Sail Away with Me Page 3

  “Go on.”

  “She had ALS and died three years ago. She was eighty-seven.”

  “God, I’m sorry. That’s a hell of a disease.”

  “Yes, it was very sad. Grandfather Harry died several years earlier, of a massive stroke. It was sudden, a shock, but he didn’t suffer. For Grandmother Rose, it was a slow, inevitable process of physical deterioration toward death. We still had times of joy, joy that she was alive and we could share things with her. Share love. Her determination was to live and die with dignity, but she—we—didn’t have certain things that Forbes and those of you who love him have.”

  Intrigued, he asked, “What things?”

  “Forbes will survive, no matter what limitations his injuries inflict. You have that joy, and relief. He and your family, and his caregivers, also have power. Power to effect change, to improve his situation. With Grandmother Rose, the progression of her disease was relentless and inevitable. When you are powerless to help someone you love deeply, who is suffering so much, it’s a very painful thing.”

  “I’m so sorry you went through that.” It was bad enough watching Forbes struggle. Iris made him imagine her family’s situation, and he wanted to write that song, too. He rarely told his own stories, at least not directly. He sang about other people’s lives and dilemmas, and he tried to do it with empathy, to honor and convey genuine emotions. His fans told him his songs resonated with them, making them feel understood and less alone. This was what gave his own life value. He ran a hand over his tattoo, the visible reminder.

  “Thank you,” he told Iris. “For sharing that story and for your advice. It’ll help me when I get back to working on the song.”

  “You won’t do that now?” She sounded disappointed.

  “I’m played out for now.” He cleared his throat. “And parched.” Starving, too. He’d been so eager to get to the commune, he hadn’t thought to bring food or drink.

  “I have more water.” She reached in her basket. “Staying hydrated is important.”

  His lips curved. His stepmom—unlike the mother who’d run out on him and his dad when Julian was four—always said stuff like that. Iris was different in many ways from the fangirl types he typically hooked up with. But he was attracted to her. Definitely attracted, now that he’d put aside his music and was concentrating solely on her.

  He reached for the unopened bottle, this time ensuring that his fingers brushed hers. She gave a soft gasp and pulled her hand away. He guessed she was attracted to him, too, unless those blushes and sideways looks were due simply to shyness. He also guessed, from what she’d said about the hope of finding true love, that she wasn’t dating anyone special.

  All the same, he doubted the two of them would hook up. Iris was into romance and love, two concepts he shunned. People did horrible things in the name of love; as a victim of that horror, he was too damaged, too wary, to contemplate anything more than casual relationships. He was damned lucky he’d at least come out of the hell of abuse to have a normal sex life.

  Not wanting to hog her water, he took only a couple of sips. Her basket was in the shade, and the water was cool and refreshing. He set the bottle down on the grass between them.

  “I brought lunch,” she said in that hesitant manner of hers. “I’d be happy to share it.”

  “That’s a kind offer and I’m happy to accept.” He was hungry not only for food but for more of her company, even if they would never be lovers.

  “It’s nothing special.” She ducked her head again, hiding behind that glossy long hair. “Only a tuna sandwich.” Her voice dropped so low he could barely hear. “I like tuna. Tinned albacore, for sandwiches. It’s not exactly gourmet. Oh, and I use alfalfa sprouts and I know not everyone likes—”

  “Iris.” He cut into the apologetic flow of words. “It sounds great. More often than not, I forget to eat, or food’s just fuel grabbed on the run. A homemade tuna sandwich will be a treat. And I happen to like alfalfa sprouts.”

  “Well, then . . .” She reached into her basket again, coming out with a neatly wrapped sandwich. When she unfolded the waxed paper, he saw nut-studded bread, chunky filling, and a fringe of green-leafed sprouts. As far as sandwiches went, it was an artistic creation.

  He’d guessed, particularly from her comments about his music, that she might be creative herself. Or perhaps a perfectionist, or maybe both. Julian was infinitely curious about people, and Iris intrigued him on many levels. If he pushed, likely she’d retreat. So for the moment, he took the triangular half she gave him, and ate.

  He took small bites, enjoying how the crunch of chopped celery, the tang of green onion, a lemony mayonnaise, and the nuts and seeds in the bread complemented the tuna and sprouts. “You know how to build a sandwich.”

  “You can have this, too.” She held out the half she’d barely nibbled.

  “Thanks, but I feel bad enough taking half your lunch.”

  After that, they ate quietly, her sitting cross-legged on her blanket with her well-stocked basket, him on the grass close by, with only his guitar and its case. He was reminded of a song his dad used to sing to his mom when Julian was a tiny kid. Something about a princess in a castle, and a peasant suitor who longed to scale the walls and reach her. After his mother ran out on them, Julian never heard that song again. She hadn’t been a princess, only a groupie. When Forbes’s musical talent and drive didn’t lead him toward celebrity, she abandoned him and their four-year-old for another rising musician.

  It occurred to Julian to wonder if Iris might be a groupie, albeit a more subtle, perceptive one than the women who threw themselves at him after concerts. As an artist, he knew subtlety could be more effective than blatancy. But no, everything about her rang true, as genuine as the pure resonance of a plucked guitar string.

  She reached into her basket once more, producing a bunch of red seedless grapes, which she handed him. He tore off a couple of clusters and gave back the rest. Her lips curved softly and he figured she had guessed he’d do this.

  “Tell me something about yourself, Iris.”

  “Oh, there’s not much to tell.” She ran graceful fingers through her hair but didn’t pull it back from her face. “I heard an interview with you on CBC Radio in the summer. You said you’re working on a new album?”

  “I am, though it’s coming slowly.”

  “Because of Forbes’s accident?”

  “Yeah.” Because of the time commitment involved in helping his dad, the worry over Forbes’s condition, and the stress of being back on Destiny.

  “Are you concerned you won’t get it finished in time?”

  “Why don’t you want to talk about yourself?”

  “Oh!” Her eyes, deep and wary like those of a startled deer, widened. Then she gazed downward again, speaking to her gray-clad knees. “It’s easier to talk about other people.”

  “Why is that?” he asked gently.

  “Because I’m shy,” she confessed to her knees. “And an introvert. I always have been.”

  “By introvert, you mean that you recharge your energy by being alone?”

  “Yes. And that I’m introspective. But I do like people and I’m interested in them, honestly. So it’s good when they talk about themselves. I’m happy to listen. Or I can talk about books. I like to talk about books.”

  “Books. Romance novels, you mean?”

  “All kinds of books.” Now she did glance up, passion in her eyes as she went on. “I love books. They’ve been a part of my life forever. Like music for you, I think?”

  He nodded. “Go on.”

  “My family owns Dreamspinner, the bookstore. You know it, don’t you?”

  “Right.” He’d been in a few times back when he was in school. “Cool store. Did your family open it or buy it from someone else?”

  “Dad and Aunt Lily opened it. At the time, the only books sold on the island were a few dozen in those wire racks in the grocery store and pharmacy. They joke that it was a matter of necessity, so t
hey’d have good books to read. That was before online shopping.”

  “I’ve heard that online shopping and piracy have hurt bookstores. I hope Dreamspinner’s doing okay.”

  She nodded. “The islanders are loyal, and they’re the core of our business. We tailor our stock to meet their needs. Even the ones who’ve mainly gone to digital still come in for something special. And of course tourists buy books about the island, as well as Canadiana and vacation reading. People like it that we sell only books and magazines, not everything else under the sun.”

  “Sounds like a good business model. Kudos to your family.”

  “Thank you. Of course we do also have the coffee shop, and that’s provided an excellent supplementary income.”

  “There’s a coffee shop? There didn’t used to be, did there?”

  “My mother added it.” Her smooth brow wrinkled. “More than ten years ago.”

  “Seems like I never have time to get into the village.” It wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth. He avoided Blue Moon Harbor village, where Jelinek’s realty office was located. He didn’t want to even think about the man, much less risk running into him. “You work at the bookstore and the coffee shop?”

  “The bookstore only. Mom, who’s an extrovert, handles the coffee shop.”

  “So you talk to customers every day. Is that hard?”

  “I’ve learned how to do it.”

  This woman truly did fascinate him. “Tell me what you learned.”

  She flushed. “It’s too embarrassing, and you can’t really want to know.”

  But he did. He wanted to know more about sensitive Iris. So he told her something that few people knew. “You may not believe this, given my public persona, but I’m an introvert, too, and a private person.” He didn’t go on to say that, while she’d said she liked people, he had trouble trusting and getting close to anyone. “I like performing and sharing music, but the other stuff, the interviews and so on, that’s tough for me. I had to learn how to do it.”

  “Honestly?” Her gaze went unfocused, like she was examining that notion. “Yes, I believe you. When you’re interviewed, you talk about the music and the band, not about yourself. People see you as a loner, and a little mysterious.”

  “A loner, yes. As for mysterious, that’s not my intent. I’m just not very interesting.” He’d far rather appear boring than have anyone pry into his past.

  “I doubt that’s true. I think you choose to share your deepest self not in interviews but through your songs. Even if they’re other people’s stories, even if the emotions in them are universal, you feel them on a deeply personal level and you sing very intimately.” The delicate pink of her cheeks deepened. “It’s like a communication between souls.”

  “Thank you, Iris.” It was one of the most touching, perceptive compliments he’d ever received.

  “How do you handle the public part?” She shuddered. “I can’t think of anything more terrifying than having cameras aimed at me and microphones stuck in my face.”

  “Rather than be the real me, the guy who’s happiest alone with his guitar, I play the role of a more outgoing person. It’s a performance. Actually, more so than when I’m onstage.” Jelinek had been his teacher, all those years ago, forcing the young Julian to learn how to don a mask that hid the dirty, broken, terrified part of himself. Remember, Julian, this is our secret.

  * * *

  “You’re happiest alone with your guitar. I’ll go now.” Julian was polite, amazingly so for a celebrity, and she’d let herself be lulled into thinking he enjoyed her company. But she’d seen the flicker of anxiety tighten his handsome features. Of course she was intruding.

  “No, wait,” he said.

  She rose to her knees, picked up the waxed paper from the sandwich, and folded it. “I apologize for disturbing your quiet time. I’m sure such time is rare, given all you have to do for your father.” She began to gather up the grape stems.

  Julian grasped her wrist, gently but surely. “Stop, Iris. Listen to me.”

  She gazed down at his tanned hand, the deft hand that created musical magic, circling her narrow, paler wrist. Her skin warmed under his touch. To her chagrin, a good part of that heat was arousal. “I’m listening.”

  “Look at me.”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, and saw concern and frustration in his blue eyes. How could she be aroused when this man was so clearly troubled?

  “I should have said I’m usually happiest alone with my guitar. But I enjoy your company. You give me something pleasant to focus on, at a time when things are stressful. Don’t go.”

  So she was a distraction. A pleasant one. Her lips curved. Most women might not be flattered, but for her it was a fine compliment. And the touch of his bare skin on hers, innocent as it was, was a sensual stimulation she would long remember. “If you mean it, then I’ll stay.” Her smile widened. “I have cookies. Lemon cookies.”

  Now he released her, smiling back, and the loss of contact brought regret as well as relief. She took out the plastic bag of cookies, unzipped it, and offered it to him.

  “I’m coming to think that’s a magic basket.” After the first bite, he said, “These are great. Sweet, but tangy.” He studied her. “You brought a substantial lunch for one slim woman.”

  She was holding a cookie in one hand but brought the other hand to her face, fanning her fingers in front of it in hopes of somehow concealing her embarrassment. “I eat like a pig. It’s not a very feminine quality.” Exercise and good genes meant she never gained weight.

  “I’ve never understood women who subsist on celery sticks and zero-fat yogurt.” He tilted his head. “Feminine means womanly. Womanly means healthy and natural.”

  “Sadly, the advertising industry disagrees. I hate how ads impact girls when they’re young and don’t have the knowledge and common sense to reject them. Early influences can be so powerful.” That was more words than she normally strung together with anyone who wasn’t a family member or close friend. What was it about Julian that made her so talkative?

  “Yeah, they can.” His grim tone confirmed his agreement and suggested he might be remembering something unpleasant from his own youth.

  Yakimuras didn’t pry, so she wouldn’t ask Julian to share his secrets. She nibbled her cookie, enjoying the zesty bite of the threads of lemon peel.

  After a moment, Julian said, “One of your techniques is to get people talking about themselves. Another is to deflect, to change the subject.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I asked how you deal with customers.”

  He hadn’t forgotten, and it seemed he actually did find her interesting. “I breathe deeply and try to center myself, to remember there’s no rational reason to be anxious. I talk to them about books, answer questions, and make recommendations. I’m well informed because I love reading and I at least skim most of our inventory.” She considered. “I received excellent advice from my father and aunt. They’re shy introverts as well.” She gave a tiny grin. “Honestly, Mom despairs of the lot of us.”

  Julian gave a husky laugh. “Interesting phrasing.”

  Embarrassed again, she said, “I pick up expressions from books I read. Miranda teases me about it.”

  “It’s cute. Anyhow, sorry to interrupt.”

  “That’s okay. Anyhow, Dad and Aunt Lily pointed out to me that shyness is often about self-consciousness, which is self-centered. We should instead focus on the other person’s needs and feelings.”

  “Hmm. That sounds wise. Tell me more. Do you actually think about customers’ feelings?”

  “Yes.” Warming to her subject, she said, “Is the customer rushed and stressed, worried about something? Then I will serve them as quickly as possible, and not add to their stress. Or, as is the case with many of the locals, are they in no hurry, willing to spend time finding exactly the right book or just wanting someone to talk to? Is the woman browsing the ‘end of relationship’ advice books feel
ing sad, or is she angry? Or take the young man who’s loitering suspiciously. Does he intend to steal a book, or is he afraid to ask where the erotica or self-help section is located?”

  “Hmm.”

  “I try to remember that it’s not about me, it’s about them. I want their experience at Dreamspinner to meet their needs and suit their mood as perfectly as I can.”

  “Are you a perfectionist?”

  She gave her head a quick shake. “Perfection is impossible. But to strive for some measure of harmony, even of beauty in what we do . . . Well, I think that isn’t a waste of time.”

  “Hence the tuna sandwich that’s a work of art.”

  “Now you’re laughing at me.” Normally, that would make her cringe, but from Julian it had a gentle feel, like the way her good friends Miranda and Eden teased her.

  “No, not laughing. It was an excellent sandwich and I appreciate it.” He was sitting with his knees up, his arms resting on them and his hands loosely clasped. With his faded clothing and longish hair, his outdoorsy tan, the burnished wood guitar beside him, she could imagine him as a hippie back in the commune days.

  She’d read about those times. The birth control pill was new; women’s sexuality was as uninhibited as men’s; free love was the norm. People took mind-altering drugs. If she’d lived back then, would she, perhaps with the aid of magic mushrooms, have overcome her inhibitions and made love in the grass with a sexy, creative, amazing man like Julian?

  “I understand how focusing on others helps you with your shyness,” he said. “I do that with interviewers. But, Iris, sometimes it should be about you, because you’re as important as anyone else.”

  “Not with customers. But yes, with friends, it’s often about me. Like when Miranda urged me to stop hiding away and attend the Triple-B-Zee performance last May, and she went with me.” Iris had gone in part to support Miranda, who’d broken up with Luke and was agonizing over whether he might be there. But the factor that had tipped the scale was the lure of seeing Julian perform.

  Now here he was, right in front of her. He had played, if not exactly for her, in front of her. He’d listened to her input—and now she couldn’t believe her audacity. He was a double JUNO winner! Suddenly, this was all too much. Her senses and emotions, her flaws and vulnerabilities, were on overload. “I need to go. I have commitments.” Her only actual responsibilities were to clean the condo she and her aunt shared, and prepare dinner for the two of them before Aunt Lily returned from working at the store. But family duties mattered a great deal, and so did the need to be alone for a while.