Meant To Be Hers. Joan Kilby
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starter and sniffed the contents. It smelled fruity and yeasty, a bit overripe. “I think it’s gone off.”
Finn took the jar from her. “That’s the way it’s supposed to smell. But you probably need to feed it.”
“Feed it what?” Carly said. “Dead mice?”
“Flour and water,” he replied. “It’s a bit like a pet, one you knead but you don’t have to walk.”
Carly bit back a smile at his lame joke and moved to the leftover platters of food on the kitchen table. The past week had been a blur of funeral arrangements. Mundane activities like grocery shopping had gone by the wayside. Irene, who was renowned for her hospitality, would be spinning in her grave—that is, if she’d been buried instead of cremated.
Carly peeled back the plastic wrap on one of the plates and sniffed the stale sandwiches then chose a couple of the least squashed.
“Sure you want to eat those?” Finn asked. “They’ve been sitting out all night.”
“Salmonella poisoning couldn’t be worse than I feel right now.” She took a bite and offered the other sandwich to Finn.
“Pass.” He let a beat go by, then one dark eyebrow cocked. “I don’t like to start something I can’t finish.”
She choked on chicken and cucumber. “About that.”
“About what?” he asked innocently.
She’d forgotten how he liked teasing her. And how she always fell for it. Forget apologizing. Her minor indiscretion was no big deal. “Funny. But I’m not going to bite.”
He looked at the sandwich in her hand. “Are you making pun of me?”
Carly rolled her eyes. “Let’s go find Rufus.”
She grabbed a leash from the hook in the back porch then slipped on a pair of old tennis shoes and a hoodie and they set off down the block.
It was a typical Sunday morning in the small, Pacific northwest town. Many of the houses in this neighborhood were, like Irene’s, beautifully maintained period homes. Dads mowed manicured lawns and kids rode bikes. Cherry trees burst with pink blossoms and overhead, the sky was a deep clear blue. Off to the west, the bay was calm with white sails scudding past and a ferry in the distance.
Her gaze drifted to the top of the hill. Not five blocks away was a narrow strip of woods and beyond that, the highway. Six lanes of speeding traffic which might not stop in time for a goofy red dog. “He’ll never survive out in the wild on his own.”
“South Hill is hardly the wild,” Finn said. “He’s probably in some little old lady’s kitchen right now, chowing down on pork chops.”
He sounded so certain she was tempted to believe him. Casting him a sidelong glance she was struck by how good he looked. Today his clothes were casual but stylish, his black hair clean and shiny. “You said you’re still a musician. That’s pretty vague. What do you do exactly?”
“I’m a studio musician. I play backup on albums.”
“I heard you singing last night.”
He froze midstride, just for a split second, then resumed walking. “I thought you were asleep. Sorry to disturb you.”
“Don’t apologize. You were amazing.” Just because she hadn’t heard of him didn’t mean he wasn’t a big deal in California. “Have you recorded anything?”
“Did Irene never mention my studio work and that I also write songs for a living?” he said, mildly aggrieved.
“No.” Carly didn’t want to tell him that she’d always been the one to cut short any conversation about Finn. Mention of him shouldn’t hurt so much after so many years...but it did. “Don’t you perform?”
“Those days are behind me,” Finn said shortly. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Ru-fus.”
There was no answering woof.
“He doesn’t know either of us very well,” Carly said. “He might not come to us even if we find him.”
At the corner they turned to the right and trudged to the top of the hill before making their way down, back and forth along the streets, calling and peering into yards.
“Have you written any songs that I would recognize?” Carly asked.
“One or two, maybe.”
Was it her imagination or did he sound a tad touchy? She peered into a hedge but there was no Rufus hiding beneath the dark green foliage.
“So, your parents...” Carly began cautiously. “What happened? I gathered from Irene that you’re estranged from them, but she didn’t go into detail.”
“My mother wanted me to be a classical concert pianist,” Finn said. “Juilliard was her idea and she put a lot of pressure on me to go there. She’s never forgiven me for the wrecked concert or for bailing on the audition and pursuing my own music in Los Angeles.”
“Twelve years is a long time for her to stay mad at you,” Carly said. “Maybe while you’re here you could reconcile.”
“I’m mad, too.” Finn stopped, hands on hips. “I called her once or twice over the years but she wasn’t cordial. She’s blown this whole feud up.”
“Someone has to make the first move,” Carly said. “Just saying.”
“Not going to happen, at least not on my end,” he said with finality. After a moment’s silence he changed the subject. “When I was a kid my dog Prince got lost.”
Carly sighed and went with it. She didn’t have the energy to pursue the conversation about his mother anyway. “I remember him. He used to follow when you came to Irene’s for your music lesson. He was a German shepherd, right?”
“That’s right. He was actually a she but Princess didn’t seem to suit. She got scared during the fireworks on the Fourth of July, jumped the fence and ran away. We never found her. She probably got run over but I told myself that she ended up in the yard of another little boy and had a great home, even if it wasn’t with me.”
“That’s so sad,” Carly said. “I guess they didn’t put microchips in dogs’ ears back then. Didn’t she have a registration tag?”
“Registration costs money.” Finn kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. “Any spare cash was spent on my music lessons.”
“Oh.” His talent had been worth the sacrifices, but Carly could only imagine the stress on the rest of the family. Even the dog had missed out. How betrayed they must have felt when Finn chucked it all in and ran off to Los Angeles, especially his mother, who’d devoted herself to his classical music studies. It must have killed her when he’d thrown away his chance at attending Juilliard.
“This is hopeless.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, which had begun to churn again. “Let’s go back before I throw up in someone’s flower bed.”
“What you need is Rhonda’s ‘Morning After’ brunch special,” Finn said.
“I don’t know what that is, but I’m game for anything that will neutralize the toxins.”
Rhonda’s turned out to be a trendy corner café in the heart of the old town. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee drew Carly into a light-filled room where potted plants nestled between comfy couches and restored wooden furniture. Plum-colored walls were crowded with original local artwork. The Sunday café crowd was seriously chill with a fair sprinkling of kids. The buzz of genial conversation mingling with recorded jazz in the background was warm and welcoming. In one corner stood a raised platform with a microphone stand and a stool. Overhead, wooden ceiling fans whirred lazily.
“Find a table and I’ll order,” Finn said. “The works?”
“Yes,