Sail Away with Me Page 2

  He bumped down the road slower than he could have walked, and pulled to a stop. Taking his guitar case, he made his way across the rough, dry grass toward his favorite spot by the old apple trees.

  It was his dad who’d brought him here that first time. When Forbes had fallen for Sonia, a Destiny Islander, he and Julian had moved from Victoria to the island. Forbes mentioned that he’d lived here, in a commune, for a few months when he was in his late teens. Julian, who’d grown up on his dad’s stories of magical places like Woodstock and Haight-Ashbury, had made Forbes show him, but the visit hadn’t lasted long. Forbes said it brought back bad memories of the commune leader, a manipulative jerk with a massive ego. As far as Julian knew, his dad had never come again.

  Julian, lacking those bad memories, had imagined a wondrous time of freedom, laughter, and music: folk songs, protest songs, rock. When his life had turned to shit thanks to Jelinek, the abandoned commune became his secret refuge, a safe place he could reach in an hour on his bicycle. A place to cry and scream, to play music with no one listening, to pour his emotions into the notes and words and, when he was lucky, to feel the muse inspire him.

  His brain drifting, it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t imagining a hippie girl sprawled on the grass. This was a live woman in contemporary clothing, glossy ribbons of long black hair swirling around her as she reclined on a green striped blanket with her eyes closed. A paperback novel lay beside her, its cover showing a man and woman embracing.

  Damn. So much for the solitude and peace he’d sought.

  Julian started to turn, but his gaze was drawn to her face. He saw elegant features, smooth skin a shade of olive lighter than his stepmom’s Mediterranean complexion, arched black brows, long black lashes, and delicate lips.

  Her classic beauty called another image to mind. Was this the woman he’d noticed in the audience at the community hall in May? Julian had been onstage, performing with B-B-Zee in the relatively well-lit old converted church, when he’d seen the two pretty women, one blond and one brunette. The blonde—Miranda Gabriel, who was now engaged to his stepbrother, Luke Chandler—had been more blatantly sexy, but it was the brunette who’d made Julian’s gaze linger. And it was she who’d vanished right after the final set. When Julian met Miranda, she’d said her friend was shy and didn’t go out much.

  He should vanish now, respect the woman’s privacy and his own. But he didn’t. Some instinct he couldn’t define compelled him to stay. He lowered himself to the grass near her, opened his guitar case, and quietly began to tune. As his fingers moved, the stress that had kept him constant company since he’d heard of Forbes’s accident eased from his body.

  Julian began to play, not composing but warming up his fingers and the guitar strings, letting the music drift free, wherever it wanted to go.

  * * *

  Iris dreamt of butterflies, a dozen or more, colorful flutters of wings stirring the air to create gentle notes of music.

  Gradually she woke, seeing poppy red behind her warm eyelids, then forcing her eyes open. Her vision a little unfocused, she saw . . . not butterflies, but a male figure, seated. A golden-haired head haloed by sunshine, bent over a guitar.

  Her vision sharpened and her brain jerked to full awareness. She wasn’t alone. Not only that—her body froze and her eyes widened as she recognized the man who sat on the dried-out grass only a few feet away. Burnished blond hair, tanned skin, the tattoo of musical notes that wound down his right arm. A faded-to-charcoal black tee and well-worn jeans on a rangy, almost too lean body. But mostly, his rapt expression. He was oblivious to her presence, intent on the poignant notes that slipped like tears from his guitar strings.

  Julian Blake.

  They’d gone to the same school, briefly. Not that he’d have ever noticed her. Though her outgoing mom urged her to socialize, Iris’s peace of mind came from fading into the background. Julian had been three years ahead and she’d certainly noticed him. He was a nail that very much stuck up, strikingly handsome in an edgy way, and a rebel. He skipped class, avoided the other kids, and gave the appearance of not giving a damn about anything. He’d reminded her of the “boys from the wrong side of the tracks” in the romance novels she devoured: fascinating and dangerous. When he dropped out of high school and disappeared, she wasn’t one bit surprised. Her imagination envisioned him either self-destructing or doing something amazing.

  For a girl who’d never even spoken to the boy, it was ridiculous how pleased she’d been when her latter prediction came true. His music was on the radio and on her iPhone; the Julian Blake Band had won two of the Canadian music industry’s prestigious JUNO awards and, she believed, deserved even more. His songs were poignant, a tapestry woven of pain and beauty.

  Her gaze dropped from his face to his hands, his fingers plucking and strumming emotion from those six simple strings. So graceful, so deft, and yet so masculine and strong. So respectful and yet commanding. Heat rose in her body as she imagined those hands, those fingers, on her body, creating magic. Her cheeks warmed as she remembered the fantasies that had given her nighttime pleasure ever since last May, when she’d seen him perform live for the first time.

  “Hey, you’re awake.”

  The soft, husky voice made her jerk up to a sitting position. Her gaze darted to his, which was on her face rather than the strings he continued to strum, and then dropped again. Shyness was as much a part of her as her black hair. No, more a part, because if she wanted to, she could dye her hair. Her shyness was ingrained, it had its benefits, and in familiar situations she knew how to cope with it. But being alone with a man—with a man she’d had sexy, romantic dreams about—made her heart race. All she wanted was to escape.

  She kept her head down, not meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry to disturb your playing,” she said in a soft rush of words. She picked up her book and water bottle, placed them in her basket, and began to rise. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  “No, wait.” The music cut off. “Hold on a minute.”

  She froze, averting her head so a wing of long hair hid her face from him.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said.

  His comment startled a response from her. “You have? Where?” He couldn’t have noticed her all those years ago at school, nor when he’d performed with his dad’s band this past spring. But nor could this be a pickup line. A celebrity like Julian Blake would never waste time flirting with a totally ordinary woman like her.

  “At the community hall. You were with Miranda.”

  “I . . . yes, I was.” He really had noticed her? Politeness and honesty made her go on rather than follow her instinct to flee. She took a deep breath, acknowledging her anxiety rather than trying to deny or resist it, because neither of those techniques ever worked for her. Another breath, trying to center herself and calm her nerves. “You were wonderful.” Hastily, she amended, “I mean, you and B-B-Zee. It was a wonderful evening.” Still concealed behind a curtain of hair, she squeezed her eyes closed. Shut up before you gush on and say his music is wonderful. Could she be any less skilled when it came to talking to guys?

  “Thanks. I always enjoy—” His first words were easy, but he broke off, and when he resumed again, his voice was gruffer. “I enjoy playing with Forbes and the guys.”

  Now she remembered. How self-centered she’d been. Remorse and compassion made her meet his gaze. “I’m so sorry about your dad’s accident.” She’d heard that Forbes’s entire left side—shoulder, arm, lower back, pelvis, and leg—had been shattered.

  “Yeah, thanks. Me too.”

  She was sorry to hear the pain in Julian’s voice, yet focusing on his situation helped ease her nervousness. “How is he doing?” Though she didn’t know Forbes well, on the occasions they’d met she had sensed he had a gentle, creative soul.

  Julian sighed and put down the guitar. He ran a hand through already tousled hair, hair that framed his lean, handsome face and brushed his shoulders. Iris noted mauve shadows under
eyes the innocent blue of forget-me-nots. Lines of strain around his eyes and mouth made him look older than his real age, which she guessed was twenty-seven.

  “The doctors say he’s doing as well as can be expected. But he’s in a lot of pain, and there’s a long road ahead of him.” He swallowed. “They say he might not walk again. Or even be able to play music.”

  “That’s terrible. Poor Forbes.”

  “He won’t accept that prognosis, and I’m glad. It keeps him motivated when therapy’s so painful.”

  She winced in sympathy. “Determination is so important. I wish him all the best.”

  “Triple-B-Zee’s supposed to play at Luke and Miranda’s wedding. That’s my dad’s goal, to be able to do that.”

  Triple-B-Zee was Forbes’s band—Blake, Barnes, and Zabec—with the addition of Julian. And the wedding date was Saturday, December twenty-ninth. “I truly hope he can.”

  “Me too.” The words grated and he coughed. “Damn, I didn’t bring anything to drink.”

  “Here, have some of my water.” She grabbed her own bottle and extended it toward him. “In fact, keep it. I should go and let you get back to your music.”

  He wasn’t close enough to take it from her hand, but rather than rise he scooted forward on the grass, ending up sitting a couple of feet away. Too close for her comfort. “Thanks.” He took the bottle, his hand not touching hers, uncapped it, and downed a long swallow.

  Seeing his lips where hers had recently been sent a warm shudder through her body.

  “But I interrupted your quiet time,” he said. “Don’t let me chase you away.”

  “No, it’s . . . I’m . . .” I’m off balance, embarrassed, and painfully inept at talking to people I don’t know, about anything other than books. She ducked her head again, yet her skin quivered as she felt his gaze.

  “I get it. If the idea of listening to me try to work out a new song makes your ears wince . . .” His hand entered her field of vision. Delicately, he eased strands of hair back from her face. His fingers brushed the lobe of her ear, light as a butterfly’s wings, and she trembled. “Makes you want to run away . . .” Now, in front of her eyes, he used two fingers to make quick, running steps.

  A giggle burst out of her and she covered her mouth, too late to call it back. “No, of course not.” The idea of listening to him create music fascinated her. How incredible to witness that process. His process. Julian Blake’s, a man whose music spoke so intimately to her.

  She could become invisible to him, as she’d been when she had first awakened and seen him so raptly intent. Then she’d be free to study his fingers, his expressions. To listen and react to the notes that flew from his guitar strings into the October air. But politeness and the high value she placed on privacy made her say, “Still, I don’t want to intrude.”

  Now she dared to look at him, and saw a twinkle in those stunning blue eyes. “I’m the one who intruded. A polite woman would stay, not make me feel guilty for doing it.”

  Had he somehow guessed that she tried, at all times, to be polite? Not simply out of social convention, but out of respect for others’ feelings. Those forget-me-not eyes were too compelling, so she gazed down at her knees, clad in clingy gray yoga pants, as she deliberated. After a moment, she succumbed to temptation. “Then I will stay.”

  “Promise not to be too harsh.”

  “I could never—” she protested vehemently, breaking off when she raised her head and saw him grinning. She found herself smiling back, and that amazed her.

  He was, hands down, the most handsome, sexy, fascinating man she’d ever met. He was a celebrity in the Canadian music scene. Yet she felt . . . not comfortable, but more at ease than was typical with strangers. Perhaps it was because she’d seen him around, back when he was just a rebellious teen. Or maybe it was because he, like she, was sensitive to the nuances of people’s behavior. In her case, it came out of shyness. In his, she guessed it was an intrinsic part of his creative soul.

  His teasing grin eased into something gentler and warmer. “I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Iris. Iris Yakimura.”

  “Iris.” He studied her face and, though she felt heat in her cheeks, she managed not to duck her head again. “Your parents couldn’t have chosen a more perfect name.”

  Why did he think that? She wasn’t bold enough to ask.

  “You’ve seen me play, so I think you know my name,” he teased.

  Throat suddenly dry, she murmured, “Julian Blake.” The name was, like many of his songs, an intriguing mix of contrasts. The three syllables of his given name were supple and melodic; the single one of his surname was crisp and powerful. She loved his name. More than once she’d whispered “Julian” into her pillow, in the throes of a romantic fantasy.

  How unbelievable that she was here now with the real man, in this serene and evocative environment, and that he was going to play for her. Well, not exactly for her, but she’d be a witness to his creative process. He had asked her to stay.

  Or maybe she was dreaming again. If so, she’d prefer never to wake.

  Chapter Two

  Why had he asked Iris to stay? For Julian, composing was a solitary process. He sought his bandmates’ input only for fine-tuning. Maybe it was humility, maybe pride, or perhaps just his solitary nature, but he liked to fumble around on his own until he hit on a particular pattern of notes or words that sank deep inside him with a sense of rightness.

  Yet, oddly, he had that same feeling of rightness about Iris being here. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her in May, a slim, elegant, lovely flower amid the enthusiastic audience at the community hall, Julian had sensed she was special. He would have expected a calm confidence that matched her serene beauty. Instead, though her slender body, clad in a purple top over gray leggings, formed graceful lines, those lines often communicated reticence or even retreat. Shyness, as Miranda had said, and maybe something more. Perhaps, like him, an appreciation of solitude and a wariness of trusting others?

  If so, Julian hoped her reasons were nothing as dark as his. He didn’t think they were. He sensed that her soul, behind her reserve, was one of pure light with no heavy, barred doors caging black, malignant secrets.

  “What you were playing before,” she said hesitantly, “was lovely. Is that a new song?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not yet, anyway. I was just messing around.”

  “It sounded like butterflies. And maybe tears.” A smile flickered on delicate, untinted lips. As far as he could tell, she didn’t wear a speck of makeup, and she didn’t need it. In a low, musical voice, she said, “It seems to me that in every one of your songs there are tears. If not in the lyrics, then in the music.”

  That was perceptive. “Name me a true story, even the happiest one, that doesn’t involve some tears. Even if they’re only due to a fear that the joy may end.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes, a rich, dark brown fringed by long black lashes, didn’t drop this time. “Like yin and yang.”

  He gestured to the basket where she’d tucked her book. “How about in romance novels?”

  She nodded. “Yes. The tears make the happy endings more poignant. The message is one of hope. That through a combination of luck in meeting the right person, and strength in confronting challenges and one’s personal demons, each person can find a lifelong love.”

  A pretty dream for a pretty girl on a pretty day. A dream as trite as the word pretty. Iris didn’t strike him as stupid, but was she that naïve? Didn’t she understand that for some people, personal demons made the concept of a lifelong love impossible? Not wanting to insult her, he strove for a neutral tone. “You’re a romantic.”

  Her chin came up. “Do I take it you’re a skeptic? A cynic, perhaps?”

  “I’d say I’m a realist.”

  Her lashes fluttered down and she said softly, “Then I do not like your reality.”

  Sometimes a phrase he heard or read struck a resonating bell, and Iris’s last sente
nce was one of them. If she’d used the less formal don’t rather than do not, her comment wouldn’t have had the same impact. His muse repeated it. I do not like your reality.

  It was what Forbes felt when the doctors said he might never again walk or play the guitar. Behind that simple, dignified phrase could lurk such fear and anger. Such despair. But also, as a grace note, hope. The kind of hope that Iris found in her novels.

  Automatically, Julian’s hands reached for his guitar. Settling it comfortably against his body, he bent over it and gave himself over to his muse, letting her guide his fingers, his thoughts. And the magic happened, as it had uncountable times in the past. He paired words and music, tried out combinations, went back, moved ahead. Immersed in the music, his conscious mind forgot his surroundings while his subconscious drew energy from the gnarled trees, the ghosts of the hippie kids, and from his quiet, sensitive companion.

  Finally, he reached an impasse. The song wasn’t quite right, but continuing to fuss with it might undo the good he’d created. Lowering the guitar, he rotated his head and shrugged his shoulders, unwinding the tightness of total concentration.

  Iris lay on her side on her striped rug, one arm pillowing her head, watching him.

  A little embarrassed at having gone through his creative process in front of her for God knows how long, he said, “Sorry for inflicting that on you, but your words gave me an idea.”

  She shifted gracefully, ending up sitting cross-legged. “I’m honored that anything I said could inspire a song.” As was often the case, her voice was so low he could barely hear her words, which made him focus harder and value those words more highly. She went on. “This is Forbes’s song? He’s the lark that was shot by an arrow.”

  Julian nodded.

  “You’ve conveyed his pain and anger. Also his determination and hope, which are intertwined with fear.” She pressed her lips together.

  “I hear a but.”

  “I’m no songwriter, but I was comparing Forbes’s story to that of my grandmother.”