The Miles Between Us (20 page)

“
I don’t care. We’re cutting out. I’ve had enough of this.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I just don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Rob—”

He turned to respond, and the singer said into her mic, “We have a special treat for you tonight. The birthday boy is going to sing us a couple of songs.”

Applause
. Some of it enthusiastic, most of it merely polite. “Come on,” he said, more gently, and began moving her toward the door.

Behind them, Phoenix took the mic
. “Thank you,” he said. “I promised the record company that I’d do this tonight…under one condition. That my producer perform with me. So where are you, Rob MacKenzie?”

Six steps from the doorway, Rob turned and glared
. “That little bastard,” he said.

“Over here,” some woman shouted, waving
a hand in the air and pointing to Rob. “He’s over here.”

Expectant faces turned in his direction
. “Shit,” he muttered, as the spotlight that had been focused on the band suddenly illuminated him with bright, white light. “Now what do I do?”

“You smile and nod, and you get up
on the stage and perform.”

“Great,” he said through the fake smile that
he’d plastered on his face.

“What’s wrong
, babe? It’s not rocket science. You’ve been performing since you were nine years old. You love performing.”

Still smiling, he said, “Not with that little piss-ant.”

“Then you have two options. Bite the bullet and get it over with, or walk out and make a scene. I’m behind you, one hundred percent. No matter which door you choose.”

It was too late for door number two
. Everybody in the room was looking in his direction. There was no way he could gracefully bow out now. There was no way he could bow out at all, not without making a fool of himself. His eyes met hers, communicated a silent message. She took his hand, and together, they moved in the direction of the stage. The party guests, their enthusiasm level pumped up a notch, parted like the Red Sea as he and Casey made their way to where Phoenix waited, microphone in hand. “What took you so long?” Phoenix said, and everybody laughed.

Rob glared at him, peeled off the linen jacket and handed it to his wife, unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up, and hopped up on
to the stage. The singer he’d just given his card to beamed, and the guitarist lifted his guitar strap over his head and handed Rob the guitar.

Compared to what he was accustomed to, it was a small audience, probably three hundred people
. Still, it had been a while since he’d performed in front of an audience any larger than the thirty people who’d gathered in the music store to hear him play. He lifted the strap over his head, adjusted it against his shoulder, ran his fingertips over the strings to check the tuning. His ear told him it was right, so he leaned toward the kid and said, loud enough for the audience to hear, “What are we playing?”

“Funny you should ask,” Phoenix said
. “Since you’re so fond of the Beatles, how about
Twist and Shout
? That is, if you even know it.”

There was scattered applause
. Rob glanced over his shoulder, the drummer nodded, and he leaned toward Phoenix again, this time speaking quietly, for the kid’s ears only. “Bite me,” he said.

And launched into
the achingly familiar riff that started the song.

Casey

There was something significant about this moment,
something life-altering, although she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The song was one that everybody knew, and with its irresistible rhythm, there wasn’t a body in the house that wasn’t moving to the music. Early Beatles, from the days when their music was fun and light-hearted and could be understood without an interpreter. Rob let Phoenix take the lead, although he could certainly have carried it himself.

For inexplicable reasons,
Rob MacKenzie had never considered himself a decent vocalist. Was it because he’d always played second banana to Danny? Was he still harboring some ridiculous feeling of inferiority? If so, it was time for her to kick his sexy butt from here to Kingdom Come. Measuring his voice against Danny’s was crazy, because a voice like Danny Fiore’s didn’t come along every day.
Nobody
could sing like her late husband.

But
that didn’t mean Rob couldn’t sing. His voice was clear and true and strong. Tonight, he’d chosen to harmonize and let the birthday boy carry the melody. Phoenix was, after all, the reason they were all gathered here tonight. It was an amazing experience, hearing the two of them blend their voices in a harmony so sweet it was impossible to believe they hadn’t been singing together for years.

Something happened to Rob MacKenzie when he stepped onstage
. He wasn’t like Danny, who’d changed personalities the instant he stepped into the spotlight. Larger than life, Danny Fiore had possessed an enormous talent and an ego to match. He’d been the consummate showman, and that in-your-face personality had been as responsible for his popularity as his amazing voice or his staggering good looks.

Rob’s talent
was quieter. There was no ego involved. Where for Danny, it had been about the fame, about making a name for himself and proving his worth, for Rob, it was about the music. Period. Onstage or off, he possessed an incredible ability to lose himself in the music, to forget any audience even existed. That was part of what drew people to him. His lack of pretension was rare in the entertainment business, where everybody and his second cousin wanted to be the center of attention. Rob didn’t give two hoots about the attention. He just wanted to play his music.

There was a reason they called it playing
. That’s what it was. Creative play, the kind that fed your soul and gave you wings. He’d been so lucky—they’d both been so lucky—to make a life and a career built around the music they loved. Rob came to life on stage, not because he had an inflated ego, not because he wanted to be the center of attention, but because music was how he communicated with the world around him.

It was
Phoenix who brought surprises to the table. The
enfant terrible
, he of the canned, pre-fab pop music, could actually sing. And it was no wonder that every teenage girl on the planet was gaga over him. In spite of any possible personality flaws, the kid was heart-stoppingly handsome: long and lean, with gorgeous blue eyes, a beautifully sculpted face, and that perfect dark hair that fell in soft waves to his shoulders. And so young, with little more than peach fuzz on his upper lip. At eighteen, he had a long way to go before he’d reach manhood.

That
wasn’t the last surprise. Rob, who was never one to grumble, had been grousing about Phoenix Hightower almost from day one. The kid was a thorn in his side, and he’d clearly been mad at Phoenix when he’d grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the door, intent on making his escape from this lovely event.

Yet their onstage chemistry was unparalleled
. They struck sparks off each other in a way she’d seen only once before:  when he’d worked with Danny.

While she pondered the possible significance of this development, they finished the song, to roaring applause and shouts of “Encore
! Encore!” Rob looked up, sought her eyes, and gave her one of those amazing, heart-stopping grins.

And it struck her, hard, that he’d made a monumental mistake when he
’d stopped performing. Music was Rob MacKenzie’s religion, the spiritual connection that brought him closer to whatever he perceived as God than sitting in any church ever could. If she hadn’t been so consumed with her own problems, she would have noticed that he was getting restless.

Their
Two Dreamers record label kept him busy. They’d started small and stayed small, with just two new artists signed to the label so far. Writing, producing, recording, and promoting two debut albums took up most of his time. Although the business end of it had been a tangle, her sister had helped with that.

But he’d stopped playing
. Not completely, of course. But for most of his adult life, Rob had spent at least an hour every day—most days more than that—playing his guitar. He didn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him pick up a guitar and play it. Not unless he was sitting in on a recording session. He’d been too busy making other musicians successful to devote any time to his own music. And it was a dreadful mistake.

He’d
taken on the side job of producing Phoenix’s album only because Drew had begged. He hadn’t done it for the money, but out of loyalty to the man who’d been responsible for getting their music heard by more than just a local audience. Drew could be a pill at times, but if he hadn’t heard Danny Fiore singing in a Manhattan club fifteen years ago and recognized that he was looking at a future superstar, none of this would have happened. He’d taken the three of them on as a package deal, and their careers had skyrocketed to a place light years beyond their youthful dreams.

So when
ever Drew called, Rob always answered. Even when he didn’t want to. Drew Lawrence had launched a very successful career for Rob MacKenzie. And Rob’s philosophy was, and always had been: 
Never forget where you come from.

Her husband
was, without question, the most talented man she’d ever met. He breathed music the way other people breathed oxygen. He was smart, enthusiastic, intuitive, playful, and his instincts were spot-on. Rob excelled at everything he did:  songwriting, arranging, producing, even the scut work of promoting.

But none of those things defined Rob MacKenzie
. He was, first and always, a musician. A musician needed to be heard, and where Rob excelled the most was in front of an audience. Because as good as he was at all those other things, his heart belonged, had always belonged, to performing.

Onstage, their
heads close together, he and Phoenix conferred, too quietly for the mic to pick up what they were saying. Rob raised his eyebrows, and Phoenix began talking again in a low voice. Rob shrugged, and Phoenix nodded to the rest of the band.

And the piano player started out.

Three notes in, she recognized the song. She knew it because Rob had written it, had recorded it on his second—and last—solo album. How Phoenix had known, she had no idea. But clearly, for some reason she had yet to determine, the kid had planned this “impromptu” performance in advance.

This time, it was Phoenix who stepped back and let Rob take the lead
.
Lady, My Lady
was a love song, a bluesy, tender ode to hunger and thirst and longing for a woman the singer couldn’t have. He put every ounce of his emotion, every ounce of his soul into the song.

And she
realized, with a shock, that he’d written it about her.

Danny had still been alive when Rob penned this song
. She’d still been married to him, newly reconciled after a year-long separation, and she and Rob were just beginning to recognize the impossible feelings they had for each other. She’d been so deep into denial that she’d refused to even entertain the possibility that she was in love with him. And Rob had been hurting. She hadn’t realized it at the time; she’d been too busy struggling to glue her broken marriage back together, too confused by her own weighty and conflicted emotions to be able to deal with his. And he’d deliberately avoided her; Rob had come to Maine only once during those last months she and Danny were together.

But he’d written this song, and he’d recorded it, the only song on that
second album that he’d written without her. It had been his lone acknowledgment, until long after Danny was dead, of his feelings for her, of what had happened between them on that white-sand beach in the Bahamas. And she’d been so buried in her own denial, it had taken her until now to recognize the truth.

His eyes met
and held hers. Goosebumps sprang to life on her arms, her legs, her breasts, and she had the oddest feeling that she was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. Gazes locked together, they might have been the only two people in the room. She was vaguely aware of Phoenix, the pop sensation, the birthday boy, singing harmony on this song she would have expected he’d never even heard of. But it was Rob MacKenzie, the perennial also-ran, who stole the show with a stunning interpretation of lyrics he’d written when he was in the kind of pain that no man could understand until he found himself in love, deeply and irrevocably, with his best friend’s wife.

Pain. Yearning.
Restrained passion.

And an unvoiced yet implied determination to wait as long as it took for
her to open her eyes and see him standing there, his heart in his hand. That heart, and this song, the only gifts of love he had to give.

Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her face
. Ever cognizant of her every emotion, he raised an eyebrow, and through her tears, she beamed a warm, loving smile. Understanding lit those green eyes of his, and he smiled back. Then he looked at Phoenix, nodded, and together, with voices blended in perfect harmony, they launched into the final verse of the song.

As time goes moving on,

I don’t care what people say

I’m just gonna stay right here

and love you anyway

As the last note faded away, there was enthusiastic applause from the crowd
. Phoenix gestured in Rob’s direction and said into his mic, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Rob MacKenzie.”

Rob nodded at his audience, said, “Thank you,” and handed the guitar back to its owner
. He stepped down off the stage and moved directly to where she stood waiting.

He didn’t say a word, just swiped at her tears with his thumb
. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you wrote it for me?”

“
How was I supposed to do that? It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Maybe it would have.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, babe. You and I can’t change the past. It is what it is. There’s only one direction we can go, and it’s not backwards.”

“
I don’t say this as often as I should. And things have been so crazy since I lost the baby.
I’ve
been so crazy. But I love you, as much as any woman could ever love a man.”

“And if I were a praying man, I’d get down on my knees every morning and give thanks for that
. I love you, too.” He leaned down and gave her a sweet, tender kiss. Studied her face and said, “You might want to find a powder room and fix your face.”

“Raccoon eyes?”

“Just a little. Go on. I’ll wait for you here.”

In the
elegant powder room, she did her best to fix the damage the tears had done to her face. When she rejoined Rob, somebody had brought the gargantuan birthday cake out in front of the band, and one of Drew’s lackeys was busy lighting the candles. Rob was engaged in conversation with a guy she recognized as the lead singer for one of the hottest rock bands to ever sign with the Ariel label. Drew had clearly brought them all here tonight to impress the birthday boy with his own importance.
See? Even Troy Duncan showed up for my birthday party. That must mean I’ve arrived. I’m Somebody.

Rob put an arm around her a
nd cradled her loosely against his side. Troy Duncan’s cool blue eyes took her measure, and Rob introduced them. “My wife, Casey,” he said. “Troy Duncan.”

Duncan
pumped her hand with enthusiasm and said, “Casey Fiore MacKenzie. It’s so great to meet you. I was just telling your husband how impressed I am with your work.”

“Thank you.”

“When you think of legendary songwriting teams, who comes to mind? Goffin and King. Lieber and Stoller. Lennon and McCartney. Fiore and MacKenzie.”

“
Wow. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be
. You’ve earned the recognition.”

The candle-lighting
completed, the singer said into her mic, “Let’s all sing the birthday song to Phoenix!” She started, in a rich, deep contralto, and the assembled multitude joined in, a fair number of them actually singing in tune. Rob rolled his eyes, but Casey joined in. When the song was over, the singer said, “Happy birthday, Phoenix Hightower! Now, make a wish and blow out all those candles!”

“All those candles,” Rob muttered
. “The kid’s only eighteen. She makes it sound like he’s Methuselah.”

“Oh, s
top being a curmudgeon. It doesn’t become you.”