Imperfect Harmony (16 page)

“That’s a shame. Starry will be gutted.”

John grinned. “I’m sure Maggie will let me borrow him sometimes. I think Billy would be pretty heartbroken if he didn’t see Starry again. We’ll have to get them together soon. So anyway, what do you think about my suggestion for the morning?”

“It sounds good, but my guitar’s at home. I’d have to go and fetch it.”

Of course, John had forgotten that. “I have one you can use.” He tried to keep his voice light, but tension tightened his jaw.

“Really? I’ve never noticed it.”

“It’s not in the music room. Let me go and find it. Unless you need to go home to get your music anyway?”

“Nah.” Rhys tapped his temple. “It’s all in here.”

John went upstairs and paused on the landing, steeling himself for a moment before opening the door to the third, and smallest bedroom in the house. It had always been the spare room, and it had doubled as an office space before John’s dad left. Now it was a storeroom. A room full of memories John preferred to avoid.

He picked his way between boxes labelled neatly in his mum’s handwriting. She’d come to help him sort out David’s things when he’d been unable to do it himself. But John hadn’t been able to bring himself to get rid of any of it, so it had all sat in the spare bedroom in the house he and David had shared until he moved back home when his mum was ill.

It was all still here, waiting for him to be ready to do something with it.

David’s guitar was in a case, propped up in the corner of the cluttered room. John’s heart beat fast as he stared at it. He could imagine what David would say. He’d hate to see it sitting there, gathering dust.

It’s an instrument; it’s meant to be used
.

Steeling himself, John picked it up and carried it carefully downstairs. He heard the sound of the piano and followed it to the music room. Rhys had a book open and was picking out a folk tune with his right hand, playing chords with his left.

“It hasn’t been used in a while, so it’ll be in dire need of tuning,” John said, putting the guitar case down on the table.

Rhys turned to watch as John opened the case and drew out the instrument. “Wow. That’s a beauty.”

It was a top-of-the-range acoustic. John had bought it for David for his thirtieth birthday. It had cost him a small fortune, but it had been worth every penny to see the expression of delight on David’s face—much like the one on Rhys’s now as he gazed at it admiringly.

“It was David’s.” John thought it was better to be upfront. His heart was lodged in his throat somewhere, his voice came out rough and strained, but he knew he was doing the right thing.

Rhys’s eyes widened. He didn’t ask if John was sure, but the question was in his eyes.

John was utterly certain. He handed Rhys the guitar.

Rhys strummed an E minor chord and they both winced.

“Yeah, it needs a bit of tuning.” Rhys plucked the strings and turned the pegs, frowning with concentration until he was satisfied.

He played a minor chord sequence John didn’t recognise, before switching to the familiar intro for “Danny Boy.” He looked up. “Wanna run through this one with the violin?”

“Okay.” John got out his instrument and checked the tuning. It was fine.

It was as though Rhys knew exactly what John needed to do. John and David had played this song together so often. At home, in pub sessions, at low-key gigs in bars thick with cigarette smoke before smokers were banished to pub gardens.

The song held so many memories, but they were just that. Memories. David was in John’s past now, and if John wanted the chance of a happy future, he needed to let him go.

John watched Rhys’s fingers form the familiar chord shapes on David’s much-loved guitar, and a confusing mixture of loss and hope hit him. Emotion thickened his throat and made it hard for him to join in as Rhys began to sing the first verse. He felt as though David was slipping farther away from him, and he was reminded of the dream he’d had a couple of weeks ago.

You have to go on without me.

For the first time in two years, John could imagine a future where that was possible. John was finally open to the idea of loving someone other than David. Someone new.

The lump in his throat eased and he joined in the song. His voice was husky at first, still rough at the edges with suppressed emotion. But by the time they got to the chorus, it rose clear and strong.

He played the violin instrumental section effortlessly, coaxing the familiar notes from the strings. He had his eyes closed at first, but when he opened them, he instinctively sought out Rhys and found him watching him. Rhys smiled, and John’s heart lifted a little more.

They were a huge hit at Beech House that afternoon. The addition of the violin had people sitting up and taking interest, and almost everyone in the room joined in with the chorus of “Danny Boy.” The round of applause they got at the end was very enthusiastic.

But they saved the best till last.

“Now.” Rhys stood up and cast his gaze around the room. Some of the old folk straightened up expectantly. “We have a treat for you as our last song of the day. It’s something new… but I think most of you will know it, so please join in if you do.” He sought out Mrs Pickering and grinned at her. “Mrs P, this one’s for you. Take it away, John.”

The piano was angled so that John could see his audience, and he was glad because he wouldn’t have wanted to miss Mrs Pickering’s reaction as he played the opening bars. Recognition dawned on her features and the lines on her face rearranged themselves into a smile of pure joy. She clasped her hands together as John and Rhys started singing, leading the chorus as most people in the room joined in. A middle-aged woman next to Mrs Pickering was joining in with gusto and clapping along in time to the music.

Rhys walked over to Mrs Pickering, singing the words to her. She reached out her hands as he approached. He took them and helped her to her feet, breaking off from the chorus to ask, “May I have this dance?”

She nodded, delighted, and he guided her carefully into the middle of the room where they did a small circuit as the audience looked on, smiling and singing along.

Tears shone in her eyes, but she was radiant, staring at Rhys as though he’d hung the moon. John felt a prickle at the back of his own eyes watching them. His heart swelled with pride as he watched Rhys make Mrs Pickering’s day—or maybe her year.

When the song came to an end, Rhys gave her a small bow and then a hug. John could see her lips moving but couldn’t hear what she was saying over the applause that filled the room.

“Bravo,” one old gentleman called. “Bravo!”

John caught his eye and nodded his thanks, his smile wide and his heart full.

They stayed for a cup of tea after they’d finished performing, and John got talking to some of the residents, giving Rhys a bit of time with his gran.

He sat with Mrs Pickering for a while, and the woman who was sitting with her introduced herself as Mrs Pickering’s daughter, visiting for the afternoon.

After shaking John’s hand, the daughter, Pam, said, “That was lovely. Mum’s always loved that song, haven’t you, Mum?”

“Sorry dear, what song?” Mrs Pickering gave a small frown of confusion.

“You know, the Frank Sinatra one, ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’?” Pam spoke slowly and clearly as though to a child.

Mrs Pickering nodded, a wistful smile on her face. “Jimmy and I danced to that at our ruby wedding anniversary, you know.”

“I remember, Mum.”

“He was such a lovely dancer.” Mrs Pickering was lost in memories again. “He used to play it for me on the piano too, and sing it to me.”

John wondered what it was like for her, living more in the past than the present. In her dementia-ravaged brain, the mental tapestry of her distant memories was more vivid and clearer than what happened yesterday, or even five minutes ago. She seemed quite happy, at least. He supposed that was something.

“It’s a lovely song,” he said. “I like it too.”

Mrs Pickering nodded vaguely, a faraway look in her eyes.

The sound of music drew John’s attention.

Rhys was sitting next to his gran with his guitar on his knee. He strummed a chord and plucked out a riff. “That one?” He raised his eyebrows.

His gran nodded her approval.

John could see the tension in Rhys’s jaw as he paused, seeming to centre himself before starting to play again. It wasn’t supposed to be a performance this time, but the room fell silent anyway in response to the music.

John didn’t recognise the introduction, but when Rhys started singing, he was entranced. It wasn’t like any of the rock and pop covers he’d heard Rhys play before. This was fresh and had a young sound to it. It reminded John a little of Ed Sheeran—an artist John admired—but with an edge. It was a love song, a little happy, a little wistful. It suited Rhys’s light tenor perfectly, and John was blown away by how good he sounded. He wondered whom the song was by.

The last verse told of the uncertainty about whether the writer’s feelings were reciprocated. As he sang, Rhys sought out John and their gazes locked for a moment. John swallowed hard. It felt as though Rhys was singing directly to him, asking John a question he wasn’t ready to answer, even though he desperately wanted to reassure him.

When Rhys finished, John clapped louder than anyone else. Rhys gave him a small smile, looking pleased and proud of himself.

Chatter broke out again, but John excused himself as soon as he could. “It was good to meet you Pam.” He shook her hand again.

“You too.”

“I’ll see you next week, Mrs Pickering.” John clasped the frail hand the old lady offered.

“Yes, dear. Thank you.”

John made his way over to Rhys and his gran. “Hello, Betty.” He offered her his hand to shake.

“John. Lovely to see you again.”

John turned to Rhys. “That song was beautiful. Who sang it originally?”

Rhys’s cheeks coloured. “Um, well….”

“It’s one of his own,” Betty chipped in. “It’s my favourite, but he’s written so many it’s hard to choose. He’s such a talented boy, and it’s wasted on us.”

“Gran,” Rhys protested.

She shook her head. “I keep telling him he should be out performing to other audiences, to younger audiences. Not only playing for a bunch of old fogeys like us.” The sparkle in her eyes showed she was half joking, but there was a thread of determination as she continued. “And he should be playing his own songs. They’re too good not to be heard.”

John didn’t know how to respond. He looked at Rhys, who was uncharacteristically lost for words after his gran’s outburst.

“I like performing here,” Rhys finally managed. “I’m too busy with teaching to do much else these days.”

Betty sniffed, clearly smelling a rat. With perception that belied her years, she fixed him with a piercing look. “You could make time for it if you wanted.” Her expression softened, and she put her hand on his arm as Rhys cast his gaze down to the floor. “I know it’s hard for you after what happened. But God gave you a talent. It makes me sad to see it going to waste.”

“I don’t believe in God,” Rhys muttered mutinously.

“I know. But it still applies, God or no God. You only get one life, and you should make the most of it.”

There was an uneasy silence. John shifted from foot to foot, feeling as though he was intruding. Rhys looked desperately uncomfortable, and the mood of the afternoon had turned a little sour.

John cleared his throat. “Um, sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to need to make a move now. Rhys, do you need a lift back?”

Rhys met his gaze and John caught a flash of gratitude. “Yes, please.” He pulled himself together then and managed to give his gran a smile, albeit a slightly tight-lipped one. “Sorry to rush off, but I’ll see you next week.”

“All right, love.” She patted his arm again. “And I’m sorry to nag. You know it’s only because I love you.”

“I know.” His smile eased, and he put the guitar aside so he could lean forward and kiss her cheek. “Bye, Gran.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rhys collapsed into the passenger seat of John’s car with a heavy sigh, glad to have escaped his gran’s well-meaning interference. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

John didn’t say anything for a while, and Rhys started to relax, relieved that John didn’t ask him about what just happened.

Rhys chewed on a fingernail, frowning, wishing he hadn’t caved in when his gran had pestered him to sing her that song, “Tell Me It’s Real.” He’d written it in the early stages of his relationship with Lyle when he was falling in love but wasn’t sure how Lyle felt. He’d poured all his tentative passion and uncertainty about the future into the lyrics.

It was ironic how apt the song was for his current situation. He hadn’t realised that until he was singing the song and the room had fallen silent to listen. Then he’d caught sight of John listening raptly, and the parallel had struck Rhys forcefully.

“Do you want me to take you home? Or do you want to come back to mine again?” John asked.

Rhys had deliberately not made any plans for that evening. His mum had texted earlier asking him if he would be there for dinner, and he’d said no, hoping he’d get to spend the night with John again. He felt unsettled and edgy now, unsure whether some space would be better for both of them. The last twenty-four hours had been pretty intense, but Rhys craved more of John’s company, more time in his bed. Whatever was developing between them wouldn’t become any clearer if he ran away from it.

“Back to yours sounds good, but can we stop at Tesco on the way?”

John glanced sidelong at him before flicking his gaze back to the road. “Sure. I need to get some food anyway.”

Rhys bit back a grin. Food was the last thing on his mind.

John got a supermarket trolley and filled it with what Rhys assumed must be his weekly shopping: bread, milk, some fruit, and an assortment of microwaveable meals for one.

They agreed on pizza for dinner and added some salad to go with it.