. . . slammin’ in . . . the . . . sun . . .
The lyrics tapered off as an intense guitar riff repeated over and over before fading out. Zach Aubrey switched off the radio, disgusted. Of all the songs he had written, “Slammin’ in the Sun,” recorded by Savage Sons, had been his biggest hit.
More like my biggest sellout.
He pushed the window-down button on the door of his SUV rental and leaned his elbow on the sill, catching a glimpse of his dark gray eyes and mop of chestnut hair in the side mirror. The sun, which had been high for most of the six-hour drive north, was setting, and the warmth felt nice on his bare arm, heavily tattooed to look like a shirtsleeve.
His mother’s voice echoed in his head, thick with censure, “You went to Yale for this?”
Zach had never intended to write heavy metal music for popular, mediocre bands. Once upon a time, his dream had been to write a rock musical-opera hybrid, like Hair or Rent mixed with the steel of Tommy. Something vital and gut-wrenching, bursting with anthems of brooding youth that represented the soul of his generation. Instead, he’d abandoned his dreams and hocked his talent for royalties, directing his manager to sell his songs to Cornerstone Records, one of the biggest, flashiest labels in Manhattan.
For a while it had been a pretty good gig. Over the past few years, Zach had written more than thirty songs for the big heavy metal bands on Cornerstone’s label and toured six times with several of Cornerstone’s bands as a back-up guitarist. Though he hadn’t saved much money, his royalties provided a steady and comfortable income.
But he’d grown weary of writing-for-hire, with other bands getting the credit for songs he'd written. He was tired of being on the road. He’d recently decided it was time to give Phenomenon, his rock opera, a chance.
When he informed John Lewis, Senior Vice President at Cornerstone, that he wouldn’t be writing for the label anymore, it had initially surprised him that John offered the use of his Maine vacation house for a writing getaway . . . until John had rolled his eyes and added, “Get this opera business out of your system, Z. Then come back and write me a chart topper.”
The patronizing tone in John’s offer pissed him off. Was John hoping that a few weeks in the woods would lead Zach straight back to Cornerstone for the easy work of churning out more three-chord hit songs? If so, John was in for a little disappointment. While Zach couldn’t turn down the offer of a quiet place to write, complete with an in-house studio and no distractions, he had no intention of returning to Manhattan to write more shitty, meaningless music. Zach had bigger plans for himself.
His phone buzzed in the console beside his seat, followed by the dramatic chords of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir.” Zach grimaced as the display lit up with the name Malcolm, the lead singer of Savage Sons, who was not happy about Zach’s impromptu getaway. He looked out the windshield at the sign that read “WELCOME TO MAINE – The Way Life Should Be,” and then back down at the phone, wavering a moment before pressing the answer button.
“Malc?”
“Zachariah!” The British singer’s thick Brummie accent filled the car, as demanding as “Kashmir,” just not in a good way.
“Yeah.”
“Where are the new songs, Z?”
Zach took a deep breath, counting from ten backward.
“Didn’t Tracy tell you? I’m out of town.”
“We need four more for the album,” Malcolm whined, the same high tenor voice that belted out one hit after another, surprisingly feminine when he was agitated.
“Ace is on it.”
“Don’t want Ace. Ace is crap. You did the other six.”
“I’m out of town, Malc. Not coming back for a week.” Or two. Or ten. “Anyway, you need a couple of ballads for that album, and I write angry.”
“I want angry. I want that head banging shit you do. This album’s supposed to be fierce.”
“Sorry, man. No can do. Johnny said ballads.”
“Bollocks to that!”
“Ace’s got some good stuff for you. Give him a chance.”
Honestly, Ace’s work was nowhere near as good a fit for Malcolm as Zach’s. Ace always managed to write a song that somehow demanded more of Malcolm’s voice than Malcolm could give, and the recording sessions generally ended up with Malcolm throwing a tantrum. The melodies were too intricate, with intervals that, even with a key change, Malcolm had a hard time handling. Often Zach—who not only had a gift for writing hits but also for tailoring his music to his clients’ sometimes meager talent—had to come in to rework the tunes so that Malcolm could sing them more comfortably.
“Ace’s stuff is shite. He doesn’t get me, man. Listen, I’ll pay you ten a song to come back now, Z. Four songs. Forty bags of sand. Cash. From my own pocket. Crazy amounts of green. Gold strings on your Stratocaster!”
Zach tapped his teeth together. Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money for four songs, and a private arrangement with Malcolm meant instant money now and royalties later. He could write these four songs in his sleep and walk away with a big check. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. It would help. He’d be able to quit studio songwriting for months and concentrate on his own project with that kind of cash. He wouldn’t have to “write for the man” or tour for a while as a hired guitarist.
“Where am ya, anyway?” Malcolm demanded. “Maybe I could—”
The idea of Malcom Singer showing up in Maine was all Zach needed to make his decision final. He took a deep breath and winced at turning down so much money. “Can’t do it, man. Gotta be somewhere. Ace’s got you.”
“Fuck Ace. Get your arse back to New York now, Z, or I’ll—”
“I’m losing you, Malc. Malc? Malcolm? Hey man, if you can—”
“Don’t pull this shite with me, Z.”
“—hear me, I’ll, uh, I’ll call you in a couple weeks.”
“Zachariah! Za—”
Zach hit the red End button on his phone, then leaned up and switched off the Bluetooth. Just as he expected, the phone started buzzing and vibrating on the seat console beside him, but he ignored it, driving farther and farther north as the sun dropped behind the trees. It had the effect of backlighting the autumn oranges and reds like they were on fire and amped up the visual beauty the same way plugging straight into the board amped up the sound on his guitar. Shocking in its clarity, astonishing in its volume, and all-around satisfying. Nah, he wasn’t going back to the city to write for Malcolm. Fuck, no. The whole point of this getaway was to be unreachable—to live far off the beaten path for a few weeks and see if he still had something beautiful, something worthwhile, to give to the music world.
As if on cue, he heard her words in his head from long ago, her faint Maine accent making him flinch with longing: Something beautiful, Zach. Write me something beautiful.
As always, her voice, and its accompanying memories, made his heart twist with regret. After almost a decade, he should be over her. He should have moved on by now, and really, in every way but the one that mattered most, he had. Physically, aside from his hair and eye color, he was unrecognizable from the gangly, pasty-faced kid he’d been at Yale. Zach was hard-bodied from hours in the gym and tan from his frequent gigs in California and the Southwest. He glanced down at the rings on his fingers, the leather and rubber straps on his tattooed wrists, and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. Oh, yeah. He’d changed a lot, thank God.
Over the years, he’d figured out how to relate to people, too, although deep inside he still preferred his own company in the absence of hers. She’d been the only person with whom he’d ever felt genuinely comfortable. But socially, he’d finally learned how to assimilate: drinking heavily with other songwriters and musicians during his first few years writing and touring for Cornerstone, tattooing and piercing his body as a way of embracing the heavy metal world that had been his home since college. When other kids had learned to socially adjust to their peers in high school, Zach had been forced to nurture his musical talent in relative seclusion. Of course, his personal growth had been delayed, but he’d finally—mostly—caught up with himself.
In spite of these outward and inward changes, though, Zach had never been able to totally let go of her. She lived persistently, achingly, in his heart, tormenting him in quiet moments. Losing her and her love was like a curse: he was convinced that it would take love to write beauty, and love had been elusive since he lost her. This wasn’t about female companionship—Zach had plenty of women vying for his attention, and he was never lonely for friendship or fucking. But love? No. No one came close to the place she still occupied in his heart, and sometimes, when her voice echoed in his head, the sudden burst of agony—of regret—could take his breath away. Angry songs came easily. Fury came easily. Sad came easily, but he hated sad. Sad was weak and useless, and he refused to write it.
As for beauty? Zach scoffed. Beauty felt impossible.
Over the next two weeks, he was determined to chase it down. Even if he had to remember the once-terrifying feelings that had made him stupidly push her away. Even if he had to unearth the dormant, though potent, memories of a love he’d never felt for anyone before or since. He was determined to do whatever it took to get out of the songwriting rat race, and make a new name for himself by writing something fresh and beautiful—something that would have made her lips tilt up in a smile and her sable eyes sparkle with approval.
Suddenly, nothing seemed as important to Zach as cutting the cord that bound him to his unfulfilling life in New York. Without giving it another moment of thought, he picked up his phone, drew his arm back, and lobbed it out the open window onto the highway.
Wow. Okay. Cord cut.
Then he put her firmly out of his mind and stepped on the gas. He wanted to make it to Winter Harbor by sundown and ruefully hoped that turning down Malcolm wouldn’t be the newest addition to his long list of regrets.
***
Violet Smith pulled into the gravel driveway, relieved that the dusk still afforded enough light for her to see the wooden arrow that pointed into the woods, etched with the words “Deep Haven.” She drove for a tenth of a mile, bouncing and crunching under a dark canopy of heavy tree cover, until the woods cleared to reveal a rambling, pristine four-bedroom house and, beyond, glimmering in the setting sun, the water of Winter Harbor.
She pulled up in front of the house and cut the engine, taking a deep breath, then sighing in a wobbly, exhausted way as she released the steering wheel. She laced her fingers and cracked her knuckles, the clicking sound oddly satisfying, as it released hours of driving tension. She didn’t remember the drive from Greenwich, Connecticut, to Maine, being quite so long. Then again, she’d never done the driving, or made the journey, alone. Shep had always taken care of the arrangements and trip planning. She’d happily sat beside him in the car, reading on her Kindle as he drove them up and back.
Her eyes misted with tears, and she blinked them away, taking off her glasses and massaging the bridge of her nose. The whole world was hazy without her glasses or contacts, especially at twilight, when shapes lost their edges and blurred into gray. She certainly couldn’t drive without them, but it felt nice to be free of them for now, so she set the glasses carefully in the cup-holder. She opened the car door and swung her body out into the cool, brackish air.
Winter Harbor. It wasn’t Shep’s Bar Harbor, the lights of which she could make out across the bay, but it still smelled like the same heaven.
Her flip-flopped feet were chilly in the October evening air, but it didn’t matter. As soon as she settled in, she’d take out her fuzzy fleece slippers and live in them for the next two weeks. For now, she just wanted to stand on the deck of her rental house and say hello to the sea.
Do you smell it, Vi? Heaven?
She heard the echo of her own laughter in her head, felt the imprint of Shep’s palm pressed against hers, pulling her toward the beach, sunlight dancing on the water and making his light blond hair sparkle.
“Once a Mainer, always a Mainer!” she’d exclaimed as her feet sank into the sand, letting herself be pulled along, letting Shep lead the way.
Violet stepped onto the deck carefully in the waning light, placing her hands lightly on the railing, and sighed contentedly. What a lucky break to run into Lena Lewis at Whole Foods in Greenwich two weeks ago. Violet had shared her recent challenges in completing her second novel, and Lena, an acquaintance from the Junior League, had offered the use of her house in Winter Harbor, Maine, as a writing retreat. Lena had explained that since her divorce she couldn’t bear to visit the four-bedroom, harbor side mansion, and as long as Violet was willing to pay $1,000 to cover two weeks’ worth of utilities, maid and handyman service, she was free to use the beautiful house. Despite Violet’s strained finances, she wasn’t able to refuse the tempting offer and immediately sent a check to Lena in exchange for a set of keys.
After a lifetime of living in apartments, Violet loved the idea of having so much space to herself, even temporarily. She’d be able to write in a different room every day. A great room with a fireplace, a gourmet kitchen, and a deck with sweeping views were all at her disposal. The house, and its inspiring location, was worth the thousand dollars because Violet was in desperate and immediate need of inspiration.
She’d already spent the twenty thousand dollar advance her publisher had paid her last December when she’d signed the contract for Us After We, and she’d already begged for two extensions on her deadline, once in May and again in August. Here it was October, and she had written precious little. Not to mention, the royalties from her first novel alone weren’t enough to sustain her Greenwich lifestyle without Shep’s second income. Her bank account was dangerously low and her unwritten manuscript was due on October 20th, in about two weeks. If she didn’t deliver it this time, she’d be held in contempt, and not only would she have to return the advance she’d been living on, she’d have to pay a penalty for breach of contract. Coming to Deep Haven was an act of sheer desperation, and she was hoping such a beautiful spot would finally shatter her crippling writer’s block.
If she was honest, there was another reason Violet had felt drawn to Deep Haven, aside from its beauty. Although it was a little less showy than the Smalley mansion across the bay in Bar Harbor, it was built in the same style: in the same gray, weathered Nantucket wood. It looked out at the same bay, albeit from the opposite side. The photos online had made the place feel familiar to her, as though staying in it somehow still connected her to the wealthy, well-known Smalleys. The family into which Violet had almost married. Almost.
Waves beat lightly against the stone retaining wall at the edge of the lawn in the dying light of dusk. Violet closed her eyes, breathing deeply, feeling a rare peace fill her as the salty air soothed her lungs.
The last time she’d seen Shepherd Smalley, fourteen months ago, he’d turned to her at the front door of their apartment. He was about to leave for work, but stopped at the last minute, facing her.
“Say, Vi, I was thinking . . . ,” he’d started in his New England prep school accent that reminded her of the Kennedys’, his astute, thoughtful eyes twinkling.
She’d glanced up from her coffee and newspaper, tilting her head to the side and smiling at him. His hand was on the doorknob and his freshly shaved face managed to look youthful and shrewd at once, his cerulean eyes set off by a crisp blue oxford and Vineyard Vines tie. “Hmm?”
“I was thinking we should make things official. You and me. I was thinking we should …”
Her heart raced from peaceful plodding to a gallop and the sudden impact took her breath away, making her gasp. The newspaper fell to the table in a soft rustle. She fought the insane urge to run back to the bedroom, throw the covers over her head and act like he hadn’t spoken. She reached up with one hand to straighten the Coke-bottle-thick, black-rimmed glasses she wore every morning before putting in her contacts, then rested her hands on her flushed cheeks.
She had simultaneously dreamed of and dreaded this moment ever since they graduated from Yale together six years ago. In her dreams, she was wearing a cocktail dress, sporting a perfect manicure, and had a heart overflowing with love only for Shepherd Smalley. She pulled her threadbare bathrobe around her body as she took in her unmanicured hands, the nails chewed down to unattractive nubs. And her heart . . . her heart raced, thumping uncomfortably in acknowledgment of its deceit, hating that someone else still took up a large chunk of real estate there. She balled her hands in her lap and looked up to catch his eyes, feeling overwhelmed and slightly nauseous.
“We should . . . ?” She gulped, unable to finish the sentence, overwhelmed by panic and guilt.
His glance dropped to her fisted hands, then to the neckline of her ancient bathrobe before returning to her face. He winked at her, looking boyishly sheepish. “No, Vi, you’re right. This isn’t the right way, is it? I can do better than this. Somewhere special with candlelight and…”
His voice tapered off and he turned toward the door and lingered for a moment in thought, fingering the pocket of his suit jacket. She didn’t say anything. Not a word. She stared at him as he looked back at her and winked again before closing the door behind him.
We should . . . ?
Those were the last words he would ever hear from her lips. They haunted her.
We should . . . ?
A million times since his death, she’d finished the sentence for herself. Mostly, remembering Shep’s laughing blue eyes and easy manners, she’d finish it like this: We should go back to bed where we’re safe. Where no teenagers late for school are driving and texting while you innocently walk to the law office where you’re the brightest and youngest partner. Where the diamond ring you’re holding in your suit jacket pocket doesn’t get knocked into the park across the street from the impact of the car. The car. On your beautiful body.
Since his death, Violet indulged an idealized version of Shep, casting their imperfect relationship in the hazy half-light of perfection—the best moments and good times taking precedence over the rest. Sepia memories of Shep, who’d rescued her broken heart in college, who’d loved her more than she deserved to be loved. She remembered them as happy together. She remembered herself happy with him.
But there were rare moments—dark, agonizing times when her brain overrode her attempts to whitewash the truth, even in the midst of her grief. In those hated moments, the bright, unforgiving glare of truth replaced Shep’s affable blue eyes with turbulent dark gray, shrouded by long, thick, chestnut brown lashes. She’d grapple to hold on to Shep’s face—so comforting and genteel—as it was eclipsed by another visage: brooding, serious, intense. And the way she finished the sentence would inevitably change: We should never have stayed together for so long, Shep. Not when someone else still owned half of my soul and refused to vacate my heart, despite my bitterness, in the face of my contempt, regardless of my efforts to forget him and accept that he never, ever wanted me as much as I wanted him.
It didn’t matter how quickly she forced the thoughts and images from her mind—her heart would twist all over again: with guilt over Shep, yes, but also with the fresh pain of a brooding boy’s long-ago rejection. A sharp ache of longing would knock the wind from her chest as almost-forgotten music engulfed her mind. It had been nine years. Nine years since she held his slim, pale body against hers. But she wasn’t any closer to forgetting that brooding boy now than the day he walked—no, ran—away from her.
“Oh, Shep,” she murmured, trying to force her thoughts back to her almost-fiancé, who was taken from the world too soon. She looked out at the dying light on the harbor, wishing away the haunting gray eyes that lingered in her subconscious. “I’m so sorry I didn’t love you enough, Shep. I should have let you go.”
Violet shook her head, wiping the stream of tears coursing down her cheeks. The sun had set during her reverie, and in front of her, the dark water of Winter Harbor twinkled with lights reflecting from the houses that lined the shore. It was comforting that the bay still looked the same, that the place Shep had so loved maintained its timeless beauty, as if in memorial.
“Here’s to you, Shep,” she said softly, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to return to the place they’d spent so many enjoyable summers together. She looked around the dark, empty porch, where fall leaves gathered and crackled in the corners. She’d hoped the quiet and solitude would force her to write, but her loneliness made her gasp suddenly. She hugged her body tightly in the cooling darkness.
It’s good to be lonely. It’ll force you to work. And that’s why you’re here: to work, not to mull over your unlucky love life.
Suddenly, a bright light from behind her unexpectedly lit the entire deck like daylight, and she squinted in surprise as an SUV pulled into the driveway. Her mind raced through the details of the rental. Could it be Lena, joining Violet for a getaway? Surely not. Lena Lewis had made no mention of visiting. In fact, since their check and key exchange, Violet hadn’t seen Lena, even though the check had been quickly cashed. She’d e-mailed Violet the name of a local maid and a handyman who could assist her during her stay, sharing that she was headed out of the country indefinitely and wouldn’t be available to answer any further questions.
That was certainly it, then. This must be the handyman or maid coming to offer assistance in opening the house. That must be it. She squinted, feeling herself at a disadvantage, and wished she hadn’t left her glasses in the car. Trying not to feel freaked out that she was out in the middle of the woods with a stranger approaching, she took a deep breath before leaving the deck and walking back toward the driveway.