CHAPTER FIFTEEN
November, present day
Thursday afternoon, Rhett had a conference call with Townsend Public Relations, the firm his agent had hired to handle the civil suit the Tavares family had filed against him.
“We have three witnesses who will testify the Hispanic girl was unsupervised most of the time. One said her brother nearly got hit last year. The boy sustained some scrapes and was taken to a clinic. We can get those records, and I have some friends in social media who can get this information in circulation. Maybe even an article on the family, casting them in a greedy light,” Jane Townsend said, excitement in her voice.
“What boy? The one who witnessed the accident?” Rhett asked, remembering the child’s face. He saw that face in his dreams. Sometimes the boy took off his own head and kicked it like a ball. Last time Rhett had dreamed that, he’d not been able to sleep for two days.
“No, the Tavares family has a boy younger than the girl. He’s five years old, I think. This proves neglect pretty easily. Pair that with the fact that they don’t have much money and you’re a celebrity, and they’ll look like they’re opportunists. We’ll make it look like they’re trying to capitalize on their daughter’s death. People hate that shit. Oh, and the father has a bad temper and a record. Aggravated assault and some bad checks.”
“I’m not sure I want to go that low. This feels low,” he said.
“Do you want to lose? Pay them three million dollars? You hired me to do a job,” she said, her voice growing stern.
“Bruce?” Rhett asked.
“I’m here,” his agent said, clearing his throat. “Look, Jane. We hired you to help manage the talk around this suit, but Rhett’s not the kind of guy to destroy a family.”
“We’re not destroying anyone, Bruce. We’re casting doubt on this family. They’re playing hardball and have the edge. They lost their kid. They’re dragging out the traumatized friend who saw it happen, neighbors who swear Rhett refused to help the child. They’re using big guns. At present, public opinion is that Rhett is a callous, entitled white millionaire who killed an underprivileged minority child. We have to cast aspersions on the character of the family. We have to make them look like desperate opportunists.”
“Or we can settle,” Rhett said.
“And look guilty,” Jane said.
They’d ended the discussion at an impasse, with Jane continuing to gather more for her campaign to smear the Tavares family. Bruce seemed certain this was the way to handle everything, and Rhett felt like a pile of dog shit.
So, after hanging up, Rhett went out in the boat and tried to forget the stupid lawsuit.
But being alone didn’t work.
He needed distraction, and luckily there was one to be found on the outskirts of Moonlight—the infamous Sundown Tavern, home of the shrimp buster and coldest beer in town.
Rhett pushed through the door of the Sundown Tavern, already berating himself for going out in public where people would recognize him, want to take pics with him, and beg for stories about what Beyoncé is really like. All he wanted was a drink and a place to brood. His efforts to get his production company off the ground were stalled. Seemed running over a kid and getting sued for it made investors nervous.
Goddamn it. Why had he taken that shortcut that morning? Why had he looked down at that stupid smoothie? Maybe if he hadn’t, he would have had enough time to swerve or something. If he’d just been patient or satisfied for once in his life, Josefina would still be kicking the soccer ball and painting her fingernails with sparkle polish.
His chest clenched and his gut churned. No thinking about the girl. No thinking about that day. No thinking period. The need for a whiskey on the rocks clawed inside him. He’d have one drink. Maybe two. He’d still be fine to drive, and it would blur the edges enough for him to sleep . . . if he could sleep.
Rhett wore a pair of jeans and an old flannel shirt he’d found in his grandfather’s hunting closet. Haute couture jeans and two-hundred-dollar T-shirts didn’t work in Moonlight. He needed to blend in and look normal.
A few people turned to look at him when he emerged from the foyer pasted with band posters from years past. The country band playing commanded everyone’s attention, so he was able to slip into a table tucked at the back of the bar. He hadn’t adjusted himself on the stool before a buxom waitress with hair too red to be natural pulled up next to him.
“Whoa, hey, I know who you are. What are ya doing here?” Her question implied he was slumming. It wasn’t like he always wore a tux and swilled champagne 24/7. Even in LA he liked to find dives and soak up local culture.
The redhead tucked the round serving tray under her arm and waited.
“Just looking for a good bourbon on the rocks. What do you have?”
“The usual. Maker’s, Wild Turkey, um, maybe some Booker’s.” She lifted a shoulder.
“Double of the former.” He wasn’t even going to ask about the batch or year. Whatever she brought him would be warm, wet, and give him reprieve. Good enough.
“Um, can I . . . maybe get your autograph or something? I’m Jenn, by the way.”
“Sure, but can it wait until I’m ready to pay the tab?”
She wrinkled her nose like she was slightly offended, but then her dark eyes registered what he’d not said. If he gave her one now, everyone would want one. Normally he didn’t mind taking selfies with fans or signing grocery receipts, but tonight he needed some solitude.
Then why did you come to a bar, dumb ass?
Because you really don’t want to be alone. You just want to be alone in a room of strangers.
“Gotcha. And don’t worry. I won’t let folks pester you.” With a smart salute, Jenn disappeared.
He felt the other patrons’ curiosity, which he ignored so he didn’t invite an approach. Instead he turned his attention to the band rocking a cover of a Shania Twain song.
The singer was surprisingly good.
He squinted. She almost looked like . . .
Realization slammed into him. Summer.
He’d forgotten she was in a band. Had she said the name? His gaze scanned the room and found a flyer nearby with the calendar for November. Tonight was Greyhound Blue.
The name didn’t suit. Her band should reflect who she was. Something sincere and soft. Like a homecoming or a downy quilt. Like warm bread from the oven or sun-kissed daisies. Summer was her name—hazy, warm, and sweet. Being with her dragged him back to a simpler time, a time when everything felt possible and not so damned hard. When he was with Summer, he could almost forget he’d killed a child.
No. Do not go there, dumb ass. Let it go for a while. Leave it behind.
Jenn set the tumbler of bourbon on the table. “Start a tab?”
“Sure.” The glass caught in the neon light—a beautiful anesthetic atop wood worn-out by hundreds of forearms. Rhett knew the danger in allowing alcohol to numb the pain. Not a crutch he wanted to use. Even so, he picked up the glass, finding pleasure in the clink of ice against the side, enjoying the anticipation. Rhett took a sip and felt his body sigh.
Jenn watched him. When he set the drink back on the table, she said, “We got wings and cheese fries if you’re hungry.”
His stomach growled. He hadn’t had cheese fries in a good ten years. But he couldn’t. Not after barbecue, not with the knowledge that he’d be back on the air in just over a month.
“Better not.”
“All right. Enjoy the show . . . and being alone.”
Rhett frowned as Jenn sashayed away. Because that made him sound lonely.
And why was lonely bad? Everyone needed downtime. Okay, so every vacation he’d taken over the past ten years had had an angle. Either he was working a deal, maximizing face time with someone who could help his career, or designing his presence at the right place at the right time for whatever reason. Rhett was a workaholic. He knew this and had always been okay with it. This was who he was—a guy who had a plan, who knew exactly what he wanted, who liked making the deal, hustling his career. Which was great . . . until it wasn’t.
He sucked on an ice cube, trying to extend the life of the drink. He wanted to down the honey elixir. Order another. Down it. Another. And another. Until there was nothing but blessed blackness. Instead, he focused on Summer strumming the guitar and allowed her husky voice to become the substitute for the liquor.
Summer looked somehow sexier in her tight jeans and off-the-shoulder shirt. Cowboy boots completed the look, along with her hair in a soft braid that reminded him of Meg Ryan in the nineties. But most impressive was how good she was. She maintained rapport with the band, smiled at the audience, and at times lost herself in the music.
After the rollicking cover of a Janis Joplin song, she pulled up a stool and sat down with her guitar.
“Thank y’all for being such a great audience. We’re going to take a break, but before we do, we wanted to debut a new song we’ve been working on. It’s a little slower, but I think y’all will like it. It’s called ‘Carolina Boy.’”
A rousing smattering of applause and then the lights lowered. Summer tilted her head and positioned her fingers, her face softening. She plucked the first few chords and then the band joined in. Her voice was husky and sweet as she sang about love, back dirt roads, and sunset on the marsh. And a boy. And a dog. And loss. The song was hauntingly beautiful in that way that made a person hold his breath and sit mesmerized by the depth of emotion rising within. The last few words of the song, “Come back to me, my Carolina boy. Don’t throw our love aside for her. Oh, my Carolina boy, come home to me,” trailed off, and Summer looked up, her eyes filled with tears.
The place went nuts.
Why wouldn’t they? It was good, like Carole King, Carly Simon, and Alanis Morissette had had a baby and it was Summer. Sweet, husky, powerfully poignant.
Summer looked up and smiled her thanks before setting the guitar on a nearby stand and unhooking her mic. Several people stopped her on the way toward the bar. Rhett watched as the girl he once knew stepped into being the woman he longed to know. He studied the curve of her cheek, the tiny wisps of hair escaping her braid, the light laugh when people complimented her. Maybe they weren’t compliments, but whatever they were, Summer smiled. And Rhett figured that should be a mission in every person’s life—make Summer smile.
She turned toward the bar and caught his stare. Tilting her head, she made a surprised face and started toward him. As she neared the table in front of his, Jenn stepped in front of her and said a few things. Summer shook her head and pushed past the waitress. The feisty waitress frowned at Summer’s back.
“What are you doing here?” Summer asked.
“I could ask the same, but I just found out what you’re doing. Man, that was incredible, Summer.”
He couldn’t tell if she blushed or not, but pleasure seemed to blanket her. “Well, it wasn’t perfect. Still have a few kinks to work out, but since it was the first time for us to try it live, I don’t expect perfection.”
“Join me?” He gestured toward the stool opposite him.
“You sure your guard dog won’t bite me?” she said, glancing back toward Jenn, who still looked perturbed that Summer hadn’t obeyed her dictate of not disturbing Rhett. “How’d you get her to do that, by the way? Jenn’s . . . uh, difficult.”
“I promised her an autograph and sex in the bathroom if she’d keep people away.”
“What?” Summer’s eyes went wide.
“Just kidding. On the sex. I still gotta do the autograph-and-picture thing. But she’s got a nice ass. Maybe I should see if she wants to meet me—”
“Only if you want to fight Randy, her boyfriend. He’s a trucker and six foot four.” Summer slid onto the stool. “I have fifteen minutes before I have to go back. One more set tonight.”
Jenn appeared beside them. She gave Summer a flat stare but asked, “Get you anything, Summer?”
“Just ice water. And Rhett wants to ask you something.” Summer’s eyes sparkled with humor.
“I just wanted a water. Just a water.” Rhett really wanted another bourbon, but having water in between drinks was a good idea. Safe. Responsible. Showing control over himself.
People gawked at him and Summer sitting together, but no one infringed on their space. He redirected his attention to the woman across from him and away from the lookie-loos. “Thanks for trying to get me killed.”
“Randy wouldn’t kill you. Maim you? Yes. Kill? No.”
“Why didn’t you say something last night about playing here? I would have come tonight. I mean, I did, but you know what I mean.”
“It didn’t come up, and I didn’t think you’d come out in public like this,” Summer said, accepting a glass from Jenn and sliding it to Rhett before taking hers.
“Rough day and I just needed to get out.”
“You okay?” Concern shaded her eyes.
“Yeah, just business stuff. Things I don’t want to think about. Tell me about the band.”
“I joined them five months ago. They were pretty much a group of pickers who messed around doing American Legion dances and nursing home gigs. Joe Carmichael, the drummer, plays in the praise band at my mom’s church. She mentioned I was looking for a band, and he invited me to come play with them one night. The rest is history. They love having a front woman. Lester Earl wasn’t exactly the best vocalist, so he was happy to step aside.”
“Why Greyhound Blue?”
Summer laughed. “They wanted to rename the band when I joined. Seemed The Floor Stompers wasn’t the tone they wanted, so we brainstormed. One day I said something about getting the bus blues when I was out doing tours with my former band, and Joe joked about how he’d had the Greyhound blues when his wife divorced him and he had to ride one from California back to Moonlight. Then Lester said we’d all had the Greyhound blues one time or another and”—she snapped her fingers and grinned—“that sounded right.”
“Good story,” Rhett said, gulping the water he didn’t want.
“Yeah, maybe one day we can tell it when we win a Grammy,” she said, sipping her own water and tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m joking, of course. The guys are good players but they aren’t really motivated, if you know what I mean. They like to play, not perform. There’s a difference.”
“So why are you with them? I know some people in the industry. One word and—”
“No, thank you,” she interrupted, her smile fading. “I don’t need someone to use his influence to get me something I’m not sure I want.”
“Why not? You know someone who has some . . . sway in the entertainment industry. I know producers, people who can help you. Why wouldn’t you use that?”
“Because I don’t use people to get ahead. I could have done that a dozen times in Nashville. Step on others to climb higher. I don’t do that. That’s not who I want to be. For David. For myself.”
Rhett paused and studied her. “You wouldn’t be using me. I offered to share your name and your talent with someone who might help you. That’s not stepping on someone.”
Summer’s expression shuttered. “I don’t need your charity, Rhett.” She made to scoot her stool back.
Rhett caught her by the wrist. “Wait, that’s not what I meant.”
She looked down at his hand. “Sounded like it.”
“Don’t go yet,” he said.
She inhaled and then shrugged off his grasp. “Okay, but understand that I like to do things my way. Maybe one day I’ll take you up on help, but for now I’m content with the decision I’ve made to come here and raise my son.”
“Stubborn, so incredibly stubborn,” he said, adding a smile to soften the words. “I admire you for putting your son above yourself. Not many people do that, not when they have talent like yours.”
“Who says I’m doing it just for him?” she said, picking up the sweating glass and taking another sip of water. “Is there something wrong with not wanting to set the world on fire? You know, some people are content standing beside the fire and basking in the warmth. Our whole culture makes people feel guilty if they don’t aspire to the highest things.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having dreams and taking chances. Plenty of people live in that fire. It can be done.”
“And leave nothing but ashes. I like doing gigs here and having dinner with my son. A million dollars would be nice, and I’ve always wanted to see my name in lights, but I don’t have to be the best at everything I do. Guess that’s where we differ.”
Summer made his life sound so meaningless, as if she’d made a noble sacrifice by shoving her dreams to the back of the closet and coming to Moonlight. Maybe it was more noble, but did that mean people who made sacrifices in the pursuit of a dream made a mistake? Sometimes people made concessions to get what they wanted. “I don’t have to have those things, but I like being good at what I do. I’m number one in my market.”
Summer gave him a small smile. “That’s good, Rhett. Very good.”
Feeling petulant, he lifted a finger at Jenn, who stood talking to several women. Then he tapped the empty tumbler, indicating he wanted another. Sighing, he said, “I sound defensive.”
“On the contrary. You were trying to be nice to me and I wouldn’t let you. I have insecurities. Sometimes they show more than others. You’re not wrong—I have dreams. But I’m not unhappy. I wish everyone would stop implying I am. My mom wants me to move in with her because I can’t be happy living way out there alone. My sister pushes me to date, like I can’t be fulfilled without a man in my life.”
“You don’t date?” He was more than happy to shift the conversation away from where it had been headed. No sense in making either of them feel bad for their choices.
“Not since I’ve been back in Moonlight. I’m not sure there’s much of a dating scene, though I sometimes get propositioned at bars with hotel key cards and sleazy pickup lines. My mama swears I can meet someone decent in church, but I’ve been sleeping in most Sundays.”
“Alone,” he added. And he didn’t know why he did. He just didn’t want to picture her in bed with another man.
“Yeah, alone.” She downed the rest of her water. “But maybe I should go to church. Try to find a nice guy. Might be nice to go to dinner every once in a while. What about you?”
“Me?” He didn’t want to talk about his string of failed relationships. He’d dated casually, had two semiserious relationships with actresses who valued their careers over him, and one serious enough for him to buy a ring at Harry Winston. But none had lasted. Mostly because he was, as he admitted, very focused on his career. Not much was put before his show or his new production venture. “I’m not dating anyone. Things have been too difficult.”
“Because of the lawsuit?”
“That and other things that don’t bear discussing.” Wasn’t like he would admit to her, in the middle of a honky-tonk, how haunted he was. Wasn’t like he could tell her he doubted everything he’d become in Hollywood. He was afraid to admit he understood what she meant about abandoning her career, looking for a better purpose.
Maybe he’d been building castles in the air. He lived a gilded existence in the Hollywood Hills, covering red carpet events, shopping on Rodeo, doing things that seemed so important but were as fleeting as a puff of cigarette smoke . . . and just as hazardous to his health. Fame and fortune were the cornerstones of his world. But sometimes he hated who he was. So shallow, so fickle. Some of the people he called friends were actually douchebags who would step over a homeless man in order to get to the latest hot spot. It was disgusting, yet it was his reality.
Maybe that’s why he was here in a place that had substance. It was his shot of vitamin B, hopefully enough to patch him up and get him back on track.
Summer’s brow furrowed. “Why not discuss what’s bothering you? Sometimes talking about what we don’t want to is exactly what we need to do.”
“Yeah, ’cause you so wanted to discuss your career a few seconds ago.”
“Touché.”
“I spent thousands of dollars talking about what bothered me, so I’ve decided to stop talking and just wait it out. Maybe that’s why I came back home. Here there’s no overanalyzing who I am. Here I become the person I used to be. Perhaps subconsciously I thought I could get a piece of myself back. Or forget about whatever this is that’s been weighing me down. Maybe I thought coming home could fix me or something. And, just like that, I’ve said more than I wanted to say. How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Get me to say things I didn’t know I knew.”
“I didn’t do anything. I sat here. But I do understand. Part of me came back here because it was easier. Sometimes you get tired of trying so damned hard. Some of my friends didn’t agree with my choices, but I’m sure here is where I need to be right now. I’m good with my decision to come home.” Such earnestness in her face. She looked so comfortable with who she was, small tendrils curling around her face, a few sticking sweetly to her neck. Adorable freckles sprinkled her nose, giving her that genuine girl-next-door vibe he’d always been a sucker for. Her lips looked soft. He wondered how soft they were.
His grandfather’s words floated back to him. Not the kind of girl you mess with.
But then again, Summer was a grown-ass woman who didn’t need an old man to protect her. Besides, Rhett wasn’t going to do anything stupid. He liked spending time with her. Was that a crime?
“Go out with me,” he said before he could think better of it.
She jerked back, her hand hitting the glass and nearly toppling it. “What?”
He caught the glass before it tipped. “Go out on the boat with me. I’ve been wanting to take Grampy’s boat for a night run. Come with me.”
“Oh, you mean . . . yeah, um, you shouldn’t go alone. I’ll ride with you.”
He realized she misunderstood.
She thought he just needed someone with him for safety reasons. He’d meant it as a date.
But this might be better. If she thought it was a date, she would have expectations. Hell, he’d have expectations. He knew he wasn’t in the right place for something more than friendship with Summer. After all, she essentially lived with his grandfather and shared a kid with his former best friend. Not to mention, he’d be leaving soon, and the idea of keeping a spark of something going while he was over a thousand miles away was ridiculous.
“Great. The weather’s supposed to be gorgeous this weekend, according to The Weather Channel. I should know. Grampy’s television is either on The Weather Channel or ESPN. And occasionally Fox News, where he proceeds to argue out loud with the guests there. I am an authority on cold fronts, the Panthers’ defensive game plan, and Republican midterm strategy. Come at me with questions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, the mood shifting back into something lighter. “David’s staying with Hunt this weekend. Something about a new glove. And as long as Maisie doesn’t get swamped by several funerals, she shouldn’t need me. But let me double-check my schedule to see what time my last lesson is.”
“We’ll shoot for Friday. Text me when you check your schedule.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“You do. I texted you a few nights back.”
Someone called Summer’s name and he leaned over to see the bass player motioning toward her.
“Break over,” she said, taking a few gulps of water and sliding from the stool. “I’ll look forward to Friday night. I haven’t been out in a boat in a while.”
He caught her hand. “Hey, I’m glad you’re going with me.”
“Everyone needs a friend sometimes, Rhett,” she said. Her gaze fell to their locked hands, so he gently squeezed hers. Summer lifted her eyes to meet his. For a moment they stood, hands linked, gazes locked. Something passed between them. Something warm curling inside of him, suggesting he was still alive.
Nothing he’d done to that point—therapy, acupuncture, sex, running until he puked—had been able to knit together the open wound in his soul. Perhaps the people who knew him, people who understood that beneath the shiny exterior was a man who was good, could help him discover himself again. He needed to be here in Moonlight, tucked into the place that had made him. Here he’d learned to conquer insecurity, overcome whatever came his way, become a man who’d climbed to the top of the ratings of late-night TV. If he could do it before, he could do it again. Moonlight and its people could bring him back from the darkness.
“I have to go. Band’s waiting,” Summer said.
“I wish you wouldn’t. I feel better when you’re with me.” He meant the words. Even as he acknowledged what they could set into motion. This was Summer Valentine, the girl who’d loved him once.
“Don’t do this, Rhett. Don’t say things you shouldn’t.”
“I’m not. I like being with you. I feel more myself than I have in ages.”
“I can’t fix what’s wrong with you. You know that, right? And I won’t be your distraction. You can’t do that to me.”
“I’m not. I just want to be . . . I just like . . .” He, who always found the words, couldn’t seem to articulate how he felt. Rhett didn’t want to use Summer. He liked her too much to hurt her, but something compelled him to be near her. “I’m not asking you for anything.”
Summer pulled her hand away, her face somber. “You’re a man I can’t play with, Rhett. You know that. I can’t be left behind, gutted and gasping.”
“Summer—”
“Stop.” She held up a hand, her hazel eyes unyielding. “You know the power you have over me, the power you’ve always had. Don’t use that against me. I’ll be your friend, but I can’t be a casualty. To you, I’m just another woman. One of hundreds. But to me, you’re . . . you know.”
With those words, she turned and walked away, passing people who’d been staring at them. She smiled at a few, but fixed her eyes on the stage and the band waiting for her. He curled his hand against the emptiness.
He was a person like everyone else. Sure, he was nationally recognized and had star power, or whatever his agent liked to tout when he worked to get him jobs. And sure, he was screwed up from the accident that past summer. Anyone would be. But that didn’t mean he would hurt Summer.
But if you tell her pretty things, take her to bed, and let her fall back in love with you and then leave, wouldn’t that hurt? Wouldn’t that be the very definition of using someone?
He flicked the mosquito of truth away even though the pesky rascal made a damned good bit of sense.
“Here ya go,” Jenn said, setting the whiskey in front of him. “I made it a double. On the house.”
“No. I’m paying. Let’s settle the tab now.” He reached for his wallet and withdrew a card. “In fact, let me buy the house a round. Least I could do.”
Jenn took the card. “You just made a whole lot of new fans. I mean, we’re all fans, you being a hometown boy and all, but this will put you over Cleveland Rennix.”
“The guy who did the backstroke in the Olympics in the 1930s? Are you telling me I’m behind Cleveland?”
“Hey, he won silver,” Jenn said with a laugh before sashaying away. “Always good to have a Carolina boy home.”
Her words slammed into him. Carolina boy? He swung his gaze to the stage, where Summer stood adjusting the mic and thought about the song she’d sung before the break. Was it about him? Bittersweet and full of regrets, the song unspooled the notion of a woman in love with a golden boy she couldn’t have.
But what if she could have him? If only for a little while.
That thought warmed him more than the whiskey sitting at his elbow.