Chapter 20
TWENTY
HARLOW
For the first time in over two weeks I leave Adaga Hall and take a short taxi ride into the village which has pretty cobbled streets lined with a variety of independent stores and numerous cafés. It’s just how I’ve always envisioned a pretty English village, and I regret not making the time to explore earlier.
I haven’t seen Sterling since he left to meet Dalton a couple of days ago, and when I asked Stephanie this morning if she knew where he was, she explained that he’d left a message to say that he had business to attend to and would be back in time for the engagement party tomorrow night.
So here I am, strolling along the main thoroughfare, and getting some much needed fresh air, and more importantly, time to think. The village itself is relatively quiet, which is a relief because I can barely string together a series of coherent thoughts, let alone exchange small talk with someone I might’ve met at the wedding. But I figure just being out in a different environment and not hiding away back at Adaga Hall will help me to sort my thoughts and feelings out. Not to mention the fact I’ve been avoiding my mother’s calls. She has left me several messages this morning, but I haven’t listened to any of them. I really can’t face a conversation with her. Whatever gossip she wants to share with me will have to wait.
With my winter coat wrapped tightly around my waist, I head towards an interesting looking music store that has ivy wrapped around the entrance, beautiful hand-crafted instruments displayed in the window, and a faded sign that reads The Cosy Chord. I can’t help but smile at the play on words, because the store does indeed look cosy and nothing like I’d expect a store selling musical instruments to look like. It has the ambience of an antique bookstore, but instead of leather bound books and first editions lining the old oak bookshelves, they’re filled with rows of beautifully crafted instruments. There are violins with polished wood gleaming like amber, hand-carved mandolins, tambourines with shiny brass zils, and other handmade instruments that seem to wait patiently for a hand to play them.
Curious, I push the door open, and a soft bell rings above me, its chime blending with the faint strum of a guitar that floats through the air, as if the store itself is humming a welcoming tune. My eyes are immediately drawn to an upright piano in the corner, its ivory keys gleaming like a set of perfectly polished teeth. It's been a while since I last played, and though there's a baby grand back at Adaga Hall, I haven’t yet felt at ease enough to sit down and play.
“Hello?” I call out, noticing that there’s no one standing behind the counter. “Is anyone there?”
After a moment, a man steps out from behind a door I assume leads to an office or storeroom. He’s cradling a spruce and mahogany acoustic guitar, the leather strap keeping it snug against his body.
“Hey, sorry about that—I was out back tuning this beauty. How can I help you?" he asks, pushing a messy flop of jet-black hair off his forehead. It falls right back into his eyes, which is a shame, since they're a striking shade of grey-blue.
“I was just passing by and, well, your store looked really interesting and I thought I’d take a look.”
“It’s not my store. Belongs to my uncle, a moody arsehole who barely comes here anymore and hides away in his estate tucked away on the outskirts of the village, ” he explains.
“Ah, I see. Well, your uncle has incredible taste. The instruments are really stunning,” I reply, my gaze coasting around the store, only to fall on a beautiful tawny owl with piercing gold eyes perched on a shelf next to a fiddle. I gasp. “Is that a real owl?”
He follows my gaze and chuckles. “That is, in fact, a very dead owl.”
“Why do you have a dead owl in a music store?”
“My uncle is a taxidermist,” he replies, pulling a face. “Fucking creepy, huh?”
“Does he k?—?”
“Kill the animals? Fuck, no. He’s actually a conservationist and takes in injured wildlife. Sometimes they don’t survive and, well, I don’t think he can’t bear to part with them. I’m pretty sure he prefers animals over humans any day of the week…” He replies, his voice trailing off as we both study the owl.
“Wow, okay. Kind of creepy, but also somehow not…”
“My uncle is creepy as fuck, so that’s fair. Anyway, he refuses to come into town anymore, so I run the store for him. The pay is shit, though I do get a small commission for every instrument I sell. Not that I’m bothered, really, because I get to spend my nights performing at Bandits with my band. Makes up for the shit wage,” he shrugs.
“Wait, are you a member of Princetown Bandits ?” I ask, remembering Ben telling me about the band he manages when we were dancing together at the wedding.
“You’ve heard of us? Don’t tell me you’re a fan who’s travelled all the way from the US just to see us play? Nice accent by the way,” he replies with a cocky kind of swagger that makes my cheeks heat. He’s most definitely got that cool, rock vibe going on with his faded tee, tattoos trailing down his arms, torn denim jeans and scuffed up leather boots.
“Erm, well…” I pull a face, not wanting to offend him, but equally not wanting him to think that I’m some groupie, one that’s a good few years older than him at that.
He tips his head back and laughs. “I was just joking. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
“Oh, right. Sure,” I laugh, my shoulders untensing.
“So how did you hear about us?”
“I met your manager, Ben, at my mother’s wedding a few weeks back. He told me all about your band.”
“Ah, that’d explain it,” he replies, then he cocks his head to the side and studies me. “Wait a minute, are you the woman Ben wouldn’t shut up about? He said your voice was shit-hot.”
“He did?” I let out an embarrassed laugh, waving away the compliment.
“Yep,” he says, popping the p.
“That was nice of him.”
“Believe me, he was very impressed. Anyway, ummm….” His voice trails off as he holds his hand out to me to shake. “Sorry, he did tell me your name but I’m a forgetful bastard, and I’m blanking on it.”
I take his hand, shaking it. “Harlow Richards, and you?”
“Blake Black,” he replies, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it.
“Very Rock ‘n’ Roll,” I say with a soft smile.
He shrugs. “Fits the vibe of a bass player, I guess.”
“You play the bass?”
The grin that seems to be permanently painted on his face widens as he pulls a pick from out of his pocket and strums a few chords on the guitar, his deft fingers moving up and down the frets with accomplished ease. “The guitar, violin and cello too, but in the band I’m the bassist. Sexiest instrument by far in my opinion. Though my bandmates would probably disagree. How about you, do you play an instrument as well as sing?”
“The piano. Though it’s been a while to be honest,” I explain, eyeing the piano in the corner of the store.
“Want to give it a play?” he asks, following my gaze.
“I don’t know. I’m probably a little rusty.”
“How long has it been since you last played?”
“About a year, give or take.”
“Well, that beauty over there hasn’t been played in forever, and whilst I’m a talented bastard and can play most instruments, I’ve never quite got the handle of percussion, string is more my area of expertise. These fingers prefer to strum and pluck, if you know what I mean?” he says with a flirtatious wink. “Give it go.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “Sure, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Blake gives an exaggerated nod, his grin widening. “Exactly. Plus, if it sounds terrible, I’ll just blame it on the piano.”
“Yes, let’s do that,” I agree, still feeling a little hesitant as I take a seat on the bench and rest my fingers gently over the keys.
I don’t immediately begin to play, I just allow my mind to clear and take a few deep breaths before I arrange my fingers into a familiar chord pattern. Once my nerves have settled a little, I begin to play, tentatively at first, but as I continue a deep sense of comfort settles around me and I let the notes roll through my fingers, playing the chords without thinking too much about it. The rhythm flows with surprising ease, and soon enough, my hands find the familiar pattern of a song I used to love to play: Your Song by Elton John.
I glance over my shoulder at Blake, whose gaze is locked on the movement of my fingers.
“Not bad for rusty,” he smiles, his voice low, almost in awe.
I smile, though it’s more to myself than for him as I continue to play the familiar tune. “I guess it’s like riding a bike. Once your muscle memory is triggered it all just comes back to you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to his own hands as he begins to play the guitar alongside me. His talent is raw and honest in a way that makes my pulse quicken in admiration.
For the next few minutes we continue to play together, and with every moment that passes I feel this rush of joy unfurling inside of me. A joy I haven’t felt in a long time. It feels so good that I start humming to the melody, and when I look up at Blake he mouths sing , so I begin to sing, the
words slipping from my lips in a husky whisper. My voice is soft at first, then when I begin to feel more comfortable, I let myself go and really sing.
And God, it’s freeing.
It feels so good.
Every now and then, I glance up at Blake who could rival the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland with his perfectly wide, white-toothed grin. His enthusiasm gives me confidence, and I return his smile with one of my own, loving the warmth blooming inside my chest from happiness. Singing and playing the piano is a joyous experience for me.
It's an expression of who I truly am.
And I miss it.
Eventually, the song comes to an end, and I’m left with the soft echo of the last chord lingering in the air. “That was nice,” I say softly, resting my hands in my lap.
“Nice?” His eyes widen as he leans a shoulder against the piano. “I was thinking more along the lines of incredible .”
I laugh, shaking my head. “It wasn’t that great. But I appreciate your kindness.”
“You’re selling yourself short, Harlow. You play like a professional, and you sure as fuck sing like you were born to do it. Damn, girl!” he exclaims, blowing out a breath. “No wonder Ben got a hard-on for you. You’re the shit!”
“A hard-on? Now don’t start spreading rumours, jackass, this one’s taken,” a familiar voice says as Blake’s head snaps up towards the door, and I look over my shoulder to see Ben stepping inside the shop.
Taken? My cheeks heat.
“Of course she is,” Blake mutters.
“How are you doing, Harlow? I see you’ve found the bassist of Princetown Bandits.”
“I’m good, thanks, and yes, Blake and I were just…” My voice trails off as I stand, suddenly feeling more than a little awkward as he glances between us both. Not that there’s anything going on whatsoever given we’ve only just met, and he’s too young, and I’m more than a little attracted to someone else entirely.
“Jamming together,” Blake interjects. “You were right, Harlow sure is talented.”
“Told you,” Ben agrees with a grin, before focusing his attention on me. “You know the offer still stands. I’d love for you to play at the bar. In fact the Princetown Bandits are gonna be playing some gigs in London soon, and I don’t have anyone to replace them, so you’ll be doing me a favour if you’d consider stepping in at least for one night.”
“Fuck, yes!” Blake agrees.
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” I reply, shaking my head.
“Why?” Blake asks, removing his guitar and placing it on a stand. “You’ll blow everyone’s minds with that voice of yours.”
“I don’t know. It’s… I just… You really think I should?” I find myself asking.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Blake says, shoving his hair off his face and grinning.
“The punters would love you,” Ben adds in encouragement.
“Come on, say you will. What have you got to lose?” Blake asks as Ben looks at me expectedly.
“When were you thinking?”
“Next weekend?” Ben beams at me, his green eyes twinkling.
I chew on my lip as both men wait for my reply. What harm could it do? I’ve already sung at my mother’s wedding, and it’s only one night. I’m just doing Ben a favour. That’s all.
“Sure, why not,” I find myself agreeing.