It had been years and years since Zach had played the song, but his fingers moved easily, remembering the deceptively easy-sounding chords that had taken him so long to perfect. He started writing “Say the Words” as therapy about a week after their ill-fated night and finished it four weeks later, painstakingly choosing the most beautiful chords and working out a special bridge. It was a pure folk song, a man and his guitar, because that was her favorite.

 

Been a week

(You said I love you)

Just a week

(And so I left you)

I couldn’t say the words

Even though my heart could scream them.

Even though I knew I’d mean them.

 

Been a week

(And I’ve been dying)

Just a week

(And I’ve been crying)

I couldn’t say the words

Even though my heart could scream them.

Even though I knew I’d mean them.

 

He was relieved and frustrated at the same time that he couldn’t see her face. This song was so far out of his comfort zone, it made his stomach turn over, but she deserved to hear it. It was the song he’d wanted to share with her the day he approached her. He had hoped it would prove to her that he did love her. That he had been longing for her. That he was ready to be with her. But he was too late, or so he’d believed at the time.

His eyes burned as he approached the bridge, the most gut-wrenching part of the song. He didn’t want his voice to waver, so he took a deep breath before continuing.

And your face haunts my waking

And your eyes taunt my aching

Heart that bleeds to death inside me

’Cause your body’s not beside me

 

He recalled the dark nights lying alone in his bed, hoping she’d stop by to say hello, to tell him she missed him and they could still be friends. Just to let him be around her as he sorted out his complex and frightening feelings. But she’d been unexpectedly strong, staying away from him completely, lying low. She knew his schedule and had made sure she never showed up somewhere he might be. In fact, he’d barely seen her during those few weeks, and with every passing day without her, he realized what he’d lost. He realized what he’d pushed away.

 

Been seven days

(You need to know)

For seven days

(You’ve owned my soul)

 

I couldn’t say the words

to her

even though my heart could scream them

But now I’ll say the words

to her

and now she’ll know I mean them.

 

He finished the last few chords quietly, then his hands stilled the strings. He looked up at the sound booth, searching for a sign of her in the darkness.

“Violet?” he called, but she didn’t answer.

He stepped off the stool and put his guitar gently against it, thinking how alone it looked in the spotlight, thinking how it was nothing without him, and he was nothing without her.

Did she like it? Hate it? Hate him? She couldn’t seem to make herself tell him that she loved him even though he could see it in her eyes. Not saying it meant a piece of her was holding out, holding back, and selfishly he wanted all of her. He needed all of her, even though he understood her fears better than anyone.

He grimaced and swallowed, worried about her silence. He left the studio and pushed open the door to the sound booth.

The back of the leather chair faced him as he entered the warm, dim room.

“Vi?” he said, not knowing what to expect.

The chair turned slowly until it revealed the half-naked girl of his dreams, his one and only muse, the love of his life, the other half of his soul. Her face was wet, but her smile was blinding, and suddenly he found himself on his knees before her.

She reached out to cup his face without a word, holding his eyes before leaning down to kiss him as he pulled her off the chair and into his arms.

***

Monday morning found Violet bright eyed and bushy tailed. Three songs completed and she still hadn’t told Zach she loved him, but the fourth song, which she was sharing with him tonight, was going to tell him everything. Everything. Her insides tingled in anticipation. Ready or not, she was determined to plow through her fears and tell him how she felt.

She supposed it was a combination of Sophie’s advice and his song to her on Saturday night—the way he understood how hard it was for her to say the very words he’d had trouble returning so many years ago.

Over the past week and a half, they’d decided to lean in to fate and give things between them a real-life chance. Zach would head back to New York on Friday, and Violet would join him there next Monday, after visiting her mother and staying Sunday night in Greenwich. They’d figure out the rest along the way, but it felt like the rest of her life was finally starting. She only wished she could honor Shep’s memory somehow—to say good-bye to him and his goodness once and for all—but maybe she could love Zach and grieve Shep at the same time. Who was to say the two were mutually exclusive?

She stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and reached for her toilet bag, but it slipped off the countertop and the contents spilled out. She bent down to pick them up, something shiny catching her eye in the corner.

Oh. Oh God.

She’d put Shep’s engagement ring in a small velvet bag after the accident, and she must have put it into her toilet bag for safekeeping. And now here it was.

She put everything else back in the bag, then reached for the ring, sliding down the vanity to sit on the cold tile floor, taking a deep breath as she held it up in front of her eyes. It had been a Smalley family heirloom, a massive round diamond surrounded by emerald-cut baguettes in an ornate platinum setting. He’d had it cleaned right before his death, probably in preparation to give it to her.

She thought back to that morning in their apartment. Say, Vi, I was thinking we should make things official. You and me. I was thinking we should . . . He’d stopped talking because of the dread on her face. And at the root of her dread was Zach Aubrey, whom she’d never stopped loving. And now she was with Zach, and Shep was gone.

Suddenly she thought of Mariah Smalley’s angry eyes at the tavern last Monday night, and she realized there was a way for her to honor Shep one last time. There was a way to say good-bye.

She stood up abruptly, placing the ring gently on the vanity counter. She needed to get dressed. She needed to drive to Bar Harbor.

***

Violet had seemed in a rush to leave, but she’d been cagey about where she was headed. Before she left, she held his face with sparkling eyes and told him to be ready for a celebratory dinner later. She had their last song . . . and something to say.

His heart had leaped at the promise in her eyes, and he’d kissed her longingly before she left. Everything in his life felt like it was coming together. After these four songs, he was out of the songwriting rat race. And although he hadn’t broached the subject of living together again, he was encouraged when she said she’d join him in New York next Monday. More and more he liked the idea of them living together in New Haven and he even started wondering about teaching adjunct classes at Yale. He’d been well-known in the music department for the short time he was there, and surely they could use a Juilliard graduate. The idea of spending time back at Yale, soothing the wounds incurred there, appealed to him. But more than anything, he’d have the most important thing—Violet—back in his life. And he intended to keep her there. For good. They could take their time finding a little place in New Haven and establishing a rhythm to their life together. Mostly, he’d never take her for granted. He’d never be selfish again. His life would be about her—what she wanted, what she needed, loving her. Because life without her simply wouldn’t be worth living.

He bummed around the house for a while, testing out some of Johnny’s magnificent guitars in the studio and stalling the inevitable call to Malcolm to see what he thought of the three finished songs. He checked his watch after an hour and decided to bite the bullet.

Malcolm’s phone rang straight to voice mail, which surprised Zach, then quickly filled him with dread. He knew Malcolm. Zach had been on tour with him four or five times and was his favorite songwriter. Malcolm never turned his phone off unless he was recording. Zach called the Cornerstone offices and was quickly transferred to the studios.

“Cornerstone Studios.”

“Tracy? It’s Zachariah Aubrey.”

“Heeeey, Z. How’s it hanging?”

“To the left. Malc around?”

“Yeah, he’s on a bender and being an asshole. Been in the studio for, like, twenty hours now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Ace wrote some pretty good shit, Z. Surprised everyone.”

Zach leaned against the kitchen counter, his heart thudding mercilessly in his chest.

“Z, you there? Want me to interrupt the session?”

Fuck, yes. Interrupt the fucking session and let Malcolm tell me that the deal’s off. And if he does, he will never, ever get one of my songs again. Never.

“Yeah, Tracy. Thanks.”

“No problem. You have a great day.”

The phone buzzed twice before it was picked up.

“Studio 6, this is Mike.”

“Mike, it’s Z.”

“Hey, Z! Where the fuck you been, man?”

“Maine. Put Malcolm on.”

“Aw, shit. You just missed him. He and the band left with Ace.”

“Where’s Johnny?”

“Oh, he’s, uh . . . He’s . . .”

“I know you’re gesturing to him, Mike. Put him on the phone. Now.”

A moment later, John’s voice fill the line. “Zeeeee!”

“Dickhead.”

“Back up, Z. You can’t talk to me like that.”

“The fuck I can’t.”

“I told you to get it in writing, didn’t I?”
“I reconfirmed with him three days ago. He said he’d buy the songs.”

“And I told you he was a slippery bastard. It only took a little convincing to get him to go with Ace’s shit instead.”

Zach couldn’t believe how blind he’d been. He fisted his empty hand, growling, “How badly did you need a guitarist for the Mechanics, Johnny? Are you really that much of a scumbag? You pushed Ace’s songs on Malc so I’d go on tour?”

Johnny laughed. “What can I say? You’re the best, Zachy. I figure I send you on tour, you come back, and we talk about a few more songs.”

Zach’s face flushed hot, and his breath caught. “I’m not taking jobs with Cornerstone anymore.”

“Didn’t you say something about needing money?”

Zach covered the mouthpiece of the phone and yelled, “Fuuuuuck!” at the top of his lungs.

“Feel better now? Let’s talk business.”

“Do the right thing, Johnny. Buy the songs just like Malc would’ve.”

“No can do. I’ll buy ’em at the regular price.”

What would you do if you could do anything?

Write poetry.

Violet’s face flitted through his mind. He needed her to have enough to pay back her advance and buy out her contract. He needed her to be safe and taken care of. He needed all forty for her.

 “I need more money than that.”

“Great. Get your ass back here by tomorrow. You leave for Zagreb on Friday. Thirty-six cities. Forty-two shows. I’ll pay you thirty-five for the songs and the tour. Win-win.”

For you, you sleazebag fucker. Zach winced, but he had no other choice. He’d have to go on tour.

“On one condition.”

“I can’t pay you more per song, Zach.”

“I don’t want more. I just want it all. Every penny. Up front. Plus five that I’ll owe you.” He rubbed his thumb trying to figure out what he was going to say to Violet. “Forty thousand for the songs and the tour.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I won’t go unless you agree. I wrote ‘Driving Rain’ and most of the other songs on this goddamned tour and no one else knows the licks like I do. You know it, and I know it, and it’s the only reason you screwed me into going on the road. You already showed your hand with that move: the Mechanics are a rising commodity, and you can’t afford to have an amateur on this tour.”

“You’re a smug little bastard, Z, even if you’re right. It’s a good thing you’re so talented. Fine. Forty thousand, and you’ll be writing a popcorn hit for Mindy May for the last five. A chart topper. By New Year’s.”

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath. The only thing he hated worse than writing a contracted song was writing one for the teenybopper crowd.

“Fine,” he groaned.

“Check okay?”

“No,” said Zach, steel in his voice, all his chips on the table. “Who do you know at Masterson?”

“The publishing house?”

“Yeah.”

“Couple editors, I guess. None of them that well. You know, executive dining room, golf outings, Christmas party. Don’t have a lot of crossover, but I came up with a couple of them.”

“Pick the one you know the best.”

“Uh, Herman Healey. I guess.”

“When we hang up, you’re going to call Herman Healey and get a contract for my friend Violet Smith. And he’s going to call her in the next hour on her cell phone and tell her the good news that her book of poetry was picked up by Masterson and they’d like to offer her a contract and a forty thousand dollar advance—I want you to give my forty to Masterson. You got that? Do that and I’ll go out on the road. And you can have the songs. We’ll be even.”

“If it gets you out on the road? Fine by me. I’ll make the call and arrange for an interoffice check.” He could tell Johnny was writing everything down. “You know that’s an absurd advance for a new author, Zach, right? Let alone for poetry. Who the fuck is Violet Smith?”

“Someone I knew a long time ago. At Yale.”

“Ah. I see. No business like unfinished business.”

“Except business with you, you manipulative dick.”

“You need to be here tomorrow morning, Zach. I’m trusting you.”

“I’ve never given you a reason not to,” he answered. His heart hurt with what he was going to have to do to Violet. “And one other thing, and this is a deal breaker, Johnny. My name is never mentioned. Never. You understand me? She never finds out I set this up. All she knows is that they loved her work and offered her a contract. That’s it.”

“Sure, Zach. Never figured you for the cloak-and-dagger romantic type, though. Still waters, huh?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Practice studio at ten o’clock.”

“Fuck you, John, I said I’ll be there.”

He put the phone back in the cradle. As soon as he’d asked for the deal, he knew what he was going to have to do. Poetry-writing Violet had finally returned, with her loose, crazy hair and heartbreaking creativity. He recalled the first few days of their reunion and how critical she’d been of her poetry. If he told her he’d bought her a book contract, not only would she lose faith in her talent again, but she’d hate him for being an ass-kissing liar, and her self-confidence would take a hit. It might jeopardize her writing. He couldn’t take something important away from her for the second time in her life. No. He wouldn’t do that.

He considered Violet and her inability to tell him that she loved him. The way she’d deferred conversations about living together and a future more solid than visiting him in New York on Monday. Maybe she needed some space to figure things out a little bit. Maybe she needed to decide if she was in this or not because he was planning forever with her and she couldn’t even say “I love you.”

He headed to his room to start packing. He fucking hated to leave her, but as much as it hurt him to admit it, it might be for the best. It would give him a plausible reason for taking the gig and give her the space to figure out what she wanted. And Zach just hoped like hell that it was him.

***

Violet took a deep breath before getting out of the car in the grand, circular driveway. The Smalley compound consisted of the great house—a massive Nantucket-style cottage with six bedrooms, a living room, dining room, great room, gourmet kitchen, media room, and theater, and overhanging roofs that wrapped around the entire dwelling and made for porches at every exposure—plus two small guest cottages, in the same gray shingle, that sat on the right side of the property. From there, an expanse of green lawn sprinkled with a few leftover hurricane leaves sloped down to the seawall. A pert boathouse matched the design of the house and cottages, and a dock with ample seating looked inviting despite the October chill.

Violet had spent many happy summer days here with Shep. Mostly happy. Weren’t they? Shep’s easy blue eyes trained on hers when he rolled them behind his mother’s back, making her grin. There was always time for a boat ride or a dip, pickup games of touch football with other Yale friends, and barbecues that lasted long into the night. She could almost hear the phantom clink of glasses, filled with Mr. Smalley’s famous gin and tonics, and smell the fire pit that would keep them warm on summer nights as they swapped stories and listened to reggae on the outdoor sound system. Yes, she conceded, despite her feelings for Zach, whom she had loved deep in her heart all along, there had been room for this too.

She looked at herself in the rearview mirror and realized, for the first time, how much her appearance had changed over the last twelve days. Her chestnut hair waved free and unbound over her shoulders, and she didn’t wear a stitch of makeup. The hammered-copper hoop earrings Zach had bought her in Bar Harbor as a gift last week looked edgy and artsy in her ears. She couldn’t deny they suited her. She looked down at her jeans and Yale sweatshirt, her simple driving mocs. Gone was the self-conscious suburban wife. In her place sat Violet Smith, recovered, remembered, and rejuvenated.

She rang the doorbell, and a young Hispanic woman in a traditional black-and-white maid’s uniform answered the door, her face widening into a surprised and delighted smile.

“Miss Violet!”

“Hola, Alejandra,” said Violet, impulsively reaching out to clasp the pretty, dark-haired girl to her. “Qué tal?”

“All is good, Miss Violet.” She leaned back, releasing Violet, and her expression grew sad. “I was so sorry. About Mr. Shep.”

Violet winced, then nodded. “Me too.”

“Alexandra? Who’s at the door? Alexandra?”

Mrs. Smalley appeared at the landing that split the staircase into twin steps. She had her head bent to the side, fastening an earring, and she was dressed in an elegant skirt suit in a soft, pink tweed. As she looked up to see Violet, her face registered annoyance before carefully shuttering to blank cordiality.

“Why, Violet. An unannounced visit. What a surprise.”

And not a good one.

“You’ll forgive me, dear, but I’m meeting Priscilla Prescott for lunch at the club. I only have a moment to spare.”

Violet glanced at Alejandra, who gave her a brief, sad smile before closing the front door and heading in the direction of the kitchen.

“I won’t take much of your time,” said Violet gently but firmly. “I came to give you something.”

“I can’t imagine what.”

Mariah Smalley descended the stairs like a queen, her cream heels barely daring to make a sound against the highly polished hardwood steps. When she got to the last step, she gestured with one beautifully manicured hand to the left, indicating that Violet should precede her into the study. Interesting choice. It was, by far, the most austere and least welcoming room of the house, furnished in dark woods with no view of the harbor.

Mrs. Smalley waved away Alejandra, who returned with a tray holding a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses.

“Violet isn’t staying, Alexandra.”

The maid gave Violet a pitiful look before turning back to the kitchen, her retreating footsteps the only sound in the massive house. Mrs. Smalley sat behind her husband’s desk and Violet sat gingerly in one of the guest chairs across from her. She cracked her knuckles nervously, then reminded herself that Mariah Smalley was just another human being. A grieving one, at that.

“Well, dear? I only have a moment. Really.”

“I loved your son.”

“That’s up for debate.”

This surprised Violet, and her emotions must have skittered across her face.

“You don’t think I knew? That there was someone before Shep? Someone you hadn’t let go of all the time you were together?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Mrs. Smalley tented her hands on the desk before her, cocking her head to the side. “I’m probably a terrible snob, but it might surprise you to know that your modest beginnings were never my biggest complaint. It was the insult to him—that he could choose you, and you . . . Well, was he ever first in your heart?”

It hurt Violet to hear the veiled hope in the older woman’s voice. She wished she could answer differently, but she needed to be honest. “No.”

“At least you’re not a liar.”

“But I did love Shep. In my own way.”

“Not that you ever told him that.”

Violet swallowed. She didn’t know Shep had confided in his mother.

“Whatever else we fault you for . . . Well, as I said, you’re not a liar.” She shook her head back and forth slowly, her eyes softening in remembrance of her golden boy. “And I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but you made him happy.”

A lump settled in Violet’s throat.

“Something about you resonated for him. I suppose it was, maybe, how totally different you are from me. He liked that. Your writing and . . .” She gestured to Violet’s hair, looking thoughtfully at the younger woman before looking away. “You look completely different now. You look alive. You look like you’re in love. You never looked like this for Shep. It’s the tattooed singer, isn’t it? He’s the one? The one you met before Shep at Yale. The one who was first.”

Violet nodded, looking down, not trusting her voice.

“Yes. I could see it in your eyes.” She smiled sadly. “You have pretty eyes, Violet.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t hate you, dear. My boy loved a girl who didn’t love him back. And then I lost him. You can see, of course, how it is.”

“I see.”

Mrs. Smalley flicked her wrist to look at the time, then flattened her hands on the desk to stand. “I really do have to go.”

Violet reached into her jeans pocket for the little velvet sack and placed it gently on the desk before Shep’s mother. She watched as Mrs. Smalley opened the soft pouch and gasped when the ring slipped out onto the burgundy leather blotter.

“Did he ask you—?” Her eyes darted up to find Violet’s.

Violet shook her head. “No. He had it with him. That day. The police gave it to me. But I think . . . I think it belongs to you.”

A tear rolled down Mrs. Smalley’s face, and she reached up to swipe it away. “It was his grandmother’s. My mother’s. He asked for it years ago. I just supposed he’d lost it or misplaced it when it didn’t turn up.”

Tears streamed down Violet’s face. “I should have given it to you sooner.”

Mrs. Smalley took a tissue from the leather holder on the desk and dabbed at her nose and eyes delicately before slipping the ring back into the pouch. “Thank you, Violet.”

“I’m sorry,” said Violet, feeling the agony of lost chances, of not finding Zach sooner, of not freeing Shep to find someone who would have loved him as completely as he deserved to be loved.

Mrs. Smalley’s face looked softer, maybe even relieved, as though their brief conversation had given her some long-awaited closure. She shrugged, and it looked strange, uncharacteristically casual on her proper frame. “He loved you. You made him happy.”

“Thank you for telling me that.”

The older woman nodded, then took the ring and closed her fingers over it. Violet stood and pushed the guest chair back under the lip of the desk neatly.

“And Mr. Aubrey?” asked Mrs. Smalley, her features gentle as she gazed at the younger woman who had been everything to her son. “He’s—?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Smalley nodded sadly, then extended her hand across the desk in a gesture of farewell. Violet nodded back, grateful for the unspoken peace between them, and took it.