The Shadow of Your Smile (8 page)

She was the woman in the wedding photo.

Those sweet adult boys—they were hers.

And that man—that wretched man—was her husband.

She closed her eyes, the truth shaking through her.

This was her life.

But she didn’t want it to be.

Emma had given up trying to find the lyrics.

Her chord sheet lay on the floor in front of her, abandoned as she leaned back against the ancient green sofa she’d inherited from the attic jam space and lost herself in her music. She played the leads of an E major scale, then the minor chords, up and down the frets.

Then she jumped into the key of A, played a minor pentatonic extended scale, and worked out a new lick, bending the B string down around the tenth fret, then popping over to the E string and bending it all the way up to high G. She held it for a moment, then ran the notes down the scale, adding a vibrato to the low E.

Yeah, she liked that lick.

She did it again, then strummed the A blues chords to a swing beat, just for fun.

Hard not to find a smile with the beat of a jump blues guitar.

But even behind the music, the hollowness of a song without lyrics resonated through her. Kelsey would have picked up her beat, added some piano, and come up with lyrics that scrubbed their latest drama out of their hearts.

The sound lingered, then faded into the street noise. Traffic splashed through the slimy snow and mud, and across the street, someone was having a house party, the music raucous. Two years ago, Emma had found the cheapest apartment she could within walking distance of the University of Minnesota campus.

She heard movement from Carrie’s bedroom. Her roommate emerged in a slinky black dress, combat boots, a jean jacket, a patterned scarf, and long silver earrings. “You sure you don’t want to come out with me tonight? I hate that you’re sitting here lonely on a Saturday night.”

This time on a Saturday night, she should be getting ready for a gig. According to Ritchie, she’d been blackballed in the tiny blues community, and yes, the bar owner was sticking her with part of the repair bill. Thanks for that, Kyle.

Emma got up, carried her cold mash of ramen noodles to the sink. Washed them down the drain. “No. I need a night off, probably.”

“What, to brood over your lost love?”

Emma shot her a frown. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not blind to the hottie who walked you to the door the other night. And by the way, everyone’s talking about how he came in and started a ruckus when he saw one of your fans flirting with you.”

“That’s not how it went down.”

Carrie picked up her purse and set it on the counter, riffling through it. “Whatever. He’s cute. And I’m not sure why you sent him packing.”

Emma washed the bowl, set it in the rack to dry. “I sort of worshiped him in high school, and yeah, we had a nice night. But he lives in Deep Haven, which if you know anything about Minnesota is about five hours north of here.”

“And your hometown. So do you have feelings for him?”

Did she? She used to. There was a time when she would track the sightings of him through her day. And she could hardly forget how it felt—finally—to be kissing him, the smell of him, the way, for a few hours, he’d made her feel found.

“I guess so.”

“Then what’s holding you back? He’s got the goods, sweetie. Tall, blond—”

“And the brother of my best friend who died.” Emma wrung out the washcloth, laid it across the double sink to dry. “And I might have already mentioned that he wants to live in Deep Haven?”

“A federal crime.” Carrie pulled out a couple old ticket stubs and dropped them into the trash. “This might be news to you, but last time I checked, you
can
play music in Deep Haven. At least I think they changed the zoning laws up there. Didn’t you say they had a blues festival and a great music scene? I’m dipping way back into my brain cell–damaged memory here, but didn’t you tell me once that’s where you heard the music best? Where you felt as if it came alive inside you? I’m not dreaming up the fact that you haven’t composed one new song since you moved here—”

“I’ve composed plenty of songs—”

“Excuse me. You haven’t
finished
a song. You need something called
lyrics
too.”

Emma glanced at the scattered papers on the rag rug in the living room. “I just . . . I don’t know what to say.”

Carrie gave a slow nod. “Find the lyrics, and I’ll bet you can figure out a way to go home again.” She snapped her purse closed. “Last chance to change out of your yoga pants, maybe have a little fun.”

“Nope. Don’t get into any barroom brawls.”

“Oh no, honey. You’re the bruiser here.” Carrie winked at her. “Don’t wait up.”

Emma sat down again with her music.
Find the lyrics.
Yes, if she could do that, then she could go into the studio, record a demo.

Put some feet to her dreams.

She picked up her guitar, played a few scales.

On the table, her cell phone rang. Putting the guitar aside, she picked it up. She didn’t recognize the caller. “Hello?”

“Hey, Emma, it’s Nicole.”

Oh, Nicole. Emma had finally read her e-mail and was still trying to figure out how to say no.

“Did you get my e-mail?”

Lying would be so easy sometimes. But it wouldn’t help her here. “I did. But . . . I don’t think it’ll work, Nicole.”

“Please, please help me out, Emma. Our entire ensemble has backed out—they don’t want to drive all the way to Deep Haven with the storm we just had. I need someone who can handle everything—the wedding, the reception. Please, please? For me?”

Wedding
and
reception. That could mean enough money to cover the bar fight bill and even another month’s rent. By then, maybe she’d find the right words.

“When is it?”

“Next weekend. At Caribou Ridges Resort.”

Technically
not in Deep Haven.

“Fine. Okay. Do you have anything special you want me to play?”

“Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’?”

“Yeah, of course. Although I’m thinking that might need more than just my guitar.”

Maybe Ritchie could fill in—he gigged now and again as a keyboardist. And she could ask Tim to help on drums. He probably knew the truth about the fight.

“Oh, Emma, you’re the best. Thanks so much! I’ll see if I can track down a drummer and a keyboardist—I saw Kyle Hueston back in town. He used to play in a band with Jason. Maybe—”

Shoot. What was with this guy? A dry spell for her entire life, and suddenly it was raining Kyle Hueston everywhere she looked.

“I’ll find my own drummer—”

“Don’t worry; I’ll ask him myself. I saw him yesterday at the donut shop—or I guess it’s the cupcake shop now. He was sitting in the booth with the other deputies. He looked downright hot in his uniform.”

“Thanks for that, Nicole. But really—”

“I don’t mind asking. Thanks again, Emma. You rock.”

Nicole hung up and Emma dropped her head back on the sofa. Perfect.

When hadn’t Kyle Hueston looked hot? She’d never missed a home basketball game when Kyle played. Would wait for him to pass her in the hallway on the way to Mr. Dorrin’s social studies class.

Kyle could still make her forget where she was . . . and where she was going.

But he planned on planting himself in Deep Haven. She had no plans to plant herself anywhere near it.

Emma got up, put her guitar away, then grabbed a jacket and opened the door to the tiny balcony off their apartment. The city lights sparkled, red and white, constellations against the galaxy of the city. She could see her breath and drew in the crisp air. Sitting on a metal chair, she propped her feet on the railing and leaned back, searching for stars.

In Deep Haven, the stars seemed so close she could breathe them in, feel them sparkle inside her. She could trace the Milky Way and sometimes even spot the undulating ribbons of pink, lavender, and turquoise from an aurora borealis.

Not here in the city, however. The bright cityscape ate away at the darkness, the stars dim and hidden. Perhaps it was simply too early to see them, the night still so young, but nothing of hope twinkled in the sky.

Find the lyrics, and I’ll bet you can figure out a way to go home again.

If only it were that easy.

Eli wanted to track down Derek Nelson and wring his neck. Two days and Lee’s drive still hadn’t been plowed? He saw the track marks where Derek had parked his father’s Subaru down by the road, the footprints from where he hiked to the house and back.

But no tire tracks leading out from the driveway. Which meant Lee had been snowed in since the storm hit.

Yes, he’d kill Derek when the kid returned home from wherever he’d run off to. Probably shooting hoops down at the community center.

Kirby liked to hang out there too—might be there now if he wasn’t worried about his mother.

Eli hauled the snowblower from the back of his pickup, yanked the zip cord to start it. The motor churned to life, and he started down the middle, throwing snow toward the banks. Icy particles landed on his face, flaked into his eyes.

Okay, someone
had
tried to shovel. As Eli drew near the garage, he spotted a feeble swath near the edges. Someone had cleared about a three-foot chunk. Working by hand, it would take one person a week to shovel this drive. Why Lee didn’t hire one of the snowplow services from town baffled him.

Maybe she just didn’t want to bother anyone. What was it about these women in Deep Haven that made them so insistent on managing life on their own? Noelle still mowed their acres of grass by herself. And more than once Eli had come home to her covered in snow, blowing out the driveway.

At least, the old Noelle. The new Noelle had stared at their home with a sort of abject horror. He’d always thought it cozy, the dormer windows like sleepy eyes gazing out over the forest. They heated with propane, so it lacked the ambience of a woodstove-heated home, the sleepy relaxation of a crackling fire, but it had kept them warm and dry for twenty-five years.

He’d always intended to build Noelle a fireplace someday. Just never quite got around to it.

Eli turned and cut another path down the center, all the way back to the highway. He’d started to work up a sweat underneath his parka and wool cap. He’d need another shower when he got home.

But wow, he might never erase from his brain the look Noelle gave him when he’d said he was taking a shower. Now
that
made him feel dirty.

Noelle hated him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him, if her body language communicated correctly.

He turned again and cut the trail wider. At least now Lee could get her Jeep down the drive, but it took three more passes before his truck would manage it. By then, ice encrusted his collar, and icicles hung on his eyelashes.

Funny that Lee hadn’t even come to the door to wave. Eli loaded his snowblower back onto the truck, debated a moment, then turned down her driveway.

He had somehow always preferred Clay’s house to his own. The man hailed from a family of lumberjacks and had built it with his own hands, carved out the logs, unearthed the stones for the tall fireplace. Now a two-story log home with a loft, it seemed the perfect fit under the arms of the white pine and birch that surrounded their place. He noticed that Christmas lights still edged the house—he hadn’t had time to take them down—and now, as darkness approached, they twinkled, adding a homey glow to the forest.

Sure, they’d started in the garage, but the Nelsons had added on as they had money, which meant that Clay left Lee free and clear, without a mortgage.

But also without a man to help her take care of the cottage in the woods.

He knocked on the door, noticing that someone had sprinkled kitty litter on the trail between the house and the garage. So perhaps she had ventured out. “Lee?”

“Let yourself in, Eli.”

He heard the voice through the door, opened it, and stuck his head in. Usually the Nelson home smelled of something freshly baked—cookies, bread, a casserole. Today there was nothing but the hint of ash as if a fire had long ago gone out. And the house felt cool.

Even cold.

“Lee!”

“I’m here, Eli.” Her voice sounded wrung out.

He toed off his boots, then ventured into the house, and his breath seized. Lee lay in Clay’s recliner, her chin tucked into her chest, her arm drawn up, shivering under a white afghan. The fireplace lay unlit, cold.

“What’s going on? It’s freezing in here.”

She looked brutal—or would have if she wasn’t so pretty even in her pain. Her hair hung down around her face in a tangle of curls, and smudges of makeup marred her eyes as if she’d been crying. She wore yoga pants, a pair of wool socks. She tried to move as he came toward her, but she winced, crying out.

“Lee! For pete’s sake!” He knelt before her, his voice softening. “What happened?”

“I was shoveling and I think I must have pinched something in my neck. It’s just . . . I can’t move. Everything hurts, right down to my toes.”

She looked at him so morosely—oh, how he wanted to run his finger down her face, push her hair away from those sad eyes. Instead he got up, went to the wood box, and fished around for kindling.

“How long have you been like this?”

“I hurt myself yesterday, before Derek’s game. I wanted to drive over to Ely to watch it, but I couldn’t get out.”

Eli built a tepee with the kindling, then stuffed it with bundles of the lavender Lee grew as a fire starter. “Where is Derek?”

She looked at him, frowning. “They had back-to-back games; don’t you remember? Today’s was away too, so Derek stayed in town last night. I guess Kirby didn’t make it back for that one, either?”

“No. We just got home from the hospital.”

“Oh.” She adjusted herself in the chair, made a sound that turned his heart. “How’s Noelle?”

He lit the fire. Immediately it added a trickle of heat to the cold breath in the room. He fed the remnants of the wood to the stove, then closed the glass door. “I’ll get you some more wood.”

“Eli.”

Her voice stopped him, and he drew in a breath before he turned. She had such a gentle smile—no wonder Clay had proposed to her the day after high school graduation. Eli had always been a little jealous of how easy it came for them—they’d dated since they were fifteen, knew from the day they met that they belonged together.

Lee had grieved, of course, after Clay’s death, but she didn’t let it destroy her.

“How’s Noelle?” She gave him the smile that always knew how to find the coldness inside, how to warm him from the inside out. She was just so easy to talk to.

He shook his head. “She still doesn’t know me. In fact, I think the last thing she wanted to do was come home with me.”

“Why would you say that? This is her home. It’ll help her get her memory back.”

“I’m not sure she wants it back.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say. To not remember your children—not remember Kelsey? Of course she wants her memory back.”

Eli sighed, shoved his hands into his pockets. “We aren’t telling her about Kelsey.”

“What—no, Eli, that’s not fair. How are you going to do that?” She wore the same expression Kyle had, and it brought him back, just for a moment, to that horrible tussle on the floor with his eldest son.

He’d hit the boy. It still made him sick. “You know I already took out Kelsey’s things long ago. But I made Kirby go through the house while Noelle’s napping to remove any extra pictures, the scrapbooks, anything that might trigger a memory of Kelsey.”

“She deserves to know—”

“No. I’m right about this, Lee. Think about it. You know how she was when Kelsey died. She barely left her room for six months. And when she did, she was so distant. As if she’d lost herself inside that dark place. Frankly, I think she forgot about me—about us—even before she fell.”

“Eli.” Lee’s voice softened and had the power to soothe the frayed, angry parts of him. “She didn’t forget you. She just had to figure out how to cope, like the rest of us.”

“But you didn’t lock yourself inside your house.”

“I had my extended family. My parents. And I didn’t lose my only daughter.”

Eli sighed. “How long since you ate?”

She hesitated. “It just hurt too much to cook—”

“For
two days
? Why didn’t you call me?” Except what was he going to do? Leave his wife to come help Lee? He saw the truth on her face, and thankfully, she didn’t voice it.

She wrinkled her nose. “I considered it a fast . . . I needed time to pray, anyway. I don’t see the sunrise too often. It’s so beautiful over the lake in the morning, like pink molasses.”

“I’m cooking you dinner.”

“You’ll have to buy food first.” She gave him a sheepish grin. “Or thaw some venison. I was going to make Derek some stew, but . . .” She shifted and he flinched when she cried out again.

“You need to get that looked at. You might have done serious damage.”

Her face said it then—that despite her brave front, all the talk about praying and making stew, she’d been sitting here thinking that very thing since yesterday.

While he’d been with the woman who didn’t want to remember him.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I can’t move—”

But that didn’t matter because he walked over and picked her up, blanket and all. And after she whimpered, she settled herself against him.

Eli refused to let the words rise, to hear the voice inside that suggested that’s where he wanted her to belong.