When she’d stepped into the club she’d seen him sitting at his piano, oblivious to her presence, lost in his music as always. He was playing something slow and sad and just slightly jazzy, his eyes closed as if that helped him to feel each and every note. Afraid to move forward, she’d stood there and listened and stared for a long moment. His hair had been a little too long, wavy and black and thick, falling over his cheek and hiding too much of his face from her. She wanted,
needed
, to see more.
She’d stood numbly just inside the doorway, wondering how she could tell him about Megan, imagining the words leaving her lips, imagining his reaction... until a woman left the bar to saunter toward the piano with a smile, to step up on the stage and sit on the edge of the piano bench and kiss Michael on the cheek much too familiarly. He’d lifted his head and smiled, then flashed that wide grin Laura had never quite been able to forget.
Without thinking she’d turned and run away. No more imagining, no more dreaming of what might’ve been. Her mother was right, she’d told herself as she’d sprinted to her car. She had Megan, she had a good job and a wonderful apartment in Birmingham, and she didn’t need the heartache anymore. Laura had convinced herself long ago that Michael Arnett was nothing but heartache.
But Megan deserved to know her father, and maybe Michael deserved to know he had a child. That didn’t mean anything would change between them. His music would always come first. She needed stability, for herself and for Megan. How could they ever make something like that work? It was impossible, just as it had been five years ago. Heaven help her, exactly how was she going to tell Michael that he had a four-year-old daughter?
A soft knock on the door saved her from choking out the words again. “Mommy,” Megan called softly. “Are you finished? I have to go.”
“Just a minute,” Laura answered, her voice falsely bright as she checked her image in the mirror once again. She’d changed a lot in five years. The last of the baby fat in her face had finally fallen away, she’d learned how to style her fine hair and how to apply makeup, and there were more business suits and pumps than jeans and sneakers in her closet these days. She’d grown up in the past five years. What would Michael think of her?
For better or for worse, she was about to find out.
As she opened the door Megan rushed in, smile wide and eyes bright, chubby cheeks pink from running around the hotel room and exploring every comer. “You look so pwetty,” Megan said, turning her head up so that her strawberry-blond ponytail swung gently down her back. Her bangs needed trimming again—fine and coppery, they brushed her pale eyebrows. “Do you hab a business meeting?”
“Yes,” Laura said, breaking her vow never to lie to her child. What if Michael didn’t care anything about having a little girl? What if he didn’t want to be a part of Megan’s life? This way, if her father rejected her, Megan would never know it. Laura would do anything to protect her daughter—even lie.
Very gently, she used her fingers to brush her child’s silky bangs to the side, “I have a meeting. Jennifer will stay with you, and I promise I won’t be gone long.”
Laura stepped through the open bathroom door to see Jennifer, her sixteen-year-old niece, sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed she’d claimed for herself. As usual, her attention was on the smart phone in her hand. Megan very forcefully closed the door, and Jennifer’s head popped up so that her newly cut dark hair bounced.
“Wow,” she whispered, and a grin bloomed on her face. “You look gorgeous. Whoever this new client is, he doesn’t stand a chance.”
Laura very carefully touched the smooth curl of blond hair that touched her neck. Nearly thirty years old, and she was as nervous as a girl on her first date. She’d tried on three outfits before deciding on the blue dress and matching heels, and she’d taken a painfully long time to style her hair. Professional and cool, that was the look she was going for, but at the same time she didn’t want to come off like a bitter, plain spinster. So the heels were a little higher than most of the sensible pumps she owned, and she wore a little more makeup than usual, and this dress was just a bit too snug. Not tight, of course, but more form fitting than she normally went in for.
She could deny it to herself all night, but the fact of the matter was that she wanted to look good for Michael.
“Thanks,” she murmured, the more cowardly part of her suddenly wishing she’d settled for the plain gray dress she’d originally pulled from the closet. “And thanks for coming with me. I... I can’t take Megan with me to this meeting, and I didn’t want to leave her with my mother. Mom’s so busy with the holidays coming.”
Jennifer fell back onto the bed. “I should be thanking you. I’ve had just about all the family time I can stand, and we just got in Friday. If I’d stayed at Grandma’s she’d have me doing kitchen duty for the next four days, and the place is so crowded. I mean,
everybody’s
there this year. I had to share a bed with Heather this weekend, and she talks in her sleep. And I hate to say this, but I really dread the next few years with Megan and Katie, the way they are together.”
Katie was her sister Karen Marlow Gentry’s little girl. A year younger than Megan, Katie had always been difficult. From the time she was a baby, the Marlow women had had to take turns walking, rocking, and entertaining her. Together, Katie and Megan were like a toddler version of Butch and Sundance.
Laura collected her black coat from the closet and slipped it on. The lightweight wool was just right for the unpredictable Memphis weather. Her eyes roamed over the odd hotel room as Jennifer listed the failings of her aunts and uncles and cousins, all of whom had descended upon the Marlow house for Christmas.
If only she’d decided to go through with this weeks ago, maybe she could have reserved a room in a nicer hotel. This place wasn’t exactly a rattrap, but it was definitely unusual. There was a portrait of Elvis—bright colors on black velvet—hanging over the television. The bedspreads on the side-by-side double beds were a vivid crimson that matched the color of Elvis’s jacket perfectly, and the drapes were a heavy and faded blue. The rest of the furniture looked like it was a mixture of old elegance and newer, cheaper additions. The red velvet chair by the window was the only comfortable piece of furniture in the room.
Megan came bursting from the bathroom, her arms spread wide as she barreled toward her mother. “Good-bye hug!” she shouted, throwing her arms around Laura’s legs and squeezing tight. Laura dropped down for a real face-to-face hug, needing the strength and love her daughter gave her more than ever. This was turning out to be so hard.
“How many days until Christmas?” Megan asked for the third time on this very long day.
“Four,” Laura answered, squeezing tight. “Four days that will fly by so fast, Christmas will be here before you know it.”
“Don’t forget what I asked Santa for,” Megan whispered in Laura’s ear. “I want my daddy.”
***
“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” again. Bad as it was, Michael knew it could be worse. If one more drunken fool asked him to play “Jingle Bell Rock,” he was going to do someone bodily harm.
He let his fingers move automatically over the keys of his cherished Bosendorfer nine-foot grand piano, the familiar Christmas song coming to him so easily that he was able to study the respectable Monday-night crowd as he played. He positively hated Christmas music, but it was his job to keep the customers happy and drinking, and if it took a dozen renditions a night of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” to make that happen, well, that was the price he paid for this particular gig. One of his producers—and something of a friend—Spencer Modine, was here with a new woman. Spencer was seated at his favorite table. The cute and definitely distracted blonde he was with looked anything but comfortable, wearing a business suit and alternately babbling and playing with her chili. The uptight woman was definitely not Modine’s usual type, but they seemed to be... involved.
Michael played the notes, but he’d much rather be working on the new song Modine was waiting for. Dammit, “Rainy Night” was so close to finished he could almost hear it. Almost. The end wasn’t quite right, and when he sat here after hours and played the damn thing again and again it just didn’t sound complete.
But for now he was on automatic pilot, keeping the patrons happy. The crowd had been requesting Christmas songs since just after Thanksgiving, but there were only four more days to go. Four more days, and Christmas would be over for another year. Thank God.
There had been a time, he remembered, when he’d liked Christmas. Memories of the years before his parents had died were vague and too few, but they were good memories. He had fewer fond recollections of the perfectly organized and stress-filled Christmases after he’d gone to live with his Aunt Dinah, the aging and unmarried great-aunt who’d decided a young man needed something constructive to keep him busy.
Something like piano lessons. At least for that he would always be grateful.
After he’d met Laura, he’d loved the holiday. It was their time. They’d met just two days before Christmas, and by Christmas Eve he’d known she was the one. She’d become the other part of himself, the one person in the world he could rely on... at least for a couple of years. And then everything had fallen apart. Now he couldn’t play a Christmas tune or see a Christmas tree without thinking of her.
Other women had come and gone in the past five years, but he was always alone at Christmas. If there was a woman in his life when the month of December began, she was gone well before New Year’s. He found a way to drive them away, as if sharing the holiday with anyone but Laura was somehow unfaithful. Many a Christmas Day he’d sat alone and wondered if this was his way of punishing himself for not being everything she’d wanted him to be.
A couple of years ago he’d almost done it. He’d made it all the way to Christmas Eve with a fun kind of girl whose name now eluded him. He’d met her at a Halloween party, and she’d hung around until he thought he might actually make it through Christmas that year with someone.
But on Christmas Eve he’d done it again. His mind had played a trick on him, teasing him with a false glimpse of Laura out of the corner of his eye, a glimpse so real he’d chased the phantom out the door, leaving the nameless, beautiful girl sitting on the piano bench wondering why he’d lit out of the place like a bat out of hell.
There had been nothing on the street, of course. No Laura, no phantom, no nothing. He’d walked for blocks, just in case, looking around corners and in sunken doorways. Just in case. Before the clock struck twelve he’d managed to chase what’s-her-name away. By sunrise “Only a Shadow” had been written. A few months later it was recorded by a well-established rock star, and less than a year after that an up-and-coming country singer had put it on his CD. The checks had come rolling in, and the requests for more songs followed.
It was a good gig. He got to play piano, write songs, and make a decent living, and very few people knew he was the man behind those maudlin love songs. There weren’t even very many people who knew that he owned this club, Forever Blue. He liked it that way.
Tonight, it seemed, his mind had decided to play the same trick on him again. The woman who stepped through the club door moved like Laura—graceful, with a certain unique elegance that had haunted him for five years. No one else moved that way.
It was not a trick of his mind this time, he realized with a deep quiver as she turned her face to him. His hands continued to play effortlessly as he latched his eyes to hers. The years fell away, and it was just yesterday that she’d confessed how much she loved him. The smile came easily to his face, a smile of welcome and wonder and maybe even love.
Ah, but it wasn’t yesterday, was it? He hadn’t seen her for five years. She’d moved on, or so her mother had said on the one occasion he’d foolishly worked up the nerve to make the short trip to their home in the suburbs. It had been two years to the day after Laura had left him. He’d never forget what Mrs. Marlow had said, would never forget the angry expression on her face. Laura was happy, and she didn’t need a no-good musician showing up out of nowhere to screw up her life and break her heart all over again.
Michael knew too well what would make Laura happy. A husband, a home, a family. His smile faded and he turned his eyes to the black and white keys beneath his hands. He’d stood there in the doorway of the comfy Marlow middle-class home and heard a baby’s cry from upstairs. A moment later, looking over Mrs. Marlow’s shoulder, he’d caught a glimpse of Laura at the top of the stairs. She’d been holding a baby in her arms, a tiny, squalling baby Laura had cooed at as she very carefully descended the stairs. A man came hurtling down the stairs behind her, to smile and take the baby from her arms. Michael had managed to whisper, “Hers?” and Mrs. Marlow had hesitated and then nodded once.
He’d turned away and not looked back. The door had closed quietly behind him, and still he didn’t look back. She had what she wanted. Husband, baby, home, stability. So what the hell was she doing here now?
He looked up just in time to see the door swing shut. Just like that, Laura was gone.
Without thinking, he jumped from the piano bench in the middle of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” and headed for the door, ignoring the shouted “Hey!” from the drunk who’d requested this particular Christmas torture, the surprised “Where are you going?” from the bartender, and the discordant ring of a song unfinished. Modine actually laughed, but Michael didn’t even look his way. His eyes were on the door.
He wasn’t going to let her get away this time. Maybe it was a mistake that she’d wandered into this particular club tonight. Chance, destiny, misfortune. Maybe she’d seen him sitting there and run away because she didn’t want to see him ever again. And then again maybe it wasn’t a mistake at all. Maybe she’d come here for him.
A blast of cold air hit him as he burst through the door, but he saw her right away. She was walking fast, but she wasn’t running. Not exactly. Those heels she wore weren’t made for running.