embellishing with his own improvisations. Voices lifted in a rousing tribute to the woman they’d all loved. Music had been Irene’s life and Carly was grateful to Finn for transforming the tragic occasion into one of celebration.
Bottles collected on the coffee table. Booze was poured directly into teacups.
Carly drifted back to the kitchen. There the non-singers had gathered to drink shots and exchange anecdotes about their absent friend. The somber mood had evaporated and laughter outweighed the tears. Carly learned tidbits about her aunt that she’d never known as a youngster only coming for summer visits. About how Irene had been a breath of fresh air in the stuffy garden club, how she’d baked dozens of loaves of her special sourdough bread at Christmas for the homeless, how she’d done the limbo at the animal shelter fund-raising party.
“Remember when she got Rufus?” Frankie, the next-door neighbor, had spiky black hair and an impish grin. “He was from a pet hoarder’s home and was skinny and mangy. He had so many issues no one wanted him. But she took him and worked with him and now he’s a beautiful dog.”
Rufus. Carly squinted at her watch. Nearly 7:00 p.m. and the dog hadn’t had any dinner. She got to her feet, grabbed for the back of the chair and ended up clutching Frankie’s shoulder. Whoa. Getting a bit tipsy. The room swayed as she crossed to the laundry room where her aunt kept a big plastic bin of kibble. Carly scraped the bottom with the plastic scoop and got only half a cup. That didn’t seem like enough. She added a couple of egg salad sandwiches from the platter on the counter and carried his bowl outside.
Dusk was falling. The sky glowed with the last light of day but the long backyard was full of shadows and the cedar trees along the back fence were a blur of black.
“Dinner, Rufus. Here, boy.” She set his bowl onto the concrete patio.
The dog didn’t come bounding up as she’d expected. Maybe he was patrolling the back fence, saying hello to the neighboring spaniel. Or digging in the soft dirt beneath the cedars. He was probably fine but she should check. Now where had she put her shoes? Her stockings were already ruined but even so, she didn’t fancy crossing the darkened lawn in what amounted to bare feet.
“Carly?” Beneath the patio light, Brenda’s cheeks were rosy and her blond hair ruffled. “D’you know if Irene has more mixer anywhere? I couldn’t see any in the pantry.”
“I’ll have a look.” Carly took one last quick scan of the yard, saw no sign of Rufus, and went inside.
She found more tonic water and cola. Then the opening bars of “Happy Talk” from the musical South Pacific drew her back to the living room where the singers stood four and five deep around the piano. At the town’s summer solstice party every year Irene led the Fairhaven choir in this upbeat song. Carly had no musical talent herself but she knew all the words to all the tunes in her aunt’s record collection. She belted out the song, secure in the knowledge that her flat notes would be drowned out by the well-trained voices.
Finn caught her eye and a moment of wordless joy passed between them. Maybe alcohol was making her brain fuzzy but it was wonderful to see him again. For years she’d put him to the back of her mind, never quite forgiving him for that summer. Whatever friction remained between them, he was probably the only other person in the world who had known her aunt as well as she did—and would miss her as much. Tears welling in her eyes, she smiled as she sang.
“THAT’S THE WAY, one foot in front of the other.” Finn put his arm around Carly’s waist to guide her up the staircase, no easy task given she wasn’t in full control of her limbs. He pretended he didn’t notice her left breast moving against his rib cage.
Outside a taxi sounded its horn, ready to take another group of guests home or to their hotel. When Finn had realized the party was getting out of hand he’d insisted drivers hand over their car keys. Brenda had purred at him as she put her keys in the bowl, evidently under the mistaken impression she was participating in a seventies-style, sexy free-for-all. He hadn’t seen her for a while and assumed she’d found a bedroom upstairs and was sleeping it off.
As he paused at the landing, Carly slithered out of his grasp and sat abruptly. She gazed blearily up at him, her blond hair mussed and her sky-blue eyes smudged with mascara. The top three buttons of her tailored white blouse were undone, exposing the curve of a creamy breast.
“Ya know,” she said, slurring her words and stabbing a finger at him. “Ya might be a screwup but you’re awesome. You turned a stuffy funeral into a f-fiesta. Irene woulda been proud.”
“She deserved a good send-off.” A screwup? Was that how Carly thought of him? True, he’d passed up a chance at a music scholarship after working his ass off for years. But at eighteen he’d changed his mind about wanting to be a classical pianist so it was no loss.
“How come you’re not drunk?” Hiccupping, Carly lolled against his leg, stroking the fabric of his suit.
“Didn’t feel like it.” He’d restrained himself when he realized Carly was going on a bender. Partly because he owed it to Irene to watch out for her. But also because his own emotions—grief over Irene’s death, his feelings for Carly, plus ambivalence about being back in Fairhaven—were too big and complicated to drown and too scary to unleash.
Tonight Carly had been like a tightly coiled spring with the pressure released, springing in every direction, out of control. Something was up with her, as Irene had alluded to in their last conversation. He’d like to know more, but he wasn’t going to get a meaningful answer in her present condition.
He grabbed her under her arms and tugged her gently to a standing position. “Ready to go?”
She swayed into him, draping her arms around his neck and plastering herself against his body, meltingly soft and warm. “Man, I am so ready.”
Her breath held a not unpleasant aroma of aged scotch and her hair gave off a perfumed scent he wanted to bury his nose in. His hands slid of their own accord down her back and settled on the flare of her hips. His gaze dropped to her full, pink mouth. Did she taste as good as he remembered from that time in the tower?
A few years ago he’d looked her up on social media, but she didn’t share anything publicly except a few photos of herself with work colleagues, and cute animal videos. His finger had hovered over the Add Friend button then he’d decided that even if she wasn’t still pissed off at him, he couldn’t bear to field questions about “what are you doing these days?” Followed by polite silences when she found out. Although he didn’t know why he thought that way. Everyone he knew in Los Angeles thought he was doing pretty darn good. And he was, only not in the way folks in Fairhaven had expected.
Her eyes drifted closed and she tilted her face as if expecting a kiss. Not being the kind of guy who took advantage of inebriated women, he wasn’t going there. Instead, he unhooked her arms from around his neck, faced her forward, and readjusted his grip. “Gee up, little pony.”
“Aw, I’m not a pony.” She clutched the banister and staggered up another step. “Maybe a Lipizzaner. They’re beeyootiful.”
“They’re stallions.”
“Stallions, really? All of them?”
“The ones that perform are. Almost there.” He coaxed Carly down the hallway.
