“I can do that,” she said with a small smile. “What will you wear?”
“A suit with a matching red tie.”
“You planned that far ahead?”
“Fiona, everything I do has a reason, including being a dick to you when we met. You pissed me off with your lack of respect and how fucking beautiful you were while doing it.”
“You were mad at me for being pretty?” Her hands stilled and her back straightened.
“Not exactly. I was madder at myself for wanting someone I had no business wanting.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” she admitted, nodding her head.
“If we’re being honest with each other, tell me why you stole Feather’s guitar?”
She breathed out heavily. “This is the only time I’ll be vulnerable around you, got it? After this, I’m going back to my normal cutthroat attitude.”
“Deal,” I agreed.
“The reason we came to Cupid’s Cove was for Feather’s guitar.”
“I gathered that much, but why not ask to buy it?” Not that I would have sold it to her, but I was curious to hear her reason.
“I recently found out my birth mother had died without me ever getting the chance to know her. I felt like a shit daughter for letting my adoptive mother keep me from finding my bio mom. I’d always assumed I was given up for adoption because my mom was a crack fiend or something. Imagine my surprise when I found out my mom was a love child of Feather’s. I didn’t know her history, but I did find enough out to know that wasn’t the case—her being a drug addict that is.”
“Shit. That would make you Feather’s biological granddaughter?”
“In the flesh,” she said with a sigh. “Not that it does me any good to have the information now, though. They’re both dead.”
“So that’s why you took it? You felt like you had a right to it?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess partly, but really, I wanted a piece of my mom, and why would you miss one guitar when you had plenty?”
“Because, my broken beauty, the words inside don’t belong to Feather as most of the world’s population believe they do.”
“They don’t?”
“Well, it depends on legality. Yes, he sang them and made them famous, but I wrote them.”
“He stole your lyrics?” she questioned in an uneven tone. “Is this some kind of trick to make me feel sorry for you?”
“Fiona, I am being transparent with you right now. You opened up to me, so I’m doing the same. I’ll always extend that to you as long as you do the same for me.” I swallowed, realizing how serious our conversation had gotten. “No, Feather was a good man. I wrote a lot of the songs you hear on the radio today, only my voice didn’t bring them fame. I was paid well for all of them, so it was well worth it, but that’s the reason I wanted theguitar. Angel was the only one in his family who cared about the guitar.”
“I always assumed those lyrics were written from a dad to his daughter.”
“Not at all. I wrote them about my grandmother named Angel. It was pure coincidence that Feather’s nickname for his daughter was the same.”
“That’s insane. So, all of this, why are you here when you could be in a cushy mansion writing songs and drinking expensive wine?”
“I prefer whiskey, and I haven’t written anything in over a decade.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t found the inspiration I was searching for,” I admitted, knowing as soon as the words left my mouth that was no longer true. Fiona was the muse I’d needed all along.
“Do you plan to live here for the rest of your life, avoiding the theme that reeks from this town? Love. What will you do when I go back to Louisiana? Find someone else to replace me and have fake a relationship with her?”
“Fiona, I haven’t gone on a single date in that time period either. My life was stagnant, and I was fed up with everything in it, myself included. But I don’t know if I’ll live here next year, much less the rest of my life. However, I can assure you of one thing.”