Chapter 4 #2
Harper’s eyes flicked to me. “We’re newish,” she said. “But we’ve heard … bits. Fill in the holes so we know which lines not to cross.”
It was strangely merciful, the way she asked. Not hungry. Not nosy. Just … kind.
Skye stared at her hands, and I waited. Did she want me to tell them what happened?
Did she want me to explain that I’d thought about her every day since she left me and wondered a thousand times if we could have somehow made it work?
But then she spoke, and my heart broke again for the woman who I’d thought would be my forever.
She told them about the band making songs in a dusty garage, the manager who smelled like cigar smoke and new suits, the contract and the fight.
She told them how she didn’t trust Glen and I had, how she left to save herself from watching me choose everything but her.
She told them how I wrote Skye and the world sang it and she got to be famous without asking and without pay.
She did not tell them about the kitchen floor we sat on after gigs, eating toast with jam because that’s all we had money for.
She didn’t tell them the exact way her laugh sounded when I came up with a terrible rhyme.
I didn’t mention that I called twice and hung up both times because I was a coward, or that I drove past the inn at midnight and didn’t stop, because apparently I preferred the worst version of myself.
I thought about saying those things, then I didn’t, because this was her story. This was my penance. And I needed to hear it. She’s been hurt … all because of me.
Rosie slid a mug toward her. “That’s … a lot,” she said softly.
“It is,” Harper said. “But also”—she tilted her head at me—“he’s here now.”
Skye didn’t look at me. “He’s here to hide.”
I wanted to protest but couldn’t, because she wasn’t entirely wrong. The scandal was a wave, and I was just a piece of driftwood caught on it.
Esther clapped her hands once, brisk. “Right. Feelings acknowledged. Back to fundraising.”
Skye opened her mouth and then shut it, either out of exhaustion or because Harper put a hand on her arm. Rosie leaned into Skye’s shoulder.
“Okay,” I said, because sometimes the simplest route is through. “No press. No paparazzi. Nothing that puts a target on Skye or the inn. But I’ll play the concert as long as we keep it small and very local.”
Shannon squealed. Cherise clapped. Meredith made a noise that might have been a battle cry. Esther wrote YES on the paper in letters big enough to be seen from orbit.
“Venue,” Harper said.
“Here,” Rosie said immediately. “After hours. We shut the blinds and make hot chocolate and pretend the rest of the world is elsewhere.”
“Too small,” Cherise argued.
“Good call. The community center then?” Murmurs of agreement went up.
A book fell from a shelf at my side, causing me to jump, and I leaned over to pick it up. Had I knocked the shelf? Turning the book over, I looked at the title.
What Women Really Want.
Annoyed, I put the book back on the shelf and tuned back into the conversation.
“We’ll call it ‘Cocoa & Carols,’” Shannon offered. “And then in tiny letters ‘and a very quiet acoustic set by a guest.’”
“Or we say ‘John Smith Live,’” Harper suggested, deadpan.
“Oh, he is my favorite artist,” I said, smiling.
Esther ticked boxes. “Tickets?”
“Tickets first. Donation at the door on the day if tickets haven’t sold out,” Cherise said. “Pay what you can.”
“Security,” Meredith said, very serious. “Gregory on the door. He can glower.”
I’d seen Gregory. He was not typically who I’d enlist for security services, but this was their gig now.
“Program,” Rosie said. “We’ll lead carols for twenty minutes, then the kiddos’ choir, then our guest, and then more carols so we don’t let him be the last thing people hear—no offense—and then biscuits.”
“Set list,” Esther said, pivoting to me like a general. “No heartbreak ballads that name names.”
“Deal.”
Skye’s head came up at that. Her eyes met mine, surprised.
“I’ll do a couple of old Christmas songs,” I said. “Ones everyone knows. And one new thing that won’t get me sued or anyone hurt.”
“Right,” Harper said, clapping her hands now. “Assignments. Rosie and I will handle poster design and cocoa. Cherise, you’re on donations. Meredith, biscuits with those little icings only you can make. And get the Two Sisters Bakery on the rest. Shannon, choir wrangling. Esther, crowd control.”
Rosie tapped a pen on her lip. “Costumes?”
“No,” Skye and I said at the same time.
“Matching scarves then,” Rosie said, untroubled. “Tasteful. Coordinated.”
“Rosie,” Harper warned.
“Fine.” Rosie sighed. “But I’m buying cinnamon sticks for the cocoa and nobody can stop me.”
The bell at the front rang. Rosie jumped up, the Book Bitches flowed after her in a tide of wool and cheer, already dictating who would stand where and whether there would be glitter.
Skye stayed seated. Harper squeezed her hand and patted my shoulder as she passed me. When it was just the two of us, the room shrank to the size of a heart.
“You don’t owe them anything,” she said, eyes on the paper, voice tight. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”
“I owe a lot of things,” I said. “Maybe not this. But it feels like a start.”
She looked at me then. Not through me. At me. I had to resist the impulse to put my hands in my pockets like a teenager.
“You’re not allowed to be charming,” she said.
“I’m terrible at being charming,” I said. “Ask anyone. I’m surly for sport.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself. “You always were better onstage.”
“Thanks?” I raised an eyebrow.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” she said, but her voice had softened a shade.
“Right.” I blew out a breath. “Look, I’ll keep my head down. I’ll play the fundraiser and work on not being a walking PR disaster. I’ll … just stay out of your way.”
She frowned. “You don’t have to stay out of my way. You live down the hall.”
On the table, the donation tin gleamed. I took my wallet out and slid notes through the slot.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Buy extra cinnamon sticks,” I said.
Her laugh was quick and surprised. God, I’d missed that sound.
“Go on then,” she said, shooing me with two fingers. “Before Esther recruits you to dress as a shepherd for the nativity.”
“I’d be a terrible shepherd,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’m emotionally unreliable.”
“True,” she said solemnly. “And sheep can tell.”
Banter. For the first time in years, there had been banter between Skye and me. How crazy that my heart felt somewhat lighter from something so simple.
I spent the afternoon being useful in ways that didn’t require my name.
Gregory had me carry boxes of donations for the families in need to be packed and wrapped at the bookshop.
I fixed a string of fairy lights with electrical tape and a prayer.
Cherise made me fold raffle tickets while she told me stories about how the village used to be when she was a girl.
Meredith handed me a biscuit and said, “Eat, you look like you’re about to waste away. ”
I’d lost a little weight after the last tour and due to recent stress, but I was by no means thin.
The women just seemed to like to feed me at all times.
It was comforting, reminding me of my own mum, who was currently enjoying three months in Australia ever since she and my dad had retired and decided to chase the sun.
I happily funded their travels, and nothing gave me more joy than the random pictures I’d get from places all over the world, usually of my dad showing me a fancy new toilet feature he’d just discovered in far-flung places like Japan.
Everywhere I went, people gave me a look that said they recognized me but had been briefed on the rules. Nobody asked for a photo. Nobody said Skye. Nobody made me into a headline.
And … I realized that I liked helping out with random tasks.
It was the most useful I’d felt in a while.
When you become famous, you stop doing things for yourself.
Not that I minded handing off some chores, like cleaning and laundry, to a maid service.
But it was the little things, like driving my own car, getting myself a cup of coffee, that kind of thing …
that I’d missed out on. Once Kingsbarns got the word to leave me alone—the Book Bitches gossip network moved faster than lightning—I was free to move about in relative ease.
And I found it refreshing, really, really refreshing.
Maybe I’d been burned out for a while now, but there was something about sitting down and helping with a basic task like working on signs for a Christmas concert that was refilling my well in ways that I couldn’t quite explain.
It didn’t hurt that it gave me close proximity to Skye, even though she still largely avoided conversation with me. Still, every once in a while, I’d catch her looking at me, her eyes unreadable, and she’d quickly look away.
My first love.
It was hard not to beat myself up for past choices when I was back seeing her every day. What if … there were so many what ifs running through my head.
I’d been young and stupid. I’d let my pride get in the way of our love, focusing on the record contract instead of building together with Skye. She’d been right. Even then. Our music was good enough that it wouldn’t have been our only chance for success.
When I’d learned she’d married a few years after our breakup, I’d hit the bottle pretty hard, and my angstiest album ever had been born.
My heartbreak had earned me a lot of money, and later, when I’d heard about her divorce, my most fun and lighthearted album had followed.
Whether I liked it or not, Skye had been a part of my music since day one.
She was the pillar holding up my career, and even though I’d been the one to take an axe to it, I couldn’t help but hold some hope that one day she’d let me back in.
Even if just as a friend—though every ounce of me wanted more.
I hadn’t known that before coming here, and yet, admitting that thought to myself made me realize I’d known it all along.
It was ridiculous, sometimes, the games we played with ourselves.
Maybe it was too much to hope that Skye would let me back into her life again, but we were both here, now, in this moment together.
So all I could do was try.