That Girl's the One I Love (5 page)

“This is legit?” Leyla asked, feeling the blood drain from her face. “You sure they meant me?” She looked at the envelope again, seeing her name there, over the address of the City Paper.

“Looks like it.” Milla watched her, a curious expression on her face. “What’s going on? I can tell by your reaction there’s more to this story.”

Leyla shook her head at first, but warring emotions shredded her reserve. Wanting to reassure herself she wasn’t crazy, she told Milla the whole story, from the first time she’d heard Arran sing in the Westville Pub, back in Asheville, to the most recent online message. “I’ve never seen him since then, Mill. I thought, you know, that it was all one of those crazy things you do when you’re a kid. Even if I’d known about this concert, I probably wouldn’t have gone.”

Milla tapped her lips with a thoughtful finger. “You know, I heard his new song on the radio the other day. I thought it sounded like his heart had been wounded a bit.” She smiled. “Maybe you’re what did it.”

Leyla started to protest, but Milla cut her off. “Here, I’ll take the guilt out of it. It’ll be my fault. I’ll assign you to cover the contest and the concert. Then it’s work. I want a pre-story by Friday, and a followup short after the concert, with an interview of the winner, and quotes by Arran Lake if you can get them.” She gestured to the letter and ticket. “Bet that’ll get you backstage.”

“Yeah,” Leyla said, feeling a little drained. “Bet it will.”

****

It did, too.

Leyla arrived at the concert an hour before the opening curtain, tracking down the DJ right away to get a quote before the show began. He looked the same as always in public appearances, a loud Hawaiian shirt, this time in greens and yellows, and a pair of khakis that probably cost more than Leyla’s groceries for a whole month. He bossed the stage crew, reading off a clipboard. He started to yell at her to get off his stage, but once she introduced herself, Chandler’s whole demeanor changed.

“Leyla Brand? Glad you came, honey. We’ve reserved you a seat right out front, so you can...uh, meet the contest winners.”

“That’s great.” Leyla wished her voice had a little more conviction. Her stomach churned in anticipation of seeing Arran again. Her gaze flicked left, right, almost afraid she’d see him backstage, here, before she was ready. In the auditorium, at least it would be dark. Hopefully she’d be out of reach of the light from the stage.
Quit thinking about Arran. Back to the job.
“Tell me, Mike, how did you pick these ladies?”

“Simple drawing of ticket numbers.”

She scribbled notes on her reporter’s pad. It might have been more modern to tap into some personal data device, but they were way outside her budget. “How is this going to work, exactly?”

Chandler walked her to the front of the stage, past the black-clad roadies noisily setting up equipment for Arran’s backup band. He gestured to the front row, the dozen seats tied off with a purple ribbon. “Between songs, we’ll call out ticket numbers, and whoever has those tickets will be invited to come forward to sit in our guest row, for an up-close look at the show. When the show’s over, we’ll draw one lucky winner out of the ones who’ve been in the front row, and that person will have an evening with Arran Lake.” He grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Very lucky, that lady.”

Leyla thought back to the evening she’d spent with the singer, trying like hell not to feel regret that she’d closed that door. “For sure.”

She’d written up the details of the date in her pre-story—dinner at Lamont, a ride on the Duquesne Incline, a walk along the river—all very romantic. She surveyed the auditorium, imagining it filled with Arran’s acoustic music.

“Want to meet Arran?” Chandler asked, a sparkle in his eyes, glorying in the fact he could drop the singer’s first name.

A rush of panic drenched her. “No. No, thanks. I’ll—I’ll talk to him after. With his date.” There, create a little cushion of safety. He couldn’t say anything personal when he was with his date for the evening. She could be professional. They’d get through it.

Chandler shook his head, looking at her like she was crazy. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

She went on to ask him about the station’s involvement, get the local plug, like Milla wanted, and then Chandler’s restive attitude let her know the interview was over. He directed her down to the floor of the auditorium as the back doors opened and a flow of excited, chatty people, mostly women, entered the venue.

How long had it been since she’d had the money to attend something like this? She couldn’t remember. One of the beauties of living in Asheville had been free access to the arts; there was always something going on: an art show, a music concert, something to broaden horizons and bring some creativity into life. She’d been much less inclined to head out into Pittsburgh’s social scene. Besides, her hermit life had spawned her own inspiration, her novel manuscript, and she devoted herself to it. The attention had paid off. She was fine.

She was fine.

I’m fine.

Her reassurance sounded hollow even to herself, but she set it firmly in her mind, like armor or a shield. The auditorium filled up, and she let the usher show her to a seat in the tenth row, on the aisle. Just far enough from the stage that she’d have a great view but still be lost in the crowd. Perfect.

The buzz around her increased till it filled her ears. She sat, fidgeting with her pad, making a few notes, jotting down things overheard, then let her mind blank into thinking about the next chapter of her story. Now that Dayla had thrown out the cheating husband, it was time for her to do something brave, to strike out on her own, to leave her family and friends behind, and…what?

To take up a new career, start over in school.
Hmm. Boring.

To win the lottery and become an instant zillionaire.
Hmm. Too contrived and unbelievable.

Jump on a tramp steamer to Alaska with nothing but a suitcase and a one-way ticket in hand.

Certainly had romantic possibilities. She liked the idea of her heroine throwing caution and even common sense to the wind and going for it all. It was fiction, after all.

She considered the implications for her character, focused on that, ignoring the crowd around her, until the lights went down. Mike Chandler came onto the stage. He made a plug for the station, talked about himself for several minutes, a topic he was clearly fond of. Then he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Arran Lake!”

The crowd roared its approval as Chandler scooted offstage. The spots focused on one man, guitar slung around his thin body, walking to center stage. He hadn’t changed much from those days in Asheville, his sun-streaked blond hair still long enough to curl, his eyes still that startling blue. His shirt was a light blue, his jeans comfortable and well-worn. He surveyed the gathered fans, looked over the empty front row.

“Good evening, Pittsburgh!” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He smiled as some woman called, “I love you, Arran!” from the back. “I love you, too, darlin’,” he replied, hesitating only a moment before giving his drummer a nod. The band swung into “That Girl’s the One I Love,” and the concert was off in a dizzying whirl of sound. Accompanied by a proper backup group and expensive equipment, Arran’s firm baritone sent shivers up Leyla’s spine. She closed her eyes to absorb every note, every word, and imagined he was singing only to her.

At the end of the song, as promised, a dozen ticket numbers were called. Thrilled fans hurried up to take their front row seats, each receiving a CD of Arran’s music to take home. The routine continued, and each time, Arran studied the whole row, his intent gaze fading as he finished, leaving a faint smile. He’d sing the next song, then the winners would be replaced by a new set of delighted faces. The contest had generated a large pool of adoring fans, and the group from which the grand prize winner would be pulled grew to over three hundred, by Leyla’s count. For just a moment, she let herself wish to be picked, but she knew how her luck ran. She was glad just to sit in the audience and bask in the warmth of Arran’s familiar voice. Wishing was for someone else, not her.

Lost in the magic, she hardly noticed how time passed, until the break before the last song came. As the final tickets were called, she sighed, wistful. The evening would soon be over. As the babble of the crowd died down after the final number was called, one seat remained empty. A young woman dressed in a black sequined dress walked along the front, checking ticket numbers. She handed a note up to Mike Chandler, who had joined Arran onstage.

“Would everyone please check their tickets?” Chandler asked. “We’re missing our final contestant of the night.”

He read off the number one more time. Leyla waited for someone to come running in from the restroom, or jump up, suddenly poked by their neighbor, but no one moved. Curious, she fumbled in her pocket for her own ticket, hastily shoved in there earlier once she’d cleared the door. She couldn’t remember seeing a number on it, but she thought she’d look. Just in case.

She uncrumpled the paper ticket. A number jumped out at her. Not just a number.
The
number.

She thought she’d faint.

Realizing that every eye in the place would be on her if she stood up, she clenched her fist with the paper inside it. No way she could walk up front with everyone staring. Her heart pounded in her chest, in her ears. Chandler crossed to confer with Arran. The singer listened, then shook his head. Chandler gestured, hands open, but Arran shook his head again. The DJ sighed, then thumbed his mike.

“Mr. Lake says he wants to give each of his fans a chance at this prize, so he won’t continue until this last seat is filled.”

For a split second, Leyla debated handing the ticket to one of her neighbors, just to get on with the concert. A little voice inside nagged her to get up.
Fate’s extending a hand here, woman. Take your shot. You’ve paid enough dues to earn it.

Embarrassed, thrilled, and trembling with emotion, she forced herself out of her seat and walked forward, her eyes on the stage and Arran Lake. When the spotlight would have swung over to illuminate her, he waved a hand up toward the back of the theater. She was able to take the seat, second from the end of the row, in relative obscurity. She settled into the chair, still watching Arran, whose face had brightened into a genuine smile.

He counted down for the band, then strummed the opening chords of
Have You Lost Something You Can’t Find?
The live version was a little more upbeat than the recorded song on the radio, which made it seem more hopeful than the plaintive ballad she’d first heard. Was Milla right? Had losing Leyla inspired him to write such a sad song?

How conceited was that?

She couldn’t accept it.

But look at his eyes, how he watched her with that same loving expression he’d had that night they spent together, when he’d smoothed her hair and kissed her so gently after they’d made love.

A tightness closed around her chest, the imaginary string with which she’d tied up her feelings for him straining to break free. She hadn’t imagined that seeing him so close, so real, would melt her carefully constructed boundaries, the walls that protected her from dreams she considered too dangerous—or painful—to dream.

All too soon, he finished the last verse of the song to echoing applause. He took a gracious bow, then introduced his musicians to the crowd. “Just one more thing to do,” he said. “Mike, you want to do the honors?”

The DJ came out, a large basket in hand. “I’ve got all the entries in here,” he said. “Is everyone ready?”

A chorus of agreement rocked the room.

Chandler held the basket high, then reached in, drawing out one ticket. “I’d like to congratulate all the winners tonight on behalf of the station,” he said. “I know you’ll enjoy Arran’s CD. Be sure to tell your friends to get it before it hits the top of the charts!”

Arran grinned and waved at the audience.

“And the winning number is…” Chandler waited for a drum roll from the band. When the cymbal clanged, he read off, “Number 8199!”

Taking in the disappointed sighs she heard around her, Leyla didn’t need to look to know she had the winning ticket. Somehow, Arran knew it, too, because his eyes were on her the whole time. Stunned, she couldn’t make herself move, get to her feet, hardly even breathing.

“She’s got it!” yelled the pudgy brunette woman next to Leyla. She grabbed Leyla’s arm and yanked her to her feet. “She’s got it!”

Leyla wavered a moment, a couple of the roadies showed up next to her, each taking one of her arms, helping her up the steps to the stage. The whole thing seemed so surreal, like she moved through a filmy curtain, blinded by the lights on the other side. Like she was dreaming. Until Arran took her in his arms, holding her close to whisper in her ear.

“Now I’ve found her,” he said, breathless, holding on like he’d never let her go. The crowd went wild.

“Thanks, everyone for coming!” Chandler said into the mike. “Good night! Drive safe on your way home!” He waved at someone, who brought up the house lights, and the audience left the auditorium in a deafening babble. “And that’s a wrap,” he said more softly, just loud enough for those on the stage to hear.

Leyla’s head was on Arran’s shoulder, and she didn’t dare move, afraid she’d destroy the illusion, that she’d wake up and it would all be gone. He felt real enough, though, solid flesh inside his blue chambray shirt. It was real.
It was real.

“You all right?” he asked her, stepping back to study her face, though his hand kept a tight hold on her arm.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. Just a little…overwhelmed.”

“Well, my grandma always said if you’re going to do something, do it big.” His smile leaned toward the sheepish side. “Usually she meant going on a bender. But it applies here, too.”

The basket with the numbers in it sat right at their feet. The numbers on the tickets caught her attention. She bent down to sort through the basket in disbelief. “These all have my number on them.”