The Hermit Next Door Page 9

  “You betcha.”

  “Ok now really. Tell me about this. How did you learn to play like that?”

  “School, College. I was quite good.”

  “You still are, I think.”

  “Haven’t played in a long time.”

  “Why? That seems crazy.”

  “Long story.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. I got time.”

  “I’m not really in the mood to tell you my life story.”

  “Mmmm. Ok,” she said, not pressing him, as if she understood why he might want to keep some things to himself. “Play something else for me?”

  “Only if you’ll sing.”

  “Noooo. I want to hear you.”

  He made a deal of putting the guitar down and she conceded.

  “Ok, ok. Play something, I’ll sing.”

  Jack made out a riff from a song—recognising the melody, she did her best to sing it, despite several of the words escaping her. He listened as she improvised, choosing different words to fit the song when she couldn’t remember the actual ones.

  Hearing her sing this particular song was difficult. The memory of the melody combined with her voice dazed him and he couldn’t recognise himself—he was free-falling. Her hair fell over her shoulder and the light of the lamp behind her filtered through, giving her a warm softness that he couldn’t steel his eyes away from.

  As she sang the tag of the song, she stopped before the final words, leaving them hanging in the air. He continued to hold a suspended chord while she looked deep into his face, giving him a half-smile and raising one eyebrow in question. Had she forgotten the last line? Without a thought he played the resolution chord on the guitar and sang the final words himself—for you—only he underestimated the height of the note and missed it completely, his voice sounding shaky and ridiculously out of tune. He tried again, higher—for you— missing again, and so then settled on placing the note as low as his voice would go—for you. With a flourish he strummed an ending, but it was too late. He had butchered the song and Willa hooted with merriment. He found himself wanting to prolong the delight that had washed across her face and he attempted the ending again—for you— only this time with more flair and drama. He was a terrible singer and was unafraid to use it. She was laughing beyond control, tears streaming down her face and he found himself watching her, a burst of something deep within warming itself like it was feeling sunshine for the first time.

  She met his gaze and they smiled for each other, a warm and gratifying moment that spread right through him.

  “I don’t sing well,” he said, finally.

  “Mmm. You don’t sing…enough. You should sing more often,” she answered, losing herself again to the tears and uncontrollable laughter.

  He watched, enchanted by her, and then spoke without thinking, “I could lose an entire night just looking at you.”

  Her abrupt silence shattered him. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Abort. What had he just said?

  “Are you hitting on me?” she asked, accusingly.

  He was truly mortified. “No.” This was not what he had intended. He shook his head, determinedly.

  “Don’t tell me you like looking at me.” She gave him a look that could wither grass.

  He felt sick with regret. “I said listening, not looking,” he said, searching back in his mind. Listening was what he had meant to say. “I could spend an entire night listening to you.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she said, stood her guitar in its place and backed away. “I’m going.”

  “What you do best.”

  “What?”

  “Leave. Run away. When something scares poor Willa. That’s what you do.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Tell me. What are hiding from? What scares you? I want to know.”

  “Why would I ever tell you? You are manipulative and untrustworthy. I wouldn’t tell you if I was on my death bed.”

  He lowered his eyes for a moment, not wanting her to see the hurt her words had caused. “Don’t push me away, Willa. I can’t bear it.” He hadn’t meant it to sound desperate. But it sounded desperate.

  Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh my God, leave me alone.”

  She stormed out the room, leaving him deflated and totally stunned at his own reaction.

  It was time to admit it. She was bewitching him. And he was falling in love with her.

  Chapter 13

  Over the next few days, Willa was grateful for Jack’s ‘business as usual’ approach to their task. Neither felt comfortable mentioning the confrontation and Willa was keen to forget it ever happened. She was finding it difficult to understand why she would react in such a dramatic way, and though she was more than a little ashamed of her behaviour, she didn’t find the words or opportunity to mention it. So it was swept away, and they focused their attention to finishing the recordings.

  Jack had outlined a timetable for the remaining four days, complete with a number of hours off in the middle of the day to recharge and enjoy the sunshine that was refusing to diminish into winter. She was finding a gentle balance between the work and the down time, and was grateful for his understanding. Having overheard the disgruntled Phil bellyaching over the amount of breaks she was getting, she knew she was lucky to have Jack on her side, although she would be loath to admit it.

  When Willa found herself alone with Jack, they kept the conversations well clear of personal things and stuck to current events, the music and what they would cook for dinner. Willa was determined not to let herself rely on or owe Jack anything because she couldn’t trust it wouldn’t disappear when he had what he needed. So she sat in limbo, staying safe, a circle of self-sufficiency that she would fight to protect.

  When she woke to the sounds of a guitar drifting into the room in the night again, she willed herself to stay in bed. Although she couldn’t see the moon from her window, she guessed it was full by the way it lit up the trees and by the shafts of light filtering through the window. She had been dreaming and the only way to shake the disturbing images was to find something to occupy her mind. Falling asleep would risk a recurrence of the dream so she willed herself to stay awake. She sat on the edge of the bed, going back and forth in her mind, wondering if it was a sensible decision to join Jack in the lounge and risk a repeat of the other night. Convincing herself it was a one off event, she pulled a blanket around her shoulders and made her way to the couch, sitting down silently beside him as he continued to play a mournful, lilting melody that felt like a soundtrack to her thoughts.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked once he had finished.

  “Bad dream,” she answered.

  “Really?” he said placing the instrument beside him. “Well this is your lucky night. I’m exceptionally good at deciphering dreams.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Tell me,” he prompted with his hands, facing her on the seat.

  “Ok, but it’s pretty horrible.”

  “Brilliant. Horrible is my specialty.”

  “Mmmm. Yes, that I can believe.”

  “Stop stalling before you forget what it was. Tell me your dream.”

  She took a deep breath and began. “There was a serial killer who sought out children that sang, and then killed them.” Her eyes were wide and serious as she spoke.

  “Oh dear! What about the children who played the saxophone?”

  “No,” she answered, puzzled. “Just the children who sang?”

  “Oh okay. It’s just that I could understand killing the saxophone playing children,” he said with a smirk.

  “What? Are you helping me with this or not?”

  “Sorry, go on.” He said, holding his hands together under his lips, feigning complete concentration.

  “It was horrible, Jack. I was running around desperately trying to find all the children, warning them not to sing in case the serial killer found them.”

  “I see,” he said, rubbing his chin, like
a college professor.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “It’s actually a metaphor. You are the child, or children, and I am the serial killer. Do you see? You’re scared I’m going to kill you. No, hang on. You’re scared of being hurt…by me…by getting involved with me.” Jack looked up and quickly clarified, “And when I say involved with me, I mean musically, obviously.”

  She took a moment to think about it. It was actually quite astute of him. And having his interpretation instantly helped to ease her distress about the dream.

  He had comforted her. And the idea of this was just a little bit shocking.

  In an effort to distract him from reading her thoughts, she passed the guitar and said, “Play me something else.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he said. “About the dream?” He smiled broadly and with a hint of mockery said, “You’re welcome.” He then placed the guitar beneath his arm and began playing another tune.

  Willa relaxed into the couch, feeling a release of tension that had been fixed around them for the past few days. It was nice to be back to the way they were. The feeling prompted her to speak without thinking. “I’m sorry about the other night. I over-reacted.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, over the sounds of his playing.

  Apologising was almost a foreign concept to her, and she was surprised how easy it had been, and how good it had made her feel. She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her.

  “Willa, we need to discuss promotion,” said Phil, putting down his fork and facing her across the table.

  She flicked a nervous glance at Jack who suddenly stood and began clearing the table. “What promotion?”

  “For the album,” he replied, his voice rising as if he thought this was obvious. “We need photos, footage for the film clips, interviews—”

  “I’m not doing any of that, Phil. Has Jack not told you? We had an agreement. Just the recording, nothing else.”

  They both rested their expressions of concern on Jack simultaneously, and he slowly put down the dishes he had been using as a distraction and sat down beside them at the table.

  “It’s true, Phil.” Jack said.

  Willa gave him a smile of gratitude. She was glad to not have to fight this battle alone.

  “But that’s insane, Jack.”

  “Sure, it’s unusual.”

  “You’ve gone mad. The board won’t allow it.”

  Willa cast worried eyes on the men, aware for the first time that perhaps Jack wasn’t running the show entirely. Maybe his word wasn’t solid enough. She would disappear right now if they made her do it.

  “What if we turn it around and use it to our advantage. Let’s feed the mystery. Keep her image secret, her story. Why not work the recluse angle—play hard to get with the media.”

  Phil hesitated a moment, rolling the idea around in his head. “Nah. It’s just so much easier to do it the conventional way. Willa, I’m sorry Jack has made promises he can’t keep. There’s just no other way, you have to do it.”

  “What kind of hermit would I be if I allowed you to splash my image over everything?”

  “I thought you preferred recluse?” said Jack.

  “There’s no other way,” said Phil, ignoring Jack’s lightness.

  Willa gently shook her head no, and looked at Phil from under her eyebrows, “No Phil. Get yourself a look-a-like, or make up a whole other person. My image will not be used. That’s it. If you don’t like it, I’ll withdraw my permission to use the recordings.”

  Phil gave Jack a look of pure astonishment. Jack just gave him a half smile with a look that said, I told you so. He then picked up their plates and headed back to the sink quietly humming a tune. Willa was convinced he had won some kind of unspoken bet. It annoyed her that he found her so predictable. Or was it she found it annoying that he knew her so well?

  Either way, she left the table, an uncertain feeling in the pit of her stomach made her uncomfortable. She didn’t really think that would be the end of it. It seemed every option she had, ended with her getting the exposure she so desperately tried to avoid. If she had to agree to the recordings, at least it was only her voice that people would hear. But the more publicity this album received, the more danger she would be in of having someone recognise her. And the thought of having the world condemn her for that one act, paled into significance next to Daniel finding out who she was.

  She would protect her privacy at all costs. It was the only way.

  With the recording finished, and Phil on his way to catch a plane back to LA to finish mastering the album, Jack and Willa felt the relief of having made the deadline and took their time preparing to leave.

  “Do you think the paparazzi will still be there?” Willa called out to Jack as she stripped her bed of its sheets.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should call your brother?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” she answered with a sigh. The thought of moving back was making her head ache. The media combined with her brother’s volatile nature was a recipe for anxiety. If only there was someplace else to go. “When do I get my cheque?”

  “I’ll write it before I leave.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “As soon as I’ve dropped you at your brother’s house.”

  “Oh.” How was it possible that the joy of receiving a cheque the size of a house could be somehow diminished because she had to say goodbye to the man that caused all the agony in the first place? If only she could understand it.

  Jack appeared in the doorway, and she was suddenly self-conscience. Why was he watching her? She stood up straight and stared back at him in an act of defiance.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing. I just came to see if you were ready to go?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” She grabbed her bag and he took it from her, following her out to the car.

  “I have something I want to show you on the way home. But we have to leave now, to make the appointment.”

  “Fascinating. What is it?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “Patience, my lovely.”

  She turned and watched the scenery pass out the window of the car, not wanting to fully acknowledge how good it felt to be spoken to in such a way.

  They had only been travelling a short time before he pulled over into a gated driveway, fenced much like the Farnham property had been. The winding drive led them to a wooden, federation style house, resting on a small rise, overlooking the banks of the Goulburn River. “What is this place?”

  “It’s for sale.”

  “Really?” Willa made her way up the winding path to a white edged veranda covered home. The style was old, one hundred years or more, but the painted walls and roof looked brand new with its bay windows and turrets that gave an impression of grandness. The agent stood waiting at the entrance, but Willa turned around at the veranda and sat on the arm chair that looked out over the valley below. The river wasn’t far—maybe only a stone’s throw. She could vaguely hear it, but she could certainly smell it. That fresh, damp, cool feeling that generally indicated water was close by. She knew it well.

  “Would you like to come inside?” Asked the agent, still holding open the door.

  “No, thank you. Maybe later.” Willa just wanted to sit a moment, to drink in the century old deciduous trees that sprawled out before her, to hear the wind rustle through the blanket of brown leaves now lying beneath them. She knew those mighty trees would be an awning of living shade in the summer time.

  She didn’t really care about the house. Of course it would be lovely. But she wouldn’t spend much of her time in it. This is where she could spend her time. Under the trees. A mob of kangaroos, as if organised by the agent, smoothly bounced across the front lawn in a display of serenity.

  “I know it’s not the ocean,” Jack said quietly, “but there’s a small beach of sand right on the riverbank. What do you think?”

&nb
sp; “Show me the river?” Willa jumped from her seat and grabbed his hand instinctively to drag him with her, and then, feeling suddenly awkward, dropped it quickly. Her hand felt the memory of his fingers, long after she had let go. As they followed the path down the easy decline, Jack commentated. “The property encompasses twenty acres of bushland, much of it river frontage. It’s completely fenced and isolated from the outside world and belongs to a Formula One race car driver who needs to sell in a hurry.”

  Willa whispered. “It’s perfect.” She wanted it desperately. “Can I afford it?”

  “Yes.”

  When she thought her smile couldn’t get any wider, he took her hand and led her along the bank of the river to a bend where large, flat rocks jutted out into the water, much like the spot she used to bathe at her old place near Mapleton. He was regarding her, as if he knew this, and she had to look away to stop herself from blushing. The trickle of water falling through the divided stream sent ripples of calmness through her, and in a moment of sheer pleasure, she stood on her tip toes and moved in to kiss him on the cheek. Only, he anticipated her action and purposely turned his head at the last moment, causing her lips to fall directly onto his.

  She sprang back, surprised and uncertain, astonished at the rush of heat that passed over her at the touch of his lips. He watched her, looking unwaveringly into her face, his mouth in a line, his eyes dark and tormented. Time stood silent as her chest pounded with a force and intensity she couldn’t remember experiencing before. She was convinced her heart was going to implode—it just wasn’t natural for it to be beating so fast. Surely this was a heart attack.

  The sound of the real estate approaching ended the staring deadlock as suddenly as it had begun. She stepped away, knowing her cheeks were flushing with heat.

  “I’ve got to head off, but you are welcome to stay as long as you need. Do you have any questions before I go?”

  Jack failed to respond.

  “Any…questions…?”

  Jack remained silent and still, like he was listening for something far away.

  “Was there anything else…Jack…Mr Gilmore…excuse me?”