Chapter 6
Chapter Six
CHARLOTTE (NOW)
Gripping the wheel, I accelerate down the long straightaway, not realizing I’m speeding until a cop car with flashing lights fills my rearview.
“Shit.”
My already imploding stomach crash-lands at my feet. I flip on my turn signal and steer to the shoulder, the road grit crackling under my tires. Once I’m parked, I take one slow breath, my eyes closed, then let it out.
Behind me, the tall, dark-haired deputy steps from his silver SUV and approaches, his head cocked and one hand on his hip. Relief ebbs through me—it’s Zach Hayes.
Zach’s stern expression softens when he gets to my lowered window. He and Will have the same intense blue eyes framed by dark lashes. “Charlie?”
“Hey, Zach.”
His eyes shine with kindness. So he knows about Morgan and why I’m here. Was Zach at Thunder Mountain with the firefighters and medics? Or did he hear about it through the Finn River EMS grapevine? I hope it’s not the latter. That won’t help Morgan .
“When did you get in?” he asks.
“Last night.”
He nods.
“Sorry about the speeding,” I say as a car whizzes by, sending a pulse of warm, asphalt-scented air into my face.
“How’s Morgan?”
“Safe,” I reply. As much as I hate that my sister is stuck inside those walls, she can’t hurt herself. “How’s your family?”
His face brightens. “Doing great. Sofie’s practice keeps her busy, and the kids are growing like weeds.”
Their last Christmas card was a family photo of him and Sofie with their littles. Curren must be about five, and the baby girl with Sofie’s honey-brown curls is probably walking by now. “How’s Linnea, and Jesse?”
Jesse’s partner Neve passed away not long after Skye was born, and it rocked their family.
“Jesse’s doing really well,” Zach says. “Skye just turned seven and she’s quite the pistol.” He laughs. “And Linn just finished grad school.”
“That’s all so great to hear.”
“We can go with a warning,” Zach says, grinding the toe of his boot over the gritty pavement. “Promise me you’ll slow down?”
“Promise.”
“Okay,” he says, gripping his waist. “It’s really good to see you, Charlie.”
“You too.”
I wait for him to retreat to his SUV, then start my engine. After pulling slowly back onto the road, I hum one of my audition tunes and try to refocus. But the billboard that flashes into view a mile later obliterates any chance of that happening.
I stare, unblinking as it looms over me.
NIC SALAZAR AT CREEKSIDE OCTOBER 2.
It’s gone in a blink, but the heaviness seizing my chest gets tighter and tighter, squeezing my lungs .
Creekside is one of the biggest outdoor music venues in the region. An indication that nothing has held Salazar back from the fame he was so determined to claim.
I try to soften the emotions cracking open inside me with the curiosity my therapist tried to cultivate in me. Strong feelings are like messengers.
What are these trying to tell me?
No, don’t go there.
An idea scratches to the surface of my thoughts. How long has that billboard been there?
My shoulders sag. Of course.
Though even if I’m right, it doesn’t help me know what to do. Except avoid this particular stretch of road. And make sure Nic’s not planning a surprise show at The Limelight.
No fucking way. Nic wouldn’t come to Finn River. He wouldn’t dare.
I turn at the light and descend into town, guided by my inner compass to Second Street. I park on the corner, then stare through my bug-splattered windshield.
I’m gone for three years and everything has unraveled.
Will I ever fully escape?
I step out of my car, the early afternoon sun hot on my shoulders, and use the half block to The Limelight to draw my energy back into myself, so I can confront this situation with a level head.
The light pole on the corner is plastered with playbills faded by the harsh elements, the staples rusted.
Some of the bands I recognize, which brings on a surge of pride.
Even though I never wanted to stay part of The Limelight, knowing that Dad still draws good talent gives me a little boost.
When I swing open the big door, the familiar squeak of the hinges cracks open a thousand memories, enhanced by the scent of warmed bread and rosemary, and something I can’t label but that is tied to all of my memories of this place. Something like hope.
The hostess stand just inside the door is vacant.
Scanning the high-backed booths and tables lining the left wall, I see only guests and waitstaff.
At the bar along the back right, a few barflies are holed up, pretending to watch the football game on the TV in the corner while a bartender moves from the taps to the fridge while carrying on a conversation.
In the light of day, The Limelight looks even more tired than I remember, or maybe it’s the windows in need of a good scrubbing.
Or the decades-old carpet in the dining area—once a deep burgundy but now dull and gray.
Or maybe it’s the peeling varnish on the wood tables and booths.
I walk to the bar but just as I lean against it to catch the bartender’s eye, the TV program switches to the news.
The image of a pretty young woman singing into a microphone hovers over the broadcaster’s shoulder.
The volume’s low enough that I only catch “overdosed” and “pronounced dead”.
Before I can make sense of the broadcast, the bartender saunters over.
“Grab a seat anywhere,” he says with a welcoming grin. He’s mid-forties with a thick mustache and warm brown eyes. There’s a bright energy about him that’s reassuring. He doesn’t recognize me, but that’s not his fault.
I purposefully avoid my reflection in the giant mirror because I don’t want to see my lack of a poker face right now. “Is Ray here?”
He grabs a pint glass and fills it with ice. “Ray who?”
“Ray Hannah.” The two barflies are now watching us.
The bartender fills the pint glass with soda from the gun and sets it on the bar with the ticket. “Have you checked the office?”
Maybe I should have borrowed Morgan’s keys to access the back door, but I wanted the full picture first.
“Thanks,” I tell him, and push off the bar.
I weave through the cocktail tables edging the dance floor and manage not to give the empty stage even a passing glance before I turn down a back hallway lined with black-and-white pictures of famous musicians, each of them signed.
The soft clatter of silverware and murmur of conversation from the dining area fades.
Each step I take toward the office door pulls me further back in time.
Both my own, and from a lifestyle I’m no longer part of.
I pause at an image that wasn’t here the last time I was in town. It’s Dagney Cole, the star I just saw on TV. A wave of sadness pulses through me. I hadn’t known she’d played at The Limelight. And now…she’s gone.
After a heavy sigh, I continue to the office door, painted the same soft black as the rest of the wall. At night, it makes the seams almost invisible. My knock echoes through the empty hallway. From behind the door, the faint murmur of a one-sided conversation comes to a halt.
“Come in!”
I turn the knob and step inside. Dad’s perched on the edge of the big desk, a cell phone against his ear. “It’s done, so you won’t have to worry,” he says, and ends the call.
The office is the same cheerless room as I remember.
A banquet table-turned desk runs the length of the back wall with a chair and computer setup on the right side and a row of three-ring binders stacked like library books on the left.
Underneath the desk is a thick metal safe.
On the opposite wall stands a metal shelf unit packed with printer paper boxes, partially dismantled restaurant equipment, shrink-wrapped linens from the laundry, and a giant toolbox.
Dad runs his hand through his thinning hair. “Hey, pumpkin. Heard you were back.”
The endearment skips right over my heart, even as a part of me wants to let it in. “You sold The Limelight?”
Finally, he meets my gaze. His hazel eyes are watery and his cheeks are pale. Did he spend all summer in this box? “Yep.”
I lean back against the wall and rest my head. When Morgan told me, I didn’t have any reason to doubt her, but I needed confirmation in order to fully process it.
Even though I walked away from this place years ago, it doesn’t feel right that someone else will take it over.
The Limelight is still one of the most sought-after small music venues in the region.
Bands and musicians still get discovered here.
What will happen to its legacy? My dad may have been a workaholic who was stretched thin, but he gave this place thirty years of his grit and dedication.
“What about Morgan?” I ask.
His mouth tightens. “I’m assuming you know where she is?”
I shake my head because if I pick open this old wound now, things will just get more difficult. “I visited her this morning.”
He nods, the fight flickering from his eyes. “She okay?”
She’s not dead , I want to say but bite it back. Not answering his question might be passive-aggressive, but I don’t give a fuck right now.
“So that’s it?” I let my hands drop to my sides. “You just cashed out? You’re done?”
His cheeks seem to hollow before my eyes…like he’s tired. “It’s been…hard…lately.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. When has it not been hard? “Last time I was here …things seemed good.” I didn’t get the sense that The Limelight was in trouble. And holy hell, Morgan sounded good that night. I left here feeling hopeful. Like maybe we were all going to be okay. Finally.
“You think this is easy for me?” Dad fires back. “Watching things fall apart? Walking away?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have done a goddamn thing about it if I had?”
Maybe I deserved that. “Not for this place, but for you or Morgan, I would have.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” he says, scratching his whiskered chin with his fingertips. “It belongs to someone else.”
The relief in those words takes me by surprise.
I’ve spent a good amount of time wishing Dad wasn’t married to this place, that instead he’d be more like a normal dad.
A dad who wasn’t always scheming ways to raise money for improvements or new ideas or to attract bigger stars.
A dad who wasn’t semi-famous in town, turning a trip to the grocery store into social hour where Theo, Mo, and I were forced to stand there politely mute, waiting for him to end his conversation.
The billboard I saw earlier flashes to life inside my mind, bringing on a cold wave of dread.
Dad wouldn’t sell to him , would he?
“Who?” I ask, my voice breaking. Because of course Dad would sell to a famous musician. One he helped get discovered.
My dad’s gaze lifts to the doorway, making me turn, my heart lodged in my throat.
Standing there, with a look of intense apprehension on his face, is William.
It’s too much at once—the relief I’m not facing off with Nic Salazar is as sharp as the surprise of seeing William here instead.
He’s wearing the same faded Levi’s and dark blue T-shirt from this morning, with scuffed work boots on his feet.
William Hayes should not look this good. But he’s always looked like a dream to me. Even now in this moment when everything feels wrong.
Or is it just that he looks so capable and fit compared to Dad, who looks wrung out, exhausted?
“What are you doing here?” I stammer.
William’s lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “Ray,” he says with a nod to my dad.
I glance from Dad to Will, unease churning in my gut. Wait…what?
No.
No way.
Dad steps forward, and he and Will shake hands. And then Dad slips into the hallway, the tap of his boots on the hard flooring fading quickly.
I rub my face with both of my hands, but it doesn’t lead my thoughts to an alternate conclusion. “You bought The Limelight? Why? You don’t know anything about running a bar or a music venue.”
He crosses his arms and his eyes warm just enough to make the empty place inside me hum with life. “No, but you do.”