Chapter 11 Finn #2
“Kind of.” Rosie slides her hands under her thighs and curls in on herself. “I’m dealing with some stuff and needed a place to stay while I figured it out.”
“And you came here?”
Charles’s surprise is borderline offensive, and Rosie clears her throat to disguise her amusement. “I needed somewhere nobody would look for me,” she explains. “Somewhere safe while I sorted out my life. It was only supposed to be for a day or two, but it’s been nearly a week…”
“Things got a little complicated,” I jump in. “Figuring it out is taking some time.”
Charles crosses her legs one way, then the other. I rarely see her this fidgety. “I read about the wedding and all that,” she admits.
Her confession surprises me. My sister isn’t one for celebrity gossip, and she’s usually too busy to see much anyway. “You did?”
“I didn’t go looking for it,” she says defensively before her voice falls apologetically. “But it’s kind of hard to avoid.”
Rosie mutters under her breath, but I’m pretty sure her words are “I bet.”
“So you can understand why we need to keep this under wraps,” I say. “Nobody knows Rosie’s here, and it needs to stay that way.”
“I spend all my time working and I’ve got nobody in my life to tell, but for what it’s worth”—Charles mimes zipping her lips—“your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you.” Rosie’s voice is soft with genuine warmth. “I appreciate that.”
It’s hard to believe that after all she’s been through, Rosie is willing to share so much with a new person so quickly.
It was the same with Violet, though I chalked that up to them having already established a professional relationship.
I wonder if this might be part of the reason for Rosie’s heartache.
She believes too easily and opens up too readily.
Charles might have won Rosie’s trust because she’s my sister, but Rosie is vulnerable for reasons other than her stature and her money and public profile.
She’s got no walls. She holds nothing back.
She assumes the best in others because there’s only good in her, and that’s not how the world works.
Rosie’s vulnerability is a bullseye on her back, and nothing tempts bad guys like an easy target.
She needs a protector, but why the hell am I suddenly so sure that protector needs to be me?
I’ve tuned out the quiet hum of the girls’ conversation, but it starts playing in high definition when Charles says, “Why don’t you borrow one of Finn’s? He’s got three of them. He plays all the time.”
Rosie straightens in her seat, eyes blinking with disbelief. “He does?”
Uh… what?
Both women turn their heads in unison so perfect they might have rehearsed it. Charles hits me with a look of exasperation, like there’s any sane reason I would tell a global music icon I can hold a guitar, and Rosie with pleasant surprise.
“Is it true, Finn?” Rosie asks. “Do you play the guitar?”
I scowl at my sister. “I don’t play all the time, but yes, I do play.”
Charles hums with satisfaction before she smacks her hands on her thighs and pushes to her feet. “On that note—I’m going to go. It was nice to meet you, Rosalie.”
“You too. And thanks, Charlie.”
Charles crosses the room, smirking at how clever she thinks she is, and I retaliate by pulling out her ponytail again as I see her out the door.
“Will you stop that?” she hisses as she swats at my hand.
“Will you mind your own business?” I retort, pushing her out onto the porch.
“I always do.” Charles pauses with one foot on the top porch step as she reties her ponytail. “But if Rosalie Thorne wants to talk music with you, then you should talk music. If I can’t convince you that it’s something worth pursuing, maybe Rosalie can.”
I snort. “You’ve got a funny way of minding your own business.”
“Fine. Fine!” She raises her palms in surrender. “I won’t say another word about music or Rosalie or any of it, but just so you know, Daisy’s got some busy days on the trails lined up later this week. She’s going to need your help with the horses.”
I rub the back of my neck, thinking about my baby sister and her big, fat mouth. “Think you can cover for me for a few more days? Keep her out of my hair?”
Charles shakes her head as she skips down the steps. “Fine, but you owe me, Finn.”
“Thanks. Oh, and hey,” I call before she gets too far. “Can you organize some groceries for us? I can’t leave Rosie alone and she can’t go out in public right now.”
“What do you need?”
I wince at the thought of Rosie trying to make anything more complicated than cereal. Maybe I can convince her to let me take care of dinners at least. “I’ll text you a list.”
I hesitate before heading back inside, preparing myself to dodge whatever questions Rosie’s going to ask about my collection of guitars and the revelation that I can play them, but it turns out I don’t need to worry.
She’s in the middle of the room bouncing on her bare toes, and the first question out of her mouth has nothing to do with me or my secrets.
“Where are they?” she asks. “Can I see them? Can I borrow one? Please? I’d appreciate it so much, Finn. I’m desperate to play.”
None of her gentle curiosity? Good. It’s better this way.
“Yeah, of course. I didn’t mention them earlier because—”
Because why? I didn’t want to deal with the hail of questions that I thought they’d set off. I was too busy avoiding difficult conversations. I didn’t think about what these instruments might mean to Rosie, so I kept my stupid mouth shut.
Pissed at myself for being a self-centered moron, I jerk my head toward the loft. “Never mind. They’re up there.”
Rosie follows me up to the bedroom, and I open the long walk-in closet. It doubles as storage, and I go to the freestanding cupboard on the back wall. Inside are three acoustic guitars stored in hard leather cases leaning upright, side by side.
She makes a strangled sound of excitement as she claps her hands, and I can’t help my smile. I pass her the first case, then pick up the other two. “Come on. I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
I set my cases on the floor by my bed, then relieve Rosie of hers and lay it on top of the covers. Inside is a 1970s Gibson Hummingbird in excellent condition.
Rosie reaches out to caress the gleaming wood. “It’s beautiful, Finn. It must be—what? Fifty years old?”
“About that,” I agree. “I don’t play it much other than to tune it occasionally. It belonged to my mom.”
Her head turns sharply. “Your mother was a musician?”
With a sentimental expression, I recall a memory of my mom in our old living room with this guitar on her lap, ink on her fingers, and a rainbow of dried acrylic staining her clothes.
“A musician. A poet. A painter. A sculptor. Jacqueline Davenport tried just about everything. She had what my dad called a creative spirit.”
Rosie brushes her fingers over the guitar again as she shares my wistful smile. “She sounds wonderful.”
I close the case and secure the clasps. “She was.”
Setting aside the first guitar, I lift the second one onto the bed and open its case. A vintage Martin lies cushioned inside.
Rosie’s hand darts out to reverently stroke the strings. “This is a serious instrument.”
“I saved for months to buy this in high school. I visited the store every other day to check that nobody had bought it while I was waiting to get the money together, and I was fourteen when I finally had enough to bring it home.”
I heave it out of its case and hand it to her, looping the strap around her neck, and Rosie spares me a speculative head tilt as she accepts the guitar with the familiarity of someone who lives with an instrument in her hands.
She immediately strums a smooth note. Then another.
She plays eight bars of an unrecognizable melody before she unloops the strap and hands the guitar back to me as she nods toward the final case.
“What about that one?”
“Best for last?” I tease as I stow the Martin and exchange it for the final guitar. I open it and grin at Rosie’s excited inhale at the deep, dark wood of the near-new Taylor GS Mini.
“I can’t believe you have this,” she says as she helps herself. “I play mine all the time.” I stand back and watch the delight dance across her features. “It’s not really your style,” she adds as she tests the strings.
“It was a gift,” I explain, “from a friend who thought it might be good to play on the road, but I struggled with the narrow fingerboard and never used it much.”
Rosie plays the same eight bars as before, though they sound a little different on the smaller instrument.
Higher. Prettier. A little more country.
The difference appears to please her, because as the final note fades, she turns her eager eyes on me.
“Do you mind if I borrow it? I can sit out on the porch and play for a while. It’ll hardly bother you at all. ”
I nudge aside a hint of disappointment and remind myself it’s better if Rosie isn’t full of questions about my mom and my teenage years and the person who gifted me the guitar in her hands. There’s nothing in my past worth dragging into my future. Especially music.
“It’s no bother,” I tell her as I reach for the instrument.
She hands it over, then climbs down the ladder, and I pass it down to her once she’s at the bottom. Rosie scoops up her notepad and pen on the way to the front door, and Dakota throws me an almost apologetic look as she follows our guest out to the porch swing.
Less than sixty seconds after the screen door swings closed behind her, the uplifting notes of Rosie’s playing float toward me on a breeze of warm air.
Her voice dances above the music—a strong soprano that vibrates with vulnerability but also hope and determination and relief that she’s finally doing what she was born to do.
She sounds like a songbird at sunrise and damn it if it doesn’t make me feel things.
I return the other guitars to the closet, and while I’m in there, I dig around in my overstuffed dresser for the fat notebook buried in the bottom drawer.
With one ear on the music playing in stop-starts on the porch, I sink onto the edge of the bed, flip open the tattered book, and thumb through the pages.
Music. Lyrics. Poems. Ideas. Things to remember. Things I don’t want to forget. Page after page of nothing special. Nothing important. Nothing worthwhile. Page after page of everything that’s ever meant anything to me.
When I reach the end, I close the book and return it to its hiding place. Then I go and sit at the dining table and pretend to work while I listen to Rosie strumming her guitar and singing on the porch.