Sweet Talk Me (37 page)

He kicked a beer bottle and watched it spin across the room. They really ought to come with an extra warning label, something like,
CAUTION: DOES JACK SQUAT TO MEND A BROKEN HEART.

“Your loss,” said Gage.

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s all the comfort I get?”

“Oh. I wasn’t trying to comfort you. It was a literal observation. Today the girls are at the store getting it ready.”

“Appreciate the random change of subject. Who are the girls?”

“Carmela, Weezie, and True, of course. The store’s opening as The Damn Yankee tomorrow.”

“Hey. I like that.”

“Three firefighters from the Queens fire station where Carmela’s dad worked before 9/11 are coming down for the ribbon cutting.”

Gage gave him a quick explanation.

“I had no idea about her dad,” Harrison said.

“She never talked about him. But now she does. And I can see a difference in her. She’s still affable and gregarious, but she’s also serene somehow.”

“Wow,” Harrison said. “Is that your fancy way of saying she’s pretty much perfect?”

“For me, she is.”

“I’m glad. For both of you.” He paused. “I have to go. But it was great talking to you. Oh, and I hope the house building’s progressing well.”

“It is. Quite well. Good luck in LA tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

When he hung up, Harrison wrote down the lyrics and chords he had come up with for “Whoopee.” He picked up all the beer bottles and righted the bike, then wheeled it out onto his porch. A housekeeper would come tomorrow to get things spiffy again.

It was time to pack for LA.

If Sam the Dog were real and with him on the porch, Harrison would scratch his ears and say,
I’m glad the bad rogue didn’t win, aren’t you?

He was really,
really
glad.

Good for True for dumping Dubose. And, man—she’d even held an art show.

“’This girl is on fire,’” he managed to sing, even though his head still ached, all through his shower. As long as she was thriving, he could bear his own misery.

When he looked civilized again, he pulled out his favorite leather bag from his closet to pack for LA and saw his dad’s guitar, which he hadn’t touched since he’d gotten back. His mouth crooked up, which surprised him. There was no guilt anymore. Just regret. And love.

He ran his hand over the instrument’s smooth surface.

Dad.

He’d only been able to visit his father in jail once. Mama had scrounged the gas money together to get them to Columbia. Dad had told him through the window to learn how to play it.

Now Harrison sat down on the edge of the bed and strummed a chord. It was hopelessly out of tune, but with new strings and a good cleaning it would be just fine. He’d use it, too, in honor of Dad, for an acoustic number at his next concert.

Huh. He heard a noise inside the body and gently shook it. A piece of wood must have come loose from the inner frame, so he shook the guitar again, tilting it in the hope that the fragment would fall out.

A football-shaped piece of paper dropped onto the bed instead.

What the hell?

And then he remembered. He and Gage, when they were little, used their father’s guitar like a secret post office. They left each other notes. But that had stopped when Gage was ten and he was seven and their dad had caught them and said he didn’t want them using his guitar as a toy.

The paper was yellowed looseleaf, and as he unfolded it, he wondered what it could possibly say. Was it one he’d written? Or Gage?

His astonishment grew when he smoothed it out and recognized a young girl’s scrawl. He’d seen it often enough at school. And the signature at the bottom confirmed it.

This was a note from True Maybank, age twelve.

Not Gage or Harrison. Why was it in the guitar?

He put that question aside for later, and read the note, his eyes burning. And then he read it again.

And again.

She told him how her birthday was terrible and she couldn’t play at Sand Dollar Heaven anymore. She had responsibilities at home:

I hope you’ll understand. My family needs me to grow up.

But I love you, Harrison. I’ll love you forever, and when I move away from Mama and Daddy, I’ll look for you again. I won’t stop until I find you, either. Friends like you come around only once a lifetime. Your Sewee princess, True XOXO

This was weirder than Bad Rogue Wins. He looked around the room, half expecting Rod Serling to appear.

Dan called a few minutes later. “Any luck with the song?”

“Yep.” Harrison was folding a few of his favorite T-shirts into three sections and then in half again and putting them in his bag. “I should be able to send the studio some samples this week.”

“Fantastic. The producers in LA are going to be treating you like a king. They’re really excited. And here’s the best part. Hold on to your suspenders.”

When Harrison heard how much money they were paying him, he sat on the edge of the bed again. “That’s ridiculous.”

“They think you’re worth it.”

“Thanks for pulling that off, Dan.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Harrison scratched the top of his head. “There’s only one problem.”

“Name it. They’ll fix it. That’s how much they want you.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said gently. “I’m really sorry.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Why?” Dan croaked.

“I have to stay on the East Coast.” It felt exactly right to say that. “I’ve got people over here. And I don’t want to leave ’em.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else? Maybe that blond? The one with the crappy car?”

“Her, too,” Harrison said. “Especially her.”

“Congratulations. It’s about time. I was about to buy you a stuffed dog and call him Sam. You’re getting a little insane on your own.”

Harrison laughed, and it felt good. “I don’t know if she’ll have me. I don’t know how we can be together and still do what we each have to do.”

“This is big,” said Dan.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Big and wonderful. My job is to help you do what you want to do in this business. So I’m here. I’ll go to bat for you, my friend. We can get as creative as you want. We can’t teleport people yet, but we have Skype and laptops, and pretty much every major city has great recording studios.”

“Thanks, Dan. Hey, you’ve been such a sport, I’m going to let you hang up first from now on, okay?”

“What a perk.”

The dial tone sounded.

Ah, Dan. He was a good guy.

Harrison whistled to himself as he finished packing. He’d fly commercial to Charleston tonight and write songs in the Francis Marion Hotel, then in the morning he’d drive up to Biscuit Creek in time for the opening of The Damn Yankee.

You know you’re going to True’s first.

A huge rock lodged in his stomach. He was nervous. He remembered the last time he’d declared his intentions in front of a whole roomful of their peers. The silence, the scorn, the shame of being rejected, and the pain of seeing what he’d done to True—she’d sobbed into her hands, her delicate shoulders quaking …

To this day, thinking about it made him a little sick. And it could happen all over again. It made sense that it would happen all over again! He wasn’t sure he should put her through it another time. Was he selfish? Was he naive? Did he need to stop playing games with people who led happy, normal lives and accept that he never could?

He didn’t know.

But there was one thing he could do that would alleviate some of his stress. He’d try to catch her at home before she got to the store and talk to her in private. If he got there early enough, he could sit at the table with her and Weezie and eat breakfast. He hoped True would make that oatmeal again, the kind she got all excited about. And maybe he could ask to see her copy machine, and when they were in the attic, he’d …

He didn’t know.

Add new toner to her copier machine? Jump her bones? Get down on one knee and declare his love? Sing her a song called “Miss Priss,” which he hadn’t even written yet?

It wasn’t much of a plan. But at least he’d gotten her as far as the attic. Although maybe he should do some bewitchin’ in the kitchen instead …

“Damn,” he said out loud when he locked the house behind him and threw his bag in the car. He had a revelation. He’d do all of the above, starting with the toner and ending with the song.

Because being in love wasn’t for sissies.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“So are we going to look for a boarder again?” Weezie asked True two days after the wedding was supposed to take place. They were outside collecting eggs.

“I guess so,” True said. “Why not?”

Weezie stood straight. “We’ll be fine without Dubose.”

“Of course we will.” And in her heart, True believed it. They had their U-pick operation. And if she could sell a collage here and there, that would supplement their income. Of course, her big hope was that she’d be able to sell a lot of copies of one great print to an art broker … something that would hang in hospitals or hotels or offices around the country.

“You act happier when you’re not around Dubose,” Weezie said.

“I am.” True closed her hand over a warm brown egg and put it in her basket. She missed Harrison, but she felt good. She’d decided to stop chasing security so much and take more risks. She was an artist out in the open now. She had Weezie, Carmela, and Maybank Hall. She even had the town of Biscuit Creek behind her. At the impromptu art show party she’d thrown, she’d learned that very few people could tolerate Penn, which was understandable. But she was shocked to hear that an awful lot of folks never managed to get excited about her and Dubose as a couple.

“He’s town and you’re country” was the general consensus.

Only one person appeared truly regretful that they didn’t marry: Mr. York, a local developer. “It’s a shame, darlin’. We coulda made a fine neighborhood on your back property. But if you’re still interested, let me know. I’ll bring the plans right over.”

“Mr. York”—her hands were shaking—“I didn’t know a thing about this plan of Dubose’s.”

Great balls of fire, did Mr. York’s face turn red!

“And I’ll never sell,” True had told him, “so please don’t get your hopes up.”

The day was going to be gorgeous, perfect for the ribbon cutting of The Damn Yankee. She found another egg. And then another. “The chickens are happier, too,” she told Weezie. “They’re laying more eggs.”

Her life wasn’t over, not by a long shot. That feeling of sadness about Harrison would dissipate someday, she hoped. Maybe when she was fifty? Or sixty? Surely by then, she’d lose her longing for him.

Which meant she only had twenty or thirty years to go.

Sweet grandmother’s spatula. Who was she kidding? He was the love of her life. She’d never get over him. At least she could Google him to see what he was doing. There were women out there who weren’t as lucky, who lost track of the “one who got away.” True could watch tapes of him, listen to him sing …

It would be utter torture. Her vision got a little blurry, and she sighed. “I’m going in now to cook the oatmeal.”

“I’ll be there in a little while,” Weezie said. “I’m going to clean out the coop.”

“But it’s my turn.”

“I know.”

True smiled at her sister. “Thanks.” She’d grown up so much. “Weezie—”

“Yes?”

True inhaled a deep breath. “I think you should move into that apartment this semester, after all. Get the real going-away-from-home experience from the start.”

Her sister’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” True clenched the egg basket. “You’re ready. I’m going to be so proud to see you thrive.”

“Oh. My. Gosh.” Weezie had tears in her eyes.

So did True. “Don’t drop the eggs!” She walked over and kissed her sister’s cheek. “See you in a few.”

She had just finished stirring the oatmeal when the front doorbell rang. Maybe it was Carmela or Gage come to get the treat bags of Coney Island saltwater taffy that she and Weezie had made up the night before for the ribbon cutting. Gage still had his stuff here, but the last two nights he’d spent at Carmela’s. True turned off the burner and put down her spoon.

When she saw who the visitor was, her face flamed, and her hands instantly began to sweat. She opened the screen door only partially.

“True.” Dubose’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re looking well.”

She wouldn’t acknowledge his compliment. “Hello, Dubose.” She held tight to the door handle. “Why are you here?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you inside.”

Hmmm. She
did
mind. But she didn’t want to be rude, either. The Warings and Maybanks were still neighbors. And she and Dubose had a long history together. They didn’t need to turn this into something ugly. “Come on in.”

She gave him a small, polite smile, but she absolutely would not invite him to breakfast. They headed to the kitchen, and she sat at the table. “Please take a seat.”

He did, stiffly.

Something in his eyes scared her. He didn’t look like the Dubose she’d been engaged to. This was the attorney before her.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said.

She felt the need to gain the upper hand. “I’ll be happy to entertain it, but first I have to tell you that I don’t appreciate your going behind my back to Mr. York and discussing a sale of my back property.”

He did flinch, but just barely. “He approached me. It was only a chat over coffee.”

“He’d drawn up plans.”

“Overeager, I’d say. That’s not my fault.”

“I don’t care how informal the discussion was,” she said. “It was wrong to hold it without me. That’s all I want to say on that matter.” She folded her arms across her chest. “What’s this favor you need?”

He smiled again.

Phony
, was what she thought. And not just the smile. How could she not have recognized that before?

“We talked about Weezie the other night,” he said, “the fact that she’s likely my half sister.”

“Wait.” True stood and looked out the window. Weezie was still out at the coop, thank goodness, so she resumed her seat. “She doesn’t know anything about that, and for now I’d rather it stay that way. She’s about to go off to college. She doesn’t need any shocking news.”