’d been there.

Forgoing her fifteen-minute-mark trip to the ladies’ room, she
ordered a second glass of wine and let the music envelop her. The man played
with more passion than Emma had ever dared feel in her entire life.

And he did so as though completely unaware of all of the people
watching him from the tables below.

If there’d been a competition that evening, it was over.

The man with the weathered face and longish hair had the stage
all to himself.

* * *

H
E
’
D
WON
AGAIN
.
If
Chris were the sort to care about what other people thought, he’d probably be
embarrassed. He didn’t care. So he wasn’t.

He also wasn’t stone-cold sober, not that anyone was paying his
state of inebriation any mind. His room at the inn across the street would be
waiting for him. He rarely used it, but every Friday night he had a free room at
his disposal—paid for by Citadel’s owner as part of their business
agreement.

Tonight he was going to use that room.

Breaking into one of his own compositions, a piece that flew
from his fingers without any conscious thought, he let the music take him on his
own private journey. He was a little boy, scared of the waves that crashed
against his father’s boat. And he was the waves, with the strength and the will
to steal men from their lives, their loved ones. He was the source of all power.
Others were afraid; he was invigorated.

He played until he trembled from the inside out, until emotion
rose in his chest, and threatened to choke him. And still he played.

With the demons of hell at his back, with the determination to
go to his own grave with no regrets, he ran as fast and as far as he could from
the sight of a mother’s face who’d buried her son that day, from the memories of
the faces of the other women there—those who, except for a fate he’d never
understand, could have been the ones grieving. He ran from the expressions on
the faces of the men left behind who would not—could not—spare their loved ones
the risk of a similar fate.

And maybe, just maybe, he ran from the fact that he was all
alone.

* * *

E
MMA
WASN
’
T
PARTICULARLY
hungry. But she ordered food, anyway, so that she had an excuse to stay
in her seat at the bar and continue to lose herself in the music emanating from
the fingers of a man she’d never met but knew she’d never forget.

He’d changed her life that night. He’d shared his music with
her, wrapped her in its graces, holding her there so that she didn’t run back
home.

She ordered more wine, too. A third glass.

The pianist pulled things from her raw and gaping heart that
were unfamiliar to her. Parts of herself she hadn’t had to face. He held her
fast in life’s grip, keeping her rooted in that seat.

She ate a little bit. Pushed the plate away and sipped her wine
and listened. It was after midnight. The man had been playing, with only one
small break, for more than two hours.

He was bound to stop soon.

She couldn’t bear the thought. Not now. Not yet. She wasn’t
ready for him to let her go, to leave her to fend for herself.

She wasn’t changed enough.

She needed more.

She had to meet him.

CHAPTER FIVE

W
ITH
HANDS
USED
to pulling in heavy
lobster traps in rapid succession, Chris communed with the ivories. The music
his playing sent out into the night was a byproduct—he felt melodies and
harmonies and chords more than he heard them. He didn’t understand how it
worked—the music and his inner self healing. He didn’t ask. He just presented
himself to the keys and played until he knew he was done.

Until he knew he could sleep.

At least, that was how it had always worked before.

So why wasn’t it working?

When midnight passed and he was still driven to play, when the
tunes he produced changed from popular ditties to intense renditions of
classical masterpieces with a few of his own compositions mixed in, when his
fingertips grew numb with pounding, he ordered a fourth drink to help the peace
he was seeking find him more easily. To assist the piano in its work.

“You’re here late tonight,” Cody said as he delivered the drink
himself. Other than a waitress on the floor and the checker at the door, Cody
was the only employee left for the night. The kitchen had been closed for a
couple of hours.

“So are you,” Chris said, tipping his glass to the friendly
guy. “I’ll bet your wife has a bit to say about that.” About the long hours. The
time away.

“As long as I get home in time to crawl into bed with her, she
doesn’t complain,” Cody said. “I’m home with her and the kids during the day and
now that they’re in preschool we’ve got lots of time just the two of us. It’s
nice.”

Chris nodded, one hand on the keys, trying to imagine what it
would be like to be home with a wife and kids even for an hour, and coming up
blank.

“Who’s the woman?” He’d noticed the woman in the tailored black
suit and red silky-looking top over the past few hours and she was something he
could converse about, though why he had a sudden urge to hang out with the
bartender was a mystery.

“Not sure,” Cody said. “I don’t know her and she hasn’t said
much.”

She’d had plenty of male admirers. Chris would guess just about
every adult male in the place had given her the once-over. More than once.

“Someone probably stood her up,” he said, taking another sip.
The liquor was warm going down. Felt good. “Can’t imagine why, though. She’s a
looker.” In a nontarty sort of way. Long legged, and even in the conservative
black slacks and jacket her curves caught his attention.

The woman didn’t need jewelry or makeup to call attention to
herself. Hell, he’d bet she’d look good in an old robe and shower cap.

But what a shame it would be to hide that head of hair. He
couldn’t seem to push away the image of those long dark curls splayed across a
rumpled white pillowcase. He sipped again, enjoying the mental image for another
second.

“She’s sure been looking at you, man,” Cody said, turning to
eye the woman, who was holding her almost-empty wineglass by the stem with both
hands.

Chris had noticed. He’d made eye contact a time or two. Had
nodded and received a nod in return.

“She been talking to anybody?”

“Nope.”

“No one?”

“Nope.”

“Not even on a cell phone?”

“Nope. No texting, either.”

“An out-of-towner?”

“Here on business? Knows no one? Most likely,” Cody said.

She glanced their way. Held up her glass with a smile that was
more shy than flirtatious.

Chris tapped a chord. And taking one more sip of whiskey, he
started to play again.

* * *

S
HE
WAS
THE
sixth-to-the-last
patron in the bar. Two separate tables, a couple at each, were still occupied.
And the leathery-skinned woman who still sat at the other end of the bar. The
woman talked to pretty much anyone who sat near her, but so far she was
alone.

Maybe she wasn’t a working girl as she’d first assumed. Maybe
she was the wife or girlfriend of the piano player? Used to sitting by herself
all night while her man worked?

Keeping watch over him?

Like she should have kept watch over Rob?

One o’clock in the morning and Emma still had no place to be.
Or desire to go.

She couldn’t drive anywhere. That decision had been made with
her last glass of wine.

One of the hotels on the block was going to be her
accommodation. Didn’t matter which one. They were all nice. All clean. In a safe
area. And, because it was fall and not summer, they’d be sure to have rooms
available.

Piano man glanced at her. Again. Emma should have looked away.
Any other time she would have.

His glance called to her. She heard him. Those eyes said he
found her interesting. She told him his music moved her.

He felt her pain. She was aware of his depths.

They were two intense people meeting on a level that no one
else could share.

Or at least that’s how she translated their silent
communications.

She’d never been intense before. Never even gave herself a
chance to see if she could be.

She was different tonight. Allowing herself to just be.
Watching, as if from afar, to see who might emerge. Maybe, just maybe, she was
finding the person inside of her that she’d kept locked up tight since the day
Claire went missing.

And even if this woman was only allowed out of her cage for
this one night, Emma was determined to give her life.

So she sipped her wine. And she participated in nonverbal
conversations.

She’d go get her hotel room. As soon as piano man was done for
the night. As long as he was going to play for her, she was going to stay and
listen.

* * *

C
ODY
WOULDN
’
T
TELL
him to
leave. Don Carmine, Cody’s boss and owner of Citadel’s, would have his hide if
the bartender in any way offended the provider of Citadel’s discounted lobster
supply. One of the best deals Chris had ever made—his lobster in exchange for
24/7 use of the baby grand, accomodations across the street when he wanted them,
and whatever he wanted to drink. Chris didn’t abuse those privileges.

He didn’t usually stay late, either, but tonight he couldn’t
bring himself to leave. Not while the long-legged woman still sat at the bar
watching him.

His mystery woman played him just right. She made no demands or
requests. Nothing he’d have to reject. She was just there. And she was
exquisite.

Chris softened his touch on the keys, caressing them, telling
the woman through his playing that she moved him.

He found it curious that she didn’t seem to have much awareness
of her effect on other people. He hadn’t seen her so much as make eye contact
with a single one of the men who’d been buzzing around her that night.

A woman alone keeping to herself wasn’t so unusual—what struck
him was the way her shoulders pulled in slightly instead of squaring off, her
air of hesitation, the fact that every time he caught her eye, she always
glanced away first.

A glass appeared on the cork-lined black tray sitting on top of
the piano, within hands’ reach, as he played. A set of keys followed.

“Lock up when you’re through.” Cody’s words could be heard over
the ballad Chris was playing.

He glanced around. The place was empty. The waitress—Beth—and
the bouncer at the door must’ve gone home.

His gaze landed back on the woman who was the last remaining
customer at the bar.

“She asked if she could stay. I told her it was fine with me as
long as it was all right with you.”

Watching the woman, who was watching him, Chris nodded. And as
he heard the back door click behind Cody, he started another song.

* * *

S
HE
COULDN
’
T
SPEND
the
night in a bar. But what difference would it make if Emma checked into a room,
with nothing but her purse, at one-thirty in the morning or three-thirty?

Piano man—
Chris,
Cody had told her
when he’d poured her last glass of wine, on the house—continued to play. But he
watched her, not the keys beneath his fingertips.

That was fine. She was watching him, too.

She wondered about Chris’s shoulders, so broad they stretched
the long-sleeved white dress shirt he wore. Wondered if playing piano was what
he did for a living.

She could have asked Cody.

She hadn’t.

Chris raised an eyebrow to her. She tilted her head.

Her breasts felt twice their size as she sat there, staring at
him. Her nipples tingled. She had been freed for the night by wine. And
music.

She was dangerous.

In that moment Emma liked the change.

As much as she didn’t want Chris to stop playing, she wanted
him to stop even more. He had to at some point.

And when he did, what then?

Would he speak to her?

Or simply motion for her to leave so he could lock up and
disappear into the night?

Lifting a hand from the piano keys, continuing his auditory art
with one-handed playing, he raised his glass to his lips. Sipped slowly. Her
fingers shook on the stem of her wineglass as she also lifted her glass, and
folded her lips around the rim.

He put down his glass, and she listened for the message the
keys would send out as he returned his hand to them. Soft? Sweet? Intense? Deep,
dark chords?

But his right hand didn’t return to the piano. He held it palm
up, and folded three of his strong fingers inward. The fourth, his index finger,
he crooked, calling to her.

The new Emma, the one who was refusing to go home to her
mother’s house, stood. She maintained eye contact. And with desire spiraling in
private places, she started toward the piano man with no thoughts of turning
back.