Griffin hadn’t known where to turn after Christina’s devastating announcement that they needed time apart. So after several hours of driving around the city, he’d looked into that article on his father’s death. No one had contacted him, but then who would? He had no family that would’ve made the connection between them. They had different last names. Griffin had legally taken his mom’s maiden name when he’d turned eighteen. He hadn’t wanted any ties to the man who’d floated in and out of his life, sticking around just long enough to get his mom’s hopes up for a reunion (though they’d divorced when Griffin was two) and then leaving again. Griffin had grown up poor, one of the reasons he’d been so driven to make the big time, which made buying his mom a house all that much sweeter. His dad had never sent alimony or child support (said he didn’t have the funds), and it had been tough to get by as a kid on his mom’s paycheck as a secretary. For all of these reasons, he and his dad hadn’t been close. He could never really hate him, though, because his dad had given him the most important thing in his life—music.
When he’d found out the funeral was planned only three days away in Greenport, Connecticut, he’d booked a hotel suite and headed out. He told himself he just wanted to get out of New York because everything reminded him of the woman he loved. But by the time he reached Greenport, he realized it was more than that. He wanted to say goodbye to his dad.
After a weekend holed up at the hotel, drinking too much whiskey and cursing his miserable self for screwing up so royally in his past that Christina wouldn’t risk a future with him, Griffin showed up Monday afternoon for the funeral. The funeral home, a historic-looking stone house was nestled in the woods away from the main section of town. A peaceful resting spot, he thought as he stepped inside. There were only a handful of people milling about. He’d worn a black suit with his aviator sunglasses and a black cap pulled low over his eyes, not wanting to draw attention to himself as Griffin the rock star. He spotted a sign with his dad’s name by the entrance of a room in the back and headed over. About a dozen people sat scattered through several rows of chairs, facing an open casket at the front.
He stood in the back, waiting. When it seemed everyone who was going to visit the casket had, he went up to say his goodbye. He looked down at the man he resembled so much in looks. His dad’s black hair was long and shot through with gray, deep lines had formed around his eyes and mouth, but otherwise he looked the same. It was like seeing himself in twenty-five years. A bone-deep sadness filled him. Not in mourning his dad’s passing, only in regret. Because if his dad had been any kind of father, they could’ve been close, and now it was too late. Maybe they could’ve toured together or at least jammed together. But his dad was too selfish for that and only cared about himself and where his next gig was. It was time to close this chapter in his life. Griffin vowed right then and there that, given the chance, he would not continue his father’s legacy. He would be involved with his kids, share his passion for music with them, spend time with them, no matter the personal sacrifice to his career to do right by them. Because if he didn’t, he could end up just like this. With a son who couldn’t even work up a single tear, only sadness over what might’ve been.
He pulled a green plastic guitar pick from his pocket and set it in the casket. It was the first guitar pick his dad had given him along with his first guitar when he was five years old. He’d kept it with him over the years and now he was done. He felt oddly numb considering how most stuff hit him bone deep. It was hard to feel much for a man he didn’t really know beyond a handful of memories and a guitar pick.
He turned and walked straight out of the funeral home to the chill of a winter day, the sun poking out from behind the light gray clouds.
“Hey, wait up!” a feminine voice called.
He stilled, working on slapping on a polite smile for what was most likely a fan. He turned. “Yes?”
The young woman with black hair streaked with purple wore a long black coat open over a black dress, small silver hoop earrings along both ears. Punk rock meets hipster. She rushed to his side and frowned. “Why did you put a guitar pick in my dad’s casket?”
He jolted. Her dad? He pulled off his sunglasses, sticking them inside his jacket pocket, and studied her face. Her eyes were hazel like his, her nose straight with a small upturn at the end, her bottom lip full. All like him. Like his dad.
“Omigod!” she shrieked. “You’re Griffin Huntley! I’m a huge fan! Do you know my dad? He’s a musician too. Well, he was a musician.” Her face fell and she bit her lip.
“Yeah, I knew him.” Figured his dad hadn’t mentioned him. Hell, for all he knew, his dad had kids scattered all over the country. He was a wanderer, always had been. Good looking, charming, an easy way with the ladies. But, for Griffin, it wasn’t entirely bad news that he might have a half sister. He’d thought with his father’s passing that he’d run out of family. But maybe for her, the news wouldn’t be as welcome. Maybe she’d like to keep her memories of their dad as just hers.
“Did you ever play with him?” she asked. “He was amazing on the guitar.”
“Were you close?”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Not that close. He didn’t stick around much after the divorce.” She blinked rapidly, trying unsuccessfully to hold the tears back. “Sorry,” she choked out. “I hardly ever cry.” She dashed the tears from her eyes with her fist.
“He was a wanderer,” he said.
She sniffled. “Yeah, I guess he was. I used to wish…” She clamped her mouth shut. “Too late now.”
He decided to risk it. Maybe she’d been through the same wringer of a childhood as he had. “He was my dad too.”
She staggered back, her eyes wide. “He, what? He had another family?”
“Laila!” a middle-aged brunette woman called in a brisk, no-nonsense voice. “It’s time to drive to the cemetery.” Layla like the Eric Clapton song?
Laila grabbed his arm. “Drive with us.”
Griffin shook his head. “I’ve had enough of funeral stuff. I didn’t know him that well.”
“Meet us at my mom’s house,” she said. “It’s in Fieldridge. About an hour from here.” She rattled off the address. “We’re having a small get-together.”
He looked off in the distance. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” He wasn’t up to a gathering of people he didn’t know mourning a man he barely knew.
“Please,” she said, grabbing both his hands. “We’re family.”
The tears that wouldn’t come before stung his eyes now. He’d thought she wouldn’t want to think of him as family under these circumstances. He was a reminder that their dad was a selfish bastard who left his kids behind.
He pulled his hands from hers and slid his sunglasses back on to hide his shiny eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”
~ ~ ~
Laila Colton stood at her father’s gravesite in such a huge muddle of emotions she barely heard the gentle tones of the minister. Her dad had another family. The biggest rock star in the world was her half brother. Griffin wouldn’t lie about that. Why would he? There was nothing to gain from the connection. She was a nobody. Her dad had died penniless. It was her mom who’d arranged his funeral in this wealthy town, where he’d had his first big gig. Her mom hoped to preserve his legacy, though they’d divorced long ago.
Anger and overwhelming sadness swamped her over her dad’s passing. She’d hated him for leaving them. He’d been the buffer between her and her mother, an extremely strict woman who sucked all the joy out of any occasion. Her dad had explained to her, just before he left them, that he’d stuck around as long as he had because of her, but she was old enough now to handle things. She’d been ten.
But she couldn’t ever completely turn her back on her dad. He popped in and out of her life over the years—always unannounced—his visits a huge, happy surprise that her mom did not appreciate. Her dad gave her a guitar when she was five years old, the age he said was prime for learning music, and had always followed up with her guitar playing. Music became her secret passion, one she did in the privacy of her bedroom because her mom couldn’t stand the reminder of her dad. She had a good ear for it, a good voice when she was alone, but powerful stage fright made her voice choked and horribly flat whenever she’d attempted to perform. At one point, she’d dreamed of being a songwriter, had even wanted to go to college to study music, but her mom put a stop to all that nonsense. She refused to pay tuition for a career as unstable as being a musician.
So Laila had quietly settled in as a waitress at Ernie’s Diner in Eastman, working the flexible shifts to pay the bills on her small one-bedroom apartment and freeing herself to continue her songwriting. But she’d never broken out, never even left her hometown of Fieldridge. Some part of her expected never to make it. Her mom always said it was a one-in-a-million chance and Laila was no better than thousands of other people out there with the same talent. And once she’d seen Fieldridge’s own Sydney Roy make it big on the music scene, Laila put away her guitar. Because when she’d seen the star power that radiated out of Sydney onstage, Laila knew the spotlight would never shine for her. She didn’t have that special charisma that drew people in. She had competence and a passion for music, but she was missing “it.” That thing that stood between great and superstar.
The short service ended. Both her and her mom were dry-eyed. Laila had cried herself out over the past three days. She’d overheard her mom quietly sobbing in the privacy of her room the first day they’d heard the news.
“So sorry for your loss,” the minister said, taking them both in.
“Thank you,” her mom said briskly.
Laila could only nod. Her mom turned and headed to her white Mercedes. Laila hurried to catch up. She waited until they were back on the road to Fieldridge before announcing, “I invited a guest back to the house.”
“Who?” Her mom peered in the rearview mirror, making sure the small funeral procession was following them. The people weren’t relatives, but rather musicians that had played with her dad over the years. She didn’t know any of them.
“Griffin Huntley.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“Since when do you know Griffin Huntley? Did Sydney invite him? I didn’t think you two were on good terms.”
They weren’t. Laila had acquaintances mostly, her close friends having moved on to other towns for careers or relationships. She was well used to her own company, being an only child to a lawyer mom who put in long hours at her job in the city. She had her grandmother with her until she was twelve. Then her grandmother died.
She ground her teeth. Her mom just assumed because Sydney was so famous that she was the only one who could possibly know Griffin Huntley. That irked her enough to say, “I met Griffin at the funeral home. He’s dad’s other kid.”
“I see.”
“I see? That’s all you have to say? Dad had another family, I have a famous half brother, and all you can say is I see?”
Her mom let out a harsh breath. “What do you want me to say? It’s news to me but also not a big surprise. Your dad could have multiple kids. He certainly had multiple women. I fell for it once and I’m smart. Imagine what that charm could do on a lesser mind.”
“Imagine,” Laila said dryly.
“Watch your tone,” her mom snapped.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, but that wasn’t unusual for them. Her mom had made no secret of the fact that Laila was a disappointment to her. She’d never believed in Laila’s dream of becoming a songwriter and had pushed her for years to go to college and get a real job. Now that Laila was twenty-nine, her mom had given up on the college idea.
Fieldridge soon came into view, a small town dotted with horse farms and clusters of homes. She’d grown up in an older ranch home at the base of a hill with elegant mansions perched at the top of the hill. She used to fantasize her dad would one day swoop in as a superstar and they’d all live in one of those glorious mansions up on high. She didn’t dream of impossible things anymore.
When they pulled into the driveway, Griffin was already there, leaning casually against a black Hummer, wearing those aviator shades and a black leather jacket, his legs crossed at the ankles, looking every bit the internationally famous rock star that he was. She found herself smiling.
“Doesn’t he look full of himself,” her mom muttered.
“Be nice,” Laila said. “Please. He lost his dad today too.”
“You deal with him,” her mom said. “I’ll be polite. Don’t ask more from me than that.”
Like she ever could get more from her mom than that. Laila rushed over to where Griffin stood. “This is my mom, Lisa Hughes. Mom, Griffin Huntley.” Her mom had kept her maiden name.
Griffin flashed a smile and shook her mom’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Lisa.”
“You too,” her mom said stiffly. “Please come in.”
They followed her inside. She and her mom spent the next hour politely accepting condolences while they picked at the food Laila had ordered from a nearby Italian restaurant. Griffin remained separate, standing alone in a corner, still wearing his black leather jacket and shades. The musicians in the room went to him to talk. Finally, everyone left and her mom retreated to her bedroom, leaving her and Griffin alone.
“Want some coffee?” she asked Griffin.
“Sure.”
“You can take off your jacket, you know.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Make myself at home, huh?”
“Sure.”
He took off the shades, sliding them into the inside pocket of his jacket, then took off the leather jacket and black suit jacket under it. She took them from him and hung them on the coat rack by the door. “Follow me,” she said, heading to the kitchen.
She went into her mom’s small but spotless kitchen and headed to the coffeemaker that still had half of a carafe full of coffee. She filled a couple of white mugs and joined Griffin in the breakfast nook with its wraparound bench. She couldn’t help but stare. Not only because the most famous rock star in the world was sitting right across from her, it was the uncanny resemblance to her dad. Same black hair, though Griffin’s was short with some spikes on top, same hazel eyes, nose with the upturn, defined cheekbones, the full lower lip, even the five o’clock shadow on his jaw. If she squinted, it would be like sitting with her dad again. Her throat got tight, and she took a sip of coffee to loosen it up.
“Thanks,” Griffin said, taking a sip of coffee. He set it down and studied her face. Probably noticing the way she took after their dad too. She had the same hazel eyes, nose, and lips; the rest was from her mom’s side. “You okay with having a half brother?”
“I’m beyond okay.” For some people the shock of having a dad with a secret family might have been devastating, for her it was pure relief. Finally someone she could share what it was like to have the charismatic talented Ron Colton grace you with his presence and then rip it away. Maybe Griffin would be someone who stuck around.
He grinned. “Is it because I’m kind of a name or because you actually want a brother?”
“Kind of a name?”
He chuckled. “Really, though, you can be honest. Hell, I don’t care if you’re just into the name. I’m glad to have family.”
She wrapped her fingers around her mug, warming them. “It’s amazing because I’m a fan. But I’m glad to have family too. It’s just me and my mom.”
He unbuttoned the top button of his white dress shirt and the cuffs, rolling them up. His forearms were covered in tattoos. Her brother was so badass. She still couldn’t believe she had a brother. “It was just me and my mom for a long time too,” he said. “You think there’s more of us lonely only children left by Ron Colton?”
She swallowed hard. “You were lonely?” She couldn’t believe someone as famous as Griffin Huntley ever felt that way. How could someone that had “it” in spades ever feel one moment of unhappiness?
He took a sip of coffee. “Dad left when I was two. My mom worked a lot and we still couldn’t pay the bills. Never knew when the electricity or phone would suddenly get shut off. I spent a lot of time home alone, just me and my guitar.”
“Me too,” she said quietly.
He nodded slowly. “So at least he gave you that. You any good?”
She shook her head. “Not as good as you. I haven’t played in years.”
“Why not?”
She lifted one shoulder, not wanting to admit she didn’t have what it took. That stage fright stole her voice and made it horribly off-key. Her throat practically closed the few times she’d tried.
“You look like him,” she said.
“Yeah, lucky me. Reminded my mom all the time of the jerk who left without child support.”
“He didn’t have a lot of money,” she said, immediately coming to his defense. Plus she realized he must’ve been using his money to help raise her while Griffin was a kid. He was eleven years older than her. She knew that much from reading about him in magazines. She raised her palms. “Well, at least now you know where some of the money went. Me. Until he left us too.”
Griffin shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “How old were you when he left?”
“Ten.”
“Did he visit?”
“Yeah, off and on. Always a surprise visit.”
Griffin snorted. “That sounds like him. Do they know what he died from?”
“His heart gave out. He didn’t have a very healthy lifestyle on the road. Mostly just ate from greasy diners and fast-food places.”
They sat for a moment in silence.
“You think you’ll stick around town for a bit?” she asked, hoping to show him off.
He met her eyes. “You want me to?”
“Of course I do.”
“All right. You got any bars around here? I could use a drink.”
“Yeah. We’ll go there after dinner. I can take you to the diner where I work for dinner; then we’ll head to McGinty’s. They have a great drink menu.”
A small smile played over his lips. “You want to show me off.”
A rare blush burned her cheeks. “Am I that transparent?”
“Nah. Everyone does. It’s fine. I’ll bring my guitar and play a few songs.”
“You don’t mind?”
He leaned back and stretched his arms out along the back of the bench seat. “Nothing feels better than playing for an audience. Except creating a new song. That’s pure euphoria.”
It was euphoria to create. And she realized she’d missed it. “I know what you mean.”
“Yeah? You write songs too?”
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and nodded. “Nothing like yours.”
“Come on. You’re Ron Colton’s daughter. I want to hear it.”
She shook her head. “I’m out of practice.”
“It’s part of you just like it’s part of me. He taught you guitar, right?”
“Yeah. He gave me my first one when I was five.”
He gave her a knowing look. “Same here. I’ll bet you’ve got that same soul-deep connection to the music. I lost that for a while with the lifestyle, but Chris…” He trailed off, then finally cleared his throat. “But then I found it again.” He tapped the table. “We should play together. A fitting tribute to our dad.”
“I’m not as good as you,” she protested.
He stood and pulled her out of her seat. “No excuses. You have to play me at least one song before you can show me off.”
And that was how Laila found herself back at her apartment with the most famous rock star in the world. She let him in to her place on the first floor of a light blue wood-sided house that had been converted to apartments. She glanced at him as he took in her modest living room with its mismatched furniture and décor, mostly flea market finds. A bright abstract painting hung over a pink upholstered sofa from the ’60s with an assortment of colorful throw pillows. A small leather ottoman that doubled as a coffee table sat in front of the sofa on a red and orange fringed area rug over old hardwood floors. She had a wooden stool that served as an end table and a black metal chair with a blue cushion embroidered with cute flowers for additional seating.
She waved toward the sofa. “So, uh, make yourself comfortable. I’ll get my guitar.” She’d stashed it in the back of her bedroom closet.
He grinned. “On the pink sofa?”
“You can take the chair if you want.” Maybe he was too badass for a pink sofa.
“The flower chair?” he asked in a teasing voice.
She huffed. “Sorry I don’t have manly furniture.”
He crossed to her and gave her hair a tug. “It’s cool. Very bohemian.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“I’ll take the pink sofa,” he said and settled there with his guitar. She quickly looked away, not wanting to laugh at the odd picture he made, all cool rocker with his black, spiky hair and tattoos against pink cushions.
She headed into her bedroom, done in the same colorful flea market style, and grabbed her guitar from the closet. She set the case on her fuchsia bedspread, opened it, and gazed at the glossy golden wood of her beloved Martin guitar, somewhere between terrified and elated. She could hear Griffin tuning his guitar.
She stroked the wood as memories of her dad flooded her. His deep, melodic voice encouraging her, praising her ear, adding his voice to hers. Those magical times when it was just the two of them lost in the music. She closed her eyes as a tear escaped.
Griffin began to play. The song jolted her into movement and she rushed back to the living room. It was Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.” The first song her dad had taught her. Though he changed the lyrics to say “my green-eyed girl” because her eyes were green with gold flecks. It worked better than “hazel.”
He stopped playing. “I take it you know this one the same way I do.”
She nodded.
“Well, play along, then.” He just sat there, waiting.
What else could she do? She fetched her guitar, sat on the sofa next to him, and tuned it. He nodded once and started the song again. She joined in, her voice whisper soft, her fingers familiar with the simple chords. As soon as the song ended, Griffin started another song she knew from her dad, and then another, and it became apparent Ron Colton had taught his children the same repertoire of simple but catchy tunes. Griffin lost her on the last one, though, a fast tempo Irish folk song, “Whiskey in the Jar.” Their dad had Irish roots.
“I’m out of practice,” she said when he finished the song on his own.
“Let me hear one of yours,” Griffin said.
She swallowed hard.
“Please,” he said. “I really want to hear it.”
She began to play, looking down at her guitar, and kept her voice low and quiet. The song, “Jarring Halt,” was deeply personal and technically difficult for her to play. She stopped after the first verse, her fingers still on the strings.
“Yeah, yeah, keep going,” he urged. “You’ve got something there.”
She took a deep breath and kept going. Only this time, buoyed by his praise, she let go, letting the music flow through her, awakening her long-buried heart and soul. She finished in a rush of happy tears.
Griffin took it in stride, merely nodding in his knowing way. “That’s the real shit right there. Keep going. I think you’ve got more to say.”
Then he joined her with his guitar, keeping up with her on songs she’d created, their voices blending in harmony on some of the repeating choruses. Her voice was surprisingly steady, lifted by her brother’s. It was a last parting gift from the father she’d always loved despite his faults. Griffin, and through him, her dad, brought her back to the music. It was euphoric.