Facing the Music (5 page)

“Getting locked out of the cabin naked?”

Ivy frowned at her father. She was hoping her parents hadn’t heard about that little incident. “I was not naked. And I’m sorry about the window. I’ll get it fixed before I leave.”

Her dad looked at her in confusion. “What window?”

“Never mind,” she said dismissively.

“There was also the thing at the bar last night,” her mother noted.

“That was hardly a thing,” Ivy argued. Why did her parents have to know everything? Small towns. It was a wonder she’d managed to do anything as a teenager without them finding out. Her mother’s shop was closed today, which meant they’d heard about it at church. Perfect. “The thing with Blake was bound to happen, and it wasn’t that bad, considering. And the thing with Lydia . . .”

“You and Lydia are at it already?” her mother interrupted with a sigh. “I’d hoped you two had grown out of all that.”

“She started it!” Ivy argued, suddenly feeling fifteen again. “I was minding my own business and having a drink with Pepper. Lydia got in my face. So not my fault.”

“Sounds like the sixth-grade drama continues.”

“Sixth grade? What about all the grades after that? And for the record, Lydia is the one who decided we weren’t friends anymore. Suddenly, everything I did just seemed to bother her. And it still does, apparently.”

“Ivy,” her mother said, reaching out to cover Ivy’s hand with her own, “we all have our challenges and battles. But you are first and foremost a southern lady, and you need to act like it. You’ve only been home two days—we can’t have you in bar fights! People talk.”

“Why don’t they talk about how mean Lydia is?”

“You have to be the bigger person. Understand that she does all this because she’s jealous of you. She has been since you got that solo in the sixth-grade Christmas pageant.”

“What?” Ivy had never heard this.

“Her mother told me how broken up Lydia was about it. She’d been taking voice lessons and practiced for weeks. Then you tried out on a whim and got the part instead. She got her feelings hurt over it.”

“You’re telling me I went through six years of drama with Lydia because she decided I didn’t deserve to sing the verses of ‘It Came upon a Midnight Clear’ instead of her?”

“Apparently,” Sarah said with a sigh. “Things seem more dire at that age than they really are.”

“I don’t know, being labeled as white trash is pretty dire at any age.”

“You aren’t white trash!” her mother said, aghast.

Ivy chuckled. “Are you sure? She’s called me Thrift Shop since seventh grade.”

Sarah frowned. “Girls are so cruel to each other. Maybe I should call her mother.”

“Ugh, Mom. No. Just let me deal with her myself.”

“Okay,” Sarah agreed reluctantly. “Just try not to make a scene.”

Ivy didn’t answer, putting a bite of chicken in her mouth instead. She’d certainly try, but she wasn’t promising anything.

Blake was supposed to
have dinner with his family, but he made an excuse not to go. He wasn’t interested in sitting at the dining room table while the whole Chamberlain clan playfully ribbed him about Ivy’s return. Instead, he drove to the high school and left his cell phone in his truck.

Slinging his bag of footballs over his shoulder, he headed out to the field. It certainly didn’t look like the field he’d played on more than seven years ago. The tornado had not only leveled the gym but damaged the football stadium as well. Half the bleachers had been ripped from their anchors and left in a mangled ball of aluminum. One of the goalposts was found across the street in the used car lot.

The goalpost had been reset, and they had temporary collapsible bleachers set up for the season. The school could only seat about 60 percent of the fans it could normally accommodate, a problem that only compounded the school’s cash flow problems. In the South, high school football was a way of life. Hopefully the fund-raiser would earn the money needed to rebuild.

Today, neither the bleachers nor the goalposts were necessary. He was just out here to throw some footballs and blow off steam. He’d walked out of Woody’s last night angry and turned on, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Being ugly to Ivy wasn’t helping. Neither was thinking about her in that bikini. It was better that he walk away and stay away.

But that left him restless and irritable. His standby had always been running to relieve tension. He would run until his muscles burned and his lungs ached and whatever pissed him off was a distant memory. But he couldn’t run anymore.

Just one more thing he’d lost because of Ivy.

Logically, he knew that wasn’t entirely accurate, but it felt true. That song had put things in motion and before too long, his life had fallen apart. His senior season was ruined. His unstable record ruined his draft chances. He was drafted as a second-string quarterback by the Houston Texans—a team with no playoff chances and a weak offensive line. When the starting quarterback got hurt, Blake finally got a chance to play. Things started looking up; his team started winning. It was his chance to shine and make up for what he’d lost. Then the offensive line failed to protect him and his career was over in a flash.

Perhaps
crunch
was a better word. He had a shattered knee and fractures in his tibia, fibula, and femur. That earned him a shiny new artificial knee, twenty-three screws, and two titanium rods in his leg. No amount of physical therapy would allow him to play again. Or run again. At least not at the level of a professional athlete. The dream he’d had since peewee football was over.

Football was a dangerous sport, and he knew that going in. He hadn’t expected to play forever. But he certainly didn’t think he’d be permanently benched at twenty-four.

Blake dropped the bag onto the grass and pulled out the first ball. He stretched his arms, rotating his shoulder to loosen up, and then picked a target in the distance. He stepped back and fired the ball like a missile, hitting his target with unerring accuracy.

“Nice throw.”

Blake spun around, stepping awkwardly on his bad leg and groaning as a spike of pain shot up his thigh. He clutched it, massaging it until the worst of the pain subsided. “Dammit, Grant. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry. Are you okay?”

Blake gritted his teeth together and nodded. If there was one thing he hated more than the pain, it was people coddling him about it. He’d gone through months of people looking at him with pity in their eyes. Poor Blake, losing his dream. Poor Blake, limping like that. Like he wasn’t already struggling to find a new purpose in his life without other people reminding him how far it had gone off course.

“Why are you here?”

“Missed you at the house. Mom said that you had a ‘prior commitment.’ When I called and you didn’t answer, I figured that meant you were either fishing or out here throwing footballs again.”

“I’ve been busy and haven’t gotten to throw much lately. And,” he added reluctantly, “I didn’t feel like listening to everyone’s opinion about Ivy and what happened last night.”

“Actually, we didn’t even mention her name. I know it might seem like a big deal to have her back in town, but she’s only here for two weeks. Make it through that, and then everything will go back to normal.”

Normal? Blake had been back in Rosewood for nearly a year and a half, and he still didn’t know what that meant anymore. “Yep. I’ll just stay away from her and everything will be fine.”

He said the words, but even as they left his lips, he knew it wasn’t true. Instead, he bent down, picked up another football, and changed the subject. “Go long.”

Grant smiled and took off running. Blake waited until just the right moment and passed the ball down the field. His brother turned and reached for it, but botched the pass. Grant fell backward into the grass as the ball fell to the ground.

Blake tried not to be jealous as Grant popped up and ran back the way he used to be able to. “Try me again. I’ll get it this time.”

“You’re too tense and worried about catching it,” Blake noted. “Shake it out. When you turn, keep your eye on the ball and let it come to you. Just reach for it and pull it into your chest.”

Grant nodded and set off downfield again. This time, Blake’s throw hit his target. “That was a great suggestion,” he said as he jogged back. “You’ve really got a gift.”

Blake scoffed. “Throwing a ball? Yeah. People tell me I could be a quarterback in the NFL.”

“No, dammit. I mean your leadership skills. Being a quarterback is more than just throwing a ball. You steer the team. You watch and help your fellow players become better. That’s as important as throwing a ball.”

“At least I have something.”

Grant frowned at him and tossed the football back. “Seriously, stop making light of this. I know you think that playing football is all you’re good at, but you’ve got more than that. You need to make the most of it. Not begrudgingly. Not as a last resort. Maybe it was fate that your knee got blown out.”

“Did you really just say that to me? Do you tell people after their house burns down that it was fate?”

“Of course not. But life doesn’t always work out the way you plan. Coming home to Rosewood and coaching the football team wasn’t what you had in mind. But did you ever think that you might be right where you’re meant to be? Maybe you’re meant to use your skills to help kids and train the next great football player. You can live out your dream that way.”

Blake swallowed hard. He was trying. He’d taken the job at Rosewood High, thankful he could fall back on his secondary education degree. He enjoyed coaching the kids. Was it the same as the roar of an NFL stadium? No. But at least he was able to put his knowledge and training to good use. He wasn’t ready to get all Zen about his situation, but he was working on it. Bloom where you’re planted and all that. Contentment wouldn’t just happen overnight.

“Okay, okay, all right. Point taken. Now go long and cut right.”

Chapter Five

It was a
relatively quiet day in Hollywood.

And Nash Russell needed a story. His favorite gossip subjects had scattered. Some went to rehab, others to foreign film sets. A few had taken vacations or just disappeared entirely. It was the kind of day that forced him to write about a Kardashian or some singer’s new haircut.

He hated those days. Nash might not be up for a Pulitzer anytime soon, but he did like to tell a juicy story, not just shove celebrity nonsense down readers’ throats.

No one had gotten into a fight at a club, been seen making out with someone other than their spouse, or gotten pulled over for a DUI and played the “Do you know who I am?” card. Not even a single naked photograph of a former child star had surfaced lately. He was going to have to do a story on some celebrity kid going shopping with their nanny. That wasn’t the kind of tongue-wagging tale he liked to tell. He wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill paparazzo. He was a celebrity journalist. Though he wasn’t sure that distinction meant anything to anyone but him.

Sitting back in his chair, he stroked his graying blond goatee thoughtfully. He needed . . . he needed Ivy Hudson to come out of hiding. That girl had been Nash’s go-to since the day she burst onto the music scene and put her ex in his place. He got a kick out of uncovering who her songs were about. Breaking that first story about Blake Chamberlain had been the highlight of his career.

When confronted about Blake being the subject of her number one song, Ivy had smiled coquettishly and said, “No comment.” That’s why Nash loved her. She would stab a guy in the back with a song, then go on television looking all innocent and sweet. And romantic exploits aside, he always felt like there was more to Ivy’s story than anyone knew. If he dug deep enough, he had a feeling he would hit the tabloid mother lode.

The last few weeks the blogs had been buzzing with the Ivy Hudson–Sterling Marshall story. Once again, Nash was the first to figure out who the song was about, and he’d turned it into a scandalous headline. That was the news he lived for, but even that had fizzled out. Ivy was MIA. Sterling was in his third stint of private, and very expensive, rehab, but Nash had been paid more to keep quiet about it than he’d ever make reporting it.

Nash was happy to take the money and ignore Sterling Marshall. He’d rather focus on Ivy. Nash had made a career on her love life. Perhaps she’d found a new guy. Was there anyone stupid enough to still date Ivy Hudson? You were guaranteed to have a song written about you. And not a flattering one. But like clockwork, Ivy would be seen out and about with someone new. Nash supposed it was because she was hot. He was the first to admit that. It might be worth the embarrassment to get his hands on those curves of hers.

But right now, he’d just be happy with tracking her down. She hadn’t been spotted at her Malibu mansion or her New York apartment for several days. Ivy hadn’t made any appearances on television or granted any interviews. His unnamed source who helped him keep tabs on Ivy said she hadn’t even used her credit cards. The girl was underground. He’d called her managing agency and they’d confirmed that Ivy wasn’t scheduled for another appearance until that Rosewood charity gig in two weeks.

Nash couldn’t take the radio silence. Where the hell was this
Rosewood
, anyway? An Internet search brought up a map of Alabama. It took a few minutes, but he finally found the tiny pinpoint just northeast of Birmingham. It had slightly more than eight thousand residents. There was one high school and no Walmart for twenty miles.

Nash frowned. Had Ivy really come from a town like this? It was pretty hard to believe. Maybe that was the angle he needed for a story. If Ivy had secrets to uncover, her hometown was the best place to start. He was planning on going to Rosewood to cover the concert anyway. Maybe he could go early and dig up a little about Ivy’s life before she became the media darling. This tiny town could be a treasure trove.

Nash started searching for flights and rental cars in Birmingham. “Brace yourselves, Rosewood, ’cause here I come . . .”

“I never meant to
hurt you.” Blake’s blue eyes were pleading with her. Begging her to forgive him. “I know I did and I’m sorry. But I still love you.”

He reached for her, his palm caressing her cheek. Ivy closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. She’d missed it so much. Blake gently stroked her skin, teasing at the soft line of her jaw and the sensitive hollow behind her ear. His touch was magical, stirring the desire for him that she’d long kept buried. The pad of his thumb brushed across her bottom lip, leaving it tingling and aching to be kissed.

Ivy looked up at him. Pinning him with her gaze, she took his hand in hers and brought it to her mouth, pressing a kiss into his palm. She moved the hand down to her chest, placing it over her heart. The rapid beating vibrated against her rib cage. “I still love you, too.”

Then she shifted his hand to cup her breast.

A ragged breath escaped from Blake’s lips. “You don’t know how long . . .” His voice faded, his fingers gently stroking her sensitive flesh. “Ivy, I need you so badly.”

“Then have me,” she whispered. And she meant it. She couldn’t hold back how she felt any longer.

Blake lowered his lips to hers, but stopped just short of touching her. “I need to tell you something first.”

Ivy frowned. “What is it?”

Blake opened his mouth, but instead of words, an annoying, high-pitched melody came out. It was a rhythmic sound. And it grew louder with every second.

Ivy opened her eyes and looked up at the cabin ceiling. Morning light was streaming through the windows, casting sunbeams across the bed. The bed she was very alone in. And yet the sound continued.

Turning her head, she saw her cell phone on the bedside table. The alarm she’d set was going off.

She brought her hands to her face, rubbing it in an attempt to scrub the heated dream from her brain. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She was dreaming about Blake now. First she’d caught herself ogling him, and now she was having sexy dreams about him. It was only Monday. It was only her third day back in Rosewood and she had completely lost touch.

Time to get up. Today was the fund-raiser kickoff. Ivy was avoiding going into town and potentially running into Blake again. Dreading it, really. But she didn’t have a choice.

A team of citizens had been planning and making arrangements for weeks, but today was the first time they were getting all the players together, going over the schedule and specifics, and Ivy would finally find out what Kevin had signed her up for.

He’d been incredibly vague on the details. There was a concert, of course, but for all she knew, Kevin had signed her up to headline the dunk tank at the high school carnival. She was sure half the town would put down ten bucks each to take their aggressions out on her. Blake would easily put down a hundred, or maybe even a thousand. He’d made good money with the NFL, even if for only a short time. The new gym would be paid for in no time.

Flinging back the blankets, she headed for the bathroom and turned on the shower. A cooler one than usual, she decided. She obviously needed her libido dunked in an ice bath.

She moved quickly through her morning routine and got dressed. Even though she was going into town today, she still opted for her casual, incognito look. Being Ivy Hudson, Rock Star, required a crew of trained, skilled aestheticians, and she wasn’t about to call Pepper back over to glam her up. Being Ivy Grace was a little less labor intensive, and she’d prefer to keep a low profile in town, anyway. She’d never been a particularly girly girl, so Ivy was good to put her hair in a ponytail and dab on some lip gloss. That, with some sunglasses, should be enough for a town hall meeting.

Slipping into her sandals, Ivy grabbed her purse
and her keys
this time, and headed to the car. Her email from Kevin said they were meeting at 10 a.m. at the old Junior Chamber building that lined the south side of the park. When she arrived, there were more than a few cars and trucks in the parking lot. She pulled into an empty space and made her way into the old brick building.

When she was younger, the Jaycees building, as they called it, was where a lot of the town events took place. Aside from the high school, there weren’t a lot of spaces in town that could host big occasions like the Thanksgiving social indoors. Being adjacent to the park, it was also the site of Easter and Fourth of July community picnics, so the organizers could set up the food inside or move quickly if the weather turned on them.

“Look who decided to show her face in town again!”

She turned around and found that Pepper had come in the door behind her. “Hey, Pepper,” Ivy said, slipping off her sunglasses. “Are you still mad at me for bailing on the bar scene?”

“Absolutely,” Pepper said with a smile. “We’d better hurry, though, or we’ll be late.”

“You’re on the fund-raiser committee?”

“I am. I lobbied hard to get you back here, you know. You may not thank me now, but you will,” she said with a smile, swinging her bright red curls over her shoulder. “We’ve got a lot of fun things planned.”

Ivy had to laugh. She hoped so. “Do you know where we’re meeting?”

“Yeah, we’re probably in the War Room.”

“The what?”

“Back here.” Pepper gestured and Ivy followed her down a hallway to the Jaycees offices, where she had never been allowed to go before. “We’re all set up in the conference room. The committee pretty much commandeered the space with all the event planning. The next two weeks are going to be great.”

“Great,” Ivy repeated, hoping to gather as much enthusiasm as Pepper had. She was being hit with a little small-town stage fright. The committee was likely made up of town politicians, busybodies, and control freaks—a very different crowd from the folks that hung out at Woody’s. The younger Rosewood generation laughed off the song about Blake, giving him a good ribbing every now and then. She hadn’t seen any of these people in years and had no clue how they were going to react to her. Odds were that this would be the crowd that disapproved of her choices. They were the ones who might see her as abandoning her roots for ill-gained fame.

Pepper opened the door and Ivy had no choice but to take a deep breath and follow her into the crowd. There were at least fifteen people in the room. A quick scan confirmed that she recognized all of them, and every single one stopped talking the moment they saw her. The long, awkward silence continued as more than a dozen sets of eyes looked over her with varied expressions.

“Miss Ivy!” a man’s voice shouted, interrupting the awkward silence. It was Mayor Otto Gallagher. He had been the mayor of Rosewood for her entire life. The loud, boisterous man was probably in his seventies by now, but there was no slowing him down.

He rushed over to her in his gray linen suit. There was more belly and less hair than she remembered, but it was the same old Mayor Gallagher. He gave her a firm handshake, his cheeks slightly reddening as he got closer to her.

That last album cover with the corset and garter belt probably had something to do with it. No matter how much she fought to be a genuine singer-songwriter known for her music and not her body, her stylists were always pushing her to be sexier.

“Mayor Gallagher,” she said with a smile. “So good to see you again.”

“We’re so thrilled to have you back in town to help with our fund-raiser. You wouldn’t believe how expensive it is to build a gym or a stadium these days. Insurance covers some of the expenses for the building itself, but not much of what was inside. And since we’re rebuilding, we wanted to do some updates. The student body has grown so much since the school was built in the fifties; we need bigger locker rooms and better equipment. Since no one was injured in the twister, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.”

“It was a blessing because it brought Ivy home.” A middle-aged woman pushed through the crowd and Ivy immediately recognized her favorite history teacher, Mrs. Everett.

She came up to Ivy with her arms spread wide. Oh Lord, she was going to hug her. Ivy braced herself, trying not to be too stiff. She’d been gone for so long that she’d forgotten how touchy-feely people were in the South. They loved a good hug. New York? Not so much. LA? How about a fist-bump followed by some hand sanitizer?

As a celebrity, she was even further removed. Fans would ask for hugs or pictures, but at most events, security didn’t allow it. There would be no buffer here. She needed to prepare herself for the onslaught, because she had no doubt every person in this town would hug her before she boarded a plane home.

“Mrs. Everett,” Ivy said, taking a step back to reclaim her personal space. “How are you?”

“You’re not in school anymore, Ivy. You can call me Gloria. I’m the principal at Rosewood High these days. No more history lectures for me.”

Mrs. Everett—er, Gloria—was always good to all her students, and Ivy was certain she’d make an excellent principal. “That’s a loss for history,” Ivy said. “I learned more from you about the Middle Ages and the Black Plague than anyone else.”