Summer Kisses (41 page)

At the back of the living room, sunlight rained down in slashes. In an effort to appease Ricky’s need for giant amounts of natural light, the entire back of the three-story house was windows. There were nine sets in all, as Ricky had believed that nine was good feng shui. There were also nine bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms and nine additional bathrooms for various and assorted living, dining, and game rooms. When Lucky had pointed out that there were, in fact, eighteen bathrooms and eighteen rooms, Ricky had corrected her by saying that they were two sets of nine. Back then, she’d nodded and then rolled her eyes.… Now she just rolled her eyes.

Being married to him meant that she’d put up with lots of dumb crap; now she was free to fix it. As soon as the payment from Bravo came through, she was covering some or all of those windows and buying new—less tacky—furnishings. And she’d sell the sofas—not because she needed the money, but because she needed less stupid.

A remodel—making the house hers. It was comforting. Some loud construction was just the thing for a reality show. Absolutely no one loved banging hammers and noisy saws. It was perfect. Since she was aiming for the most boring reality show ever, watching men haul in sheet rock and ladders was just the thing. Hours upon hours of watching someone patch drywall—who wouldn’t want to turn the channel?

They walked through the front hallway to the
Gone-With-the-Wind
-style staircase and climbed the red plush carpet to the second floor. Only a brothel or a rock star would have Kool-Aid-red carpeting. She hated this carpet, well, carpet in general. Wood floors would be best … something dark to combat all this natural light.

They padded down the veranda to the hallway, their feet sinking in acres of Kool-Aid. “Which room is hers?”

“The one that looks like a bruise.” She pointed to the purple room.

Ricky had insisted that each bedroom be a different color because colors had vibrations, and he needed all the vibrations of the rainbow to ignite his muse. When Lucky had pointed out that the rainbow had only seven colors and they had nine bedrooms, Ricky had insisted that both black and white were part of the color spectrum. Again, she’d nodded and rolled her eyes. Now, it wasn’t even eye-roll worthy.

Of course the violet room was at the end of the hallway as violet was at the end of the color spectrum. As they walked down the corridor, music—more specifically, singing accompanied by acoustic guitar—got louder and louder. The voice was strong, deep, and incredible. Part Taylor Swift and part Adele. Lucky may not be able to sing, but she was an excellent judge of talent. And whoever was singing was superstar quality.

Since Lucky didn’t knock in her own house, she turned the knob to the closed bedroom door. It was locked. No one locked her out of her own house. Standing on her tiptoes, she felt around the top of the doorframe for the small pick she kept above each door in case someone inadvertently locked themselves out. She removed it and stuck it into the tiny hole in the knob and turned. The door swung open.

“You can’t barge in here. This is my room.” Angry blue teenaged eyes glared out from behind dark eyeliner. The girl’s smoky eyes had taken a turn toward raccoon. Lucky could help her with that … if she’d let her.

“My house.” Lucky continued to hold Dawnie’s hand and fight the impulse to cross her arms and glare back. “You may close the door, but don’t lock it.”

“Whatever, bitch.” She turned her back on Lucky. “Go away.”

Lucky took a deep breath and stepped in front of the girl. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Lucky Strickland, and this is my house. In my house, I prefer to be called Head Bitch or Queen Bitch or just plain Lucky.”

“I’m Mandy.” There was bored bitchiness in her voice. “Bye.”

Lucky glanced down at the battered excuse for a guitar the girl was clutching. “Oh my God.” She reached out to touch it, but Mandy flinched back like Lucky was about to slap her.

Had this girl gotten hit often? The thought made her sick.

She made her tone neutral. “You have a marvelous voice. I think we can find you a better guitar. How about one of your”—her mouth turned desert-dry—“father’s.”

Mandy’s brow scrunched up, and weariness squinted her eyes. “Why?”

“Why not?” He’d hoarded them as if a guitar apocalypse was imminent. “Wouldn’t you rather have a guitar that didn’t have duct tape holding it together?”

“Maybe.” It sounded like no.

“Fine. But could you tune that one? It makes you sound flat.” Lucky turned her back on the girl and led Dawnie to the door. She knew when to push and when to pull back. Teenagers, she was learning, needed lots of pulling back. “I’m picking up pizza for dinner.”

“Fine. If you don’t have anything better to do with his old guitars, I guess I could take one off your hands.” Mandy threw down her guitar. She made it sound like she was doing Lucky a favor instead of the other way around. She stomped out of the room after them.

“All of Ricky’s guitars are in his studio. Have you ever been in there?” She looked at Dawnie, but the question was clearly directed to Mandy.

“No. Uncle Will locked it and said we couldn’t go in there.” Mandy had snotty teenager down to a science.

Why hadn’t Will wanted them in there? Ricky was their father, and those were his things. What was the big deal?

They walked down the stairs, through the kitchen, into the east wing of the house. Ricky’s studio was in a separate building, attached by a covered walkway. Lucky punched in the four-digit code.

“The code is zero seven zero four. Ricky’s birthday.” It had been the only date he could remember. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

“Uncle Will’s going to be mad.” Mandy managed bored edged with glee.

“Uncle Will always needs something to complain about.” She held open the door and flipped on the lights.

Dark gray foam covered three walls, and the fourth held a collection of electric and acoustic guitars. Metal stools, music stands, and microphones were scattered here and there. Nothing had changed, but there was an eerie emptiness, and it smelled musty and faintly of Ricky. She drank in the scent, and her heart stuttered in her chest. She’d forgotten that smell. A smile graced her lips before she remembered she hated him.

Lucky waved her hand toward the guitars. “Take your pick.”

Mandy’s eyes turned huge, and then tears gathered in the corners, spilling over and rolling down her cheeks. “Were they really his?”

“Yes.” Lucky fought the urge to put her arms around the teenager. “And now they’re yours.”

“Wow.” She turned and wiped her face. “Can I really have them?”

“I certainly don’t need them. I can’t play.”

“I want one.” Dawnie jumped up and down, pointing to a faded-denim Fender Strat with Ricky’s name in rhinestones across the front.

“Okay.” Mandy was too busy being awed to remember to be bitchy.

“Excellent choice. That was Ricky’s
United States of Me
tour guitar.” She unhooked it from the wall. “How about you look at it today, but we keep it on the wall until you learn how to play. In fact, why don’t we let Viviane pick out a guitar also so that you all have something of your father’s?”

Lucky wasn’t used to being this sentimental, but besides DNA, it didn’t look like the girls had much that had belonged to their father.

“You mean I get to keep it forever? You’re not going to take it back and sell it to pay the rent?” Dawnie was flat-out amazed.

“I call no take backs. Once you call no take backs, I couldn’t take it back if I wanted to.” She knelt down so she was eye to eye with Dawnie. “In my house, what’s yours is always yours until you decide to get rid of it.”

Dawnie thrust her Barbie Fashionista at Lucky. “I wanna give this to you. No take backs.”

“Oh, baby, no. That’s your favorite.” Lucky was touched. No one had ever given her such a valuable present. She handed the Barbie back to her.

“I called no take backs.” She grinned, and then it faltered around the edges as she realized what giving away her favorite meant.

“Okay.” Lucky took the doll, smoothed her plastic hair, and then handed her back to Dawnie. “But you’ll have to babysit her for me because I’m super busy. How about a quarter a day?”

“So you’re going to pay me to play with Barbie Fashionista?” Her little brow curled in concentration.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t get too worked up…. That’s less than two bucks a week.” Snarky Mandy was back.

“Two dollars a week.” Dawnie’s eyes turned bright. “I’m rich! When I get back to the house, I’m going to give you all my Barbies so you can pay me to play with them.”

“Just to be clear, these”—Mandy swept her arms out wide like a game show hostess—“are all mine.”

“Well, yes, except that Viviane gets to pick one out.”

“You’re not going to get mad at me and take them away or ground me from them?” Mandy was way too suspicious for a sixteen-year-old. She should be sneaking out of the house, meeting teenaged boys, and drinking cheap beer out of paper bags while sitting in the back of someone’s pickup instead of worrying whether someone was going to take away her stuff.

“Nope, they’re yours, free and clear.” Lucky stood. “And you can use this room whenever you’d like to practice. You could record your own album. I’ll show you how to use the soundboard.” She pointed to the window and the room beyond.

“Why are you being so nice to us?” Mandy still wasn’t convinced.

“Who says I am? You have musical talent, I have instruments and a place to rehearse. It’s a gift. Take it, smile graciously, and use the hell out of it.” Lucky had never had this hard of a time giving a gift. The picture of the girls’ childhood was starting to take shape, and it hadn’t been a very happy one.

Lucky knew about bad childhoods. Her father had liked to drink and gamble and hadn’t given a damn whether his little girl had her supper or a roof over her head. When he’d been shot dead for cheating at cards, Lucky had been seventeen and already living on her own. Early on, she’d become a fighter, but these girls were sweet and innocent and shouldn’t have to fight for anything. Their father should have made sure of that.

“Like I said, the entrance code is zero seven zero four. Come as often as you’d like.”

“Maybe.” Mandy nodded.

Apparently “maybe” was teenager-speak for thank you from the bottom of my heart.

“Why don’t you play something for us?” Lucky led Dawnie to the nearest stool and lifted her onto it.

She turned back around to find Mandy standing at the wall of guitars checking them out. “What would you like to hear?”

“Whatever you’re working on.” Lucky scooted a stool over to Dawnie and leaned against it. “Do you write music too?”

Lucky had always been a little bit jealous of those with musical talent. Her best friend Betts and then Ricky and now Mandy all had it, while she was left to listen from the audience.

If she were being honest with herself, she’d always wanted a child with musical talent so she could sit in the audience and be the obnoxious proud momma with the video camera. She’d wanted three little girls to dress in frilly dresses and to drive carpool and cart them to and from piano and dance lessons.

She eased onto the stool.

Mandy selected Ricky’s old 1960 Gibson Hummingbird. The wood had aged to a dark mahogany. It had been his favorite. She slipped the strap over her head and fitted her fingers over the strings. She strummed, cringed, adjusted the tuning keys, and strummed. After a minute or two, she was ready.

“This one’s called ‘Remember When.’” She strummed. “Remember when you threw me high, remember when you made me cry, remember when life was real, remember when the night was still, remember when…” Her voice was deep and sultry. She relaxed into the song and let the music take her away.

Lucky could feel the love and loss in the music. It was poignant, charming, and bold. She had Ricky’s talent times a hundred, but she had a sense of timing that he’d never had. Innately, she knew when to hold back and when to let loose.

Lucky eased her iPhone out of her back pocket and typed in her password. After clicking on messages, she pulled up Will’s phone number. As quickly as she could, she thumb-typed: Are you close to home? Come to the music studio. Damn, Mandy can sing!

Will was always looking for new talent, and here was one of the most talented musicians Lucky had ever met. Had he already signed her? If not, how had he missed that she was so talented?

Ricky might have been a bastard, but he’d produced some pretty awesome girls.

As if she’d forgotten the world around her, Mandy moved from song to song. Each one soul-wrenching and beautiful.

But the music business was hard and cold. When life was good, it was very good, but when it was bad, it was horrid. Was that the life she wanted for Mandy? True, Mandy didn’t exactly like Lucky, but she was still a child. And the music business was no place for a child.

Ten minutes later, the door squeaked. She turned around and met Will’s eye. Based on the angry set to his jaw and the glare he was throwing her way, he was none too happy that Mandy was giving them a private concert.

She shot Will a questioning look. He nodded in return, and he visibly relaxed. After a few seconds, one corner of his mouth turned up in a weary smile. No one knew more than Will how the music business chewed up people and then spit them out. He understood her concerns about Mandy entering a world where life wasn’t always easy.

It occurred to her that the moment they’d just shared was like one that passed between old married couples. With only a look, they could convey love, hate, grief, or joy. Even after fifteen years of marriage, she’d never had that with Ricky. She’d never been that in tune with another individual until now.

It was like a switch clicked on in her brain, and Will the brother-in-law disappeared—replaced by Will the man. His bottom lip was fuller than the top, which made his mouth ripe for sucking. Realizing that she was staring at his mouth, she looked away. Fantasizing about Will was new. Maybe one day soon, she’d act on some of her fantasies.

Will clapped, and Lucky and Dawnie joined in.

“Bravo. That was wonderful.” Lucky nodded to Mandy.