A Moonlit Serenade Page 9

  Jake’s eyes widened as he once again homed in on the tensed muscles in my neck. “A tiny baby is that disruptive?”

  A deep belly laugh escaped from my lips. Jake frowned in response, perplexed.

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay. You win.”

  “I win what? You’ve confused me.”

  “You can observe my class. And you’re cute when you’re confused. And babies are a ton of work, and these women deserve to have that work appreciated.”

  “Blimey. I thought I won you singing on my album. But I’m glad to spend time with you.”

  When he said things like that to me, I melted. “I…” Not ready to go there. “I talked to Ted. He’s a police officer and Dez’s dad. He came by, took my statement about my classroom, the guitar.” I inhaled deeply. “I told him what we knew about the near hit-and-run, too.”

  Jake’s fingers hit the biggest knot in my muscles and my eyes crossed as I sighed with pleasure. “Ahh. Your fingers are magic.”

  “I’ll rub your neck for a bit longer. Until you decide I’m worth the risk.” His fingers pressed harder into the knot.

  I lifted my head and met his worried gaze. “What’s wrong?”

  A million expressions danced across his face before he finally blurted out, “I’m worried you’re going to tell me to go away.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because—”

  “Ryn! Is it true you spent Saturday night with . . .” Susan stopped talking as I lifted my head from Jake’s chest. “Oh my . . . Oh my . . .”

  “Hi, Susan. Sorry we had to change rooms this morning. Mine’s a crime scene.”

  Susan’s mouth opened and shut, her eyes large and unblinking. “You’re . . . you’re . . .”

  “This is Jake,” I said, hoping to stave off any kind of shrieking. My head couldn’t take the noise. I rolled up onto my toes and whispered in Jake’s ear, “You might want to give me ten minutes? That’ll give me time to prep my class.”

  Jake pressed his thumbs into the still-tight muscles in my neck one more time, and I moaned. “You can’t make noises like that,” Jake whispered back. “I like them too much.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and he sighed.

  “I’m going to the art building. Be back in fifteen minutes, maybe a little longer.”

  He pressed his lips to my cheek and I whimpered, unable to resist the urge to turn my head and press my lips to his. Jake stepped back when Susan made a strange, strangled noise.

  “See you in a mo’,” he murmured back. He dipped his head in greeting to Susan, who looked just like a shocked cartoon character, and walked out the door.

  “That’s . . . Jake Etsam . . . .You kissed . . . .”

  “He’s going to observe the class today.”

  Susan practically collapsed to the floor, but in true mom form, she clasped the head of her infant strapped into the carrier on her chest. “You can’t do this to me, Ryn!” she shrieked. “I didn’t sleep more than three hours last night, and I threw on my oldest pair of yoga pants. They make my butt look flat.”

  “I didn’t know he was coming by,” I said. “He brought me a guitar because someone broke mine.” Such an understatement, but I didn’t know how to explain the rage that created the splinters of my once-beautiful instrument.

  “Okay,” Susan said, her voice soft, her eyes closed. “Okay.” She opened her eyes and glared at me, raising her finger to jab it in my direction. “You invite him back sometime when we all look nice. That means at least a full day’s notice. I want a selfie to post on social media. You make that happen or I’m telling everyone I know how awful your classes are.”

  “Roger that,” I said with a salute. But my attempt at humor hid a deeper, more pressing worry. I needed this job—not just to pay my bills but because this was the closest I’d be to a baby of my own.

  I swallowed down the bitterness and anxiety of my life, trying to push back against the dread of knowing I’d never be a mother, and knelt and opened the guitar case, my hand shaking as I wrapped it around the gleaming wood. This guitar made my Taylor look like a cheap toy.

  I ran my hand over the instrument, marveling at the smooth curves. The rosewood gleamed.

  “Get a new guitar? That’s pretty,” Jan said from the doorway. “Why are we down here?”

  I explained the situation as the other seven moms streamed into the room. They all gasped in sympathy at my destroyed instrument and bemoaned their lack of makeup and decent clothes when they found out who was joining the class. One mom frantically finger-combed her hair before the woman beside her handed over a hair tie. Both looked close to tears.

  I started the “Hello Song” about three minutes before the class started because I couldn’t handle the tension.

  Murphy’s guitar played like a dream with beautiful sound and receptive nylon strings. I’d been missing out—driving a Cadillac instead of a Rolls Royce. Now that I’d played an instrument of this quality, I wasn’t sure I could ever go back. The children, aged five months to four years, had no clue why their mothers weren’t interested in class today, because they were rocking out to my version of “If You’re Happy and You Know It.”

  I placed the guitar carefully in its case as I segued into the kids’ favorite: “Here is the Beehive” and the children made buzzing sounds. Those old enough rolled around on the floor, too.

  The door cracked open and Jake poked his head through the doorway. He tiptoed in as I began an energetic rendition of “Wheels on the Bus.” The kids loved the swishing wipers.

  By now the adults had noticed our guest, but I ignored my shaking hands and asked Owen, my oldest student, what he’d like to sing next. He chose “This Little Light of Mine” because we added the shaker instruments—his favorite activity—to the song. I passed those out—the extras I kept inside the locked closet down the hall, not in my room—as I took surreptitious breaths.

  Owen and Luka sang the lyrics with me, along with Sonia and Mae, twins who weren’t quite three. When they hit the right pitch, I grinned at them, gesturing with my hands for them to increase their volume. They bellowed the third verse, all on key.

  “Great job, everyone!” I said, clapping. The girls squealed and tackled me.

  “We did it! We thang the whole thong!” Sonia said. She bounced up and down while her sister squealed.

  “You did. I’m proud of you.”

  “Again!” Luka said.

  “All right,” I averred, not wanting a temper tantrum to mar Jake’s classroom experience. “But then we have to put away the shaky eggs.”

  Mae poked out her lower lip, a sure sign she wasn’t happy. Her mother, Jeanne, a woman in her early forties who’d taken off this year from her high-powered partner position in a prestigious law firm, said, “I bet if you ask Ryn, she’ll sing ‘Shenandoah’ while you put away your instruments.”

  My stomach twisted and fell, but I managed to smile. That song was difficult to sing, but I managed to get through our second rendition of “This Little Light of Mine” and “Ba Ba Black Sheep”—another child’s request before I had to sing the lullaby alone.

  I set the instrument basket in the middle of the floor and reopened the guitar case. I settled the strap around my neck, my gaze darting to Jake, who leaned back against the wall, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. I gulped as I strummed the chords. Closing my eyes, I focused on the first lyrics. The lullaby had long been one of my favorites, so I was comfortable with the sliding notes. I opened my eyes and smiled as I continued through the second verse, glad to see all the children were cuddled into their caregivers’ arms.

  I finished the song, letting my voice faded out. The kids sighed. Before I could stop myself, I glanced back up at Jake, whose eyes shone with appreciation.

  “You want to help with the last couple songs?” I asked.

  Jake’s smile widened as he walked around the circle to plop down next to me. “My favorite song is ‘Kookaburra,’” he said. “You know that one?” he turned towa
rd the children, who nodded. The adults were back to fidgeting and gawping.

  I plucked out the opening chords and let Jake start the song, adding a soft soprano harmony to his baritone. The kids stood and started to bounce to the tune while the women in the circle stared, eyes wide.

  We finished with a flourish and Jake wrapped my shoulders in a hug. “That was fun. Do we have time for another?”

  “Of course! If you name a kids’ song, I can play it. But, this is your brother’s guitar. Why don’t you play, and we’ll sing?” I tried to hand him the guitar but he shook his head.

  “Nope. If you know it, you’ll do it better justice for the nippers.” He smiled around the room, and the mom’s sighs were filled with longing.

  I strummed out the chords to “You are my Sunshine” and the kids popped back up. I smiled as the older boys made suns with their small arms, their palms barely touching over their heads. This time, all the kids and most of the moms joined in for a beautiful rendition.

  At Jake’s request, I played my lullaby before the “Goodbye Song,” knowing how much the kids needed the transitional reminder. Many of the babies were drowsy, their eyes drifting closed. Susan slid her daughter back into her sling and stood. “Remember your promise, Ryn,” she said, her face stern. Then she turned to Jake and smiled. “Thanks for the songs. This was awesome.”

  The other moms nodded. “I took a video,” Jeanne said, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. I’d never seen her look sheepish. “I wanted to show my husband that he’s wrong about the importance of music. And . . .” Her cheeks flamed. “To show my colleagues at work that mommy time can be exciting, too.”

  “Right-o,” Jake said, probably because he was about to be an uncle. “You show ’em how we rocked it today.”

  Jeanne’s smile widened, her pretty eyes brightening. “Thanks! I’ll send it to Ryn so she can post it and tag the other moms.”

  After they clamored for autographs, the room emptied.

  “Are you okay with that?” I asked them, rubbing my damp palms against my jeans-clad hips.

  “With our picture on your website or whatever?” Jake asked. “Reckon.” He shrugged. “Might be good for business, yeah?”

  Did he think I’d use him for publicity?

  Before I could ask, Jake said, “I’m impressed.”

  “Murphy wants to bring Mila next time. He said they’ve got to get their nipper into lessons soon as. If you ask him, he’ll want his face on your promotional materials, else he’ll get his feelings all crushed.”

  “I…” No more words came out of my mouth. What had happened to my life—and in less than a week?

  Jake rocked back on his heels. “You’re on lunch, right?”

  I nodded through my daze.

  “Then let’s take you out for some tucker.”

  10

  Jake

  Murphy texted me before I went into Ryn’s class, and after I told him I was meeting Ryn for lunch, he invited himself.

  I cringed through the entire hour and a half, thanks to Murphy’s stories about his and my antics growing up. Ryn chortled at many of my less-than-stellar moments, especially the time I caught a blue-ringed octopus in a sand bucket and begged my mother to keep it.

  “So, there’s Mum, trying to remain calm and explain to Jake that the octopus was poisonous, when he reached into the bucket to pet it. Mum slapped the bucket out of his hand better than any footy player stripping the ball.”

  Ryn picked up her napkin, dabbing her eyes and holding her belly.

  “Jake started screaming about his hand stinging and Mum thought the octopus bit him, so she’s calling for a lifeguard, sobbing her baby’s been bit.” Murphy picked up his seltzer water and sucked on the straw.

  “You love to tell this story, wanker.”

  Ryn scooted closer so she could lay her hand on my chest. “It’s pretty funny. But you weren’t stung, were you?”

  Murphy snorted. “They bite. And no, not even. He was whingeing from Mum’s slap. Once we figured that out, boy was golden.”

  Jake continued to look nonplussed. “Don’t know as to all that. Mum wouldn’t let me go to the beach until I pointed out every dangerous animal there and could recite their deadly facts. Morbid, if you ask me. And took me the rest of the summer. Didn’t get to go back till the following year.”

  “Served you well on your report in grade eight,” Murphy shot back. “But you were always studious. Followed the rules, this one.”

  “Would’ve rather been surfing,” Jake said with a shrug. “Just wasn’t one for making Mum upset.

  The two of them turned quiet, introspective. Whatever the reason, their love for their mother shone through on their faces and in the way they spoke of her.

  “What about you, Ryn?” Murphy asked, turning toward her. “You have any stories to share?”

  She shook her head, cheeks turning a pretty pink. “I was a quiet kid. I liked to play house.”

  Murphy leaned back against the booth, throwing his arm over the top. “Like Jake, then. He was quiet and baked with Mum. Me? I played doctor, not house.” His grin broadened. “Mila is a doctor, which makes my exams that much better.”

  Ryn’s blush intensified, and I wrapped my hand over the top of hers. “None of that, Murph. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you didn’t apologize properly—the only reason I let you tag along.”

  Murphy’s ears turned red and he played with one of his piercings. “Jake’s right. Don’t much like to say I’m wrong, but I was. I shouldn’t have assumed that because I like to perform, you would too. I put you in a bad spot.”

  She reached over, laying her hand atop of his where they were clasped on the table. “Thank you for that. Really.” She patted him twice. “Just…could you maybe remember to ask me first next time? I do better when I’m prepared.”

  Murphy shook his head, his dark hair and piercings adding a dangerous edge that covered his kind heart. Mila’s return to his life meant a reemergence of the thoughtful bloke I’d grown up with. I ticked off another day until their wedding—looking forward to Murphy tying the knot and settling in to his role as husband and father.

  He’d be much better at it than our father.

  I never planned to have kids. Not since I learned in one of my grade ten courses that poor parenting could be a genetic trait.

  No way a child of mine would ever be subjected to a bad influence and total jerk-off like my father had been.

  “I need to get back. Thanks for coming by today. Oh! I need to give you your guitar!”

  Murphy waved Ryn off. “No worries. Keep it. The bubs like it, and I have a few more.”

  “I couldn’t. It’s too much,” she gasped.

  Murphy placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “I hear you haven’t answered Jake about his project. Consider this a signing bonus.”

  Ryn’s eyes were wide as she glanced back and forth between us. I held still, breath baited for her reply.

  “I’ll speak to your brother about the album, but I’d feel better if—”

  Murphy’s phone rang, his newest—and best-selling—tune titled “Hold You Close.” He whipped it out along with his wallet. He dropped some bills on the table and slid out of the booth as he spoke into the phone.

  “All right, Mila. Just finishing up here with Jake and Ryn.” He stepped away from the table, ignoring everyone and everything as he strode toward the door where one of the bodyguards stood.

  “Did you have a guard with you the first day we met?” she asked me, gathering her purse.

  “Yep. Stood in the hallway outside, looking like hoodlums. Followed us to and from the restaurant, too. Alan helped me pull you back that day in the road. Can’t be too safe—as we know since the car and the guitar incidents.” I paused, eyes narrowed on her. “I’d like you to keep Isaac ’round. That’ll put a crimp in your sister-in-law’s threats.”

  I took her hand, pulling her from the booth.

  “No need. Ted wi
ll see to Sam. But thank you for the offer.”

  I held open the door, and we stepped out into a light Seattle drizzle as I debated whether or not to force the issue. I tugged up the hood of my North Face jacket and Ryn slid on her mittens.

  We hustled toward my car, and I opened Ryn’s door before hurrying to the driver’s side. I slid onto my seat and turned on the heaters.

  “Where’s Murphy?” she asked.

  “Went back with the guards.”

  She pulled off her mittens and tugged at imaginary lint caught on one of the fingertips.

  “Where’s your guard? Alan, right?”

  “Yep. Texted him I planned to drop you at work and to meet me back at the hotel.”

  “You and I don’t live in the same world.” She sighed, and I tensed. “Isaac’s nice and all, but it’s . . . weird, having someone following me around.”

  “You get used to it.” I said because I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Do you?”

  She was right. I hadn’t. Didn’t like the constant presence. Didn’t like that mobs of fans attacked us wherever we went.

  I scowled, wishing I’d met Ryn when I was just a bloke—a poor art student. Somehow, I knew that would have made her more open to me wooing her. My scowl deepened as I realized Ryn was married when I was in uni. Married and wanting babies. I bit back a curse. Murph might make a hella good dad, but that didn’t mean I would. Or should try.

  “Are you upset with me? That I won’t just sign on to your album?”

  I glanced over at her as I slowed for the stoplight, taking in her damp skin and the moisture clinging to her lashes. I loved looking at her. Her blond hair with shades from platinum to a rich honey—my favorite sweetener—shone even in the watery luster. Her light brown eyes glowed with sincerity.

  “No. I’d never be angry with you about that. Disappointed, sure. Heaps. But I’m not sure I could ever be angry with you.”

  “I-I want to. Work with you.” She dropped her gaze to her clasped hands. “I’ve never wanted something like this before. Before you strolled into my classroom, I’d say I was content with my lot. I love to teach.”