The Other Side of Us - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,26

the stool, not liking the direction of the conversation but he had no easy way of changing it. “I was a musician—long time ago. It seemed like the logical next move once the band broke up.”

“You were in a band? What was it called?”

“Salvation Jake.”

She set down the knife, her eyes wide with surprise. “Get out of town. Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I loved you guys. I practically wore holes in your first CD.”

Which, coincidentally, was also their one and only successful album.

He could feel his shoulders getting tight. It always made him uncomfortable talking about the band. It was so long ago, like a distant dream. The gold records, the packed gigs. He was well aware that he ticked more than enough boxes to qualify for the washed-up ex-rocker cliché. Eking out a career in an associated field, tick. Days of glory long behind him, tick. Anonymous, tick.

“Your lead singer, Edie Somers... She had such a sexy voice. So much gravel. And such an amazing stage presence.”

“Yeah. She was something.”

The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Edie. He took a big swallow of wine and focused on Mackenzie.

“How about you? How do you pay the bills?”

Her gaze dropped to the cutting board and she concentrated on brushing the parsley she’d just chopped into a small bowl.

“I work in TV. Producing, that kind of thing.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a producer before.”

“We’re not a very exciting bunch. More or less glorified field marshals.”

“What shows have you worked on?”

She shrugged, her head still down turned. “Game shows, dramas. Most recently Time and Again. Really, it’s pretty dull. I’m more interested in knowing what it’s like to be a rock god.”

“I was the bass guitarist. I don’t think I even qualified as a demigod.”

“No underwear flying your way, then? No groupies hanging out at the stage door?” Her words were light, but her grip was white-knuckle tight around the bowl of her wineglass, as though she was holding on for dear life. He studied her face, seeing past her smile to the misery in her eyes.

Something was wrong. He had no idea what, but he could feel it, and he had the sudden, odd urge to simply lay his hand on hers. Anything to ease the terrible turmoil he sensed in her.

Those were disturbing thoughts. He didn’t go around touching strange women to reassure them. He wasn’t about to start now, either. Particularly not with this woman, who had already proved that she could be prickly and difficult at the best of times.

“You’re not going to go all shy on me, are you, Oliver? I was hoping for some salacious tales of decadence and excess. At the very least I was hoping for some scuttlebutt.”

She gave him what he could only describe as a cheeky look and he realized that whatever was going on, she had no intention of telling him. She was being a good hostess, keeping things light and easy breezy. The least he could do was follow suit.

As for touching her... No. That would not be a good idea.

So he talked about the band. He answered her questions and made her laugh with stories about how gauche and spoiled and dumb they’d been as they enjoyed their brief moment in the sun. She volunteered her own embarrassing stories, and before he knew it he was looking at the bottom of an empty pasta bowl, they’d finished one bottle of wine and she was opening the bottle he’d brought over.

“I’d better not,” he said when she attempted to top up his glass. “The saddest thing about pushing forty is not being able to handle hangovers.”

“Oh, God, I never could, even when my liver was young and pink and squeaky-clean. But it’s not going to stop me from having more. Not tonight, anyway.”

There was a determined, bright note to her voice but all he could see was the deep sadness in her eyes. For the second time that night he was gripped with the urge to ask her what was wrong. Then he reminded himself—again—that it was none of his business. She’d said it herself—they were temporary neighbors. Besides, his own life was mostly in the toilet. He was hardly in a position to offer anyone comfort or advice.

He looked away from her sadness and focused instead on the dogs. They’d settled in the corner on what was clearly Mr. Smith’s favorite lounging spot, a big floor cushion made from coffee-colored corduroy. Strudel had claimed the prime real estate in the