Serena's Song (Siren Publishing Classic) Read online

  That sounded suitably ominous. Riff sat down in the thickly cushioned chair beside the dresser, automatically tossing the matching throw-pillow onto the floor. He sprawled back in the chair. "Yeah?" He was definitely wide awake now. If Milo thought it was worth waking him up for, it must be something important. Or bad. Or important and bad.

  "I got a tip that Celebrity is doing an expose."

  Riff felt his irritation both settle and surge. This was something he could handle, had handled. Milo knew that. But another part of him went on alert. From his manager's careful tone, this expose was different.

  Ignoring the dark premonition, he demanded, "What is it this time? They dig up some nonexistent relatives I've left living in a shack somewhere? Some old transcripts that show my marks sucked and my teachers thought I'd never go anywhere? Oh, wait. They already did that. How 'bout my all-time favorite—love child with some sweet young thing I've never laid hands on, let alone laid, period."

  "Not quite. And they're not exactly doing it on you."

  The bad feeling intensified. "What are you talking about?"

  The sound of music and laughter came clearly over the line in the dead air left by Milo's silence. Knowing Milo, he was calling from some vitally unimportant see-and-be-seen party, the kind of thing Riff hated being trotted out at.

  "Milo …" he growled warningly.

  "They found your girl."

  "What girl? I told you Milo, I haven't—"

  "Beautiful Girl. The one you wrote about."

  The air in the room felt hot against Riff's face, then burningly cold as the blood drained out of his cheeks and rushed back. He heard a faint plastic crack, and realized he was crushing the tiny cell phone in his hand. With conscious effort, he loosened his fingers.

  "Riff? You still there?"

  Riff dropped his head against the back of his chair and rubbed the heel of his hand into the renewed ache behind his forehead. "Yeah, Milo. I'm still here."

  "Okay. Well, like I said, sorry I woke you. I just thought you'd wanna know."

  He nodded, as if Milo were standing right there and could see him. He heard someone on the other end of the line call out. Milo's muffled voice responded, then got louder and clearer as he spoke into the phone again. "Right, Riff, if that's everythi—"

  Riff jerked upright in the chair. "No!" He cleared his throat and lowered his voice to a less-panicked volume. "Hold on, Milo. Look, I need you to find out a few things and call me back. First, when's the story running. Second, where is she. And third ..." He paused. Was he doing the right thing? Fuck that. "What's her name."

  Milo's barked laugh was full of disbelief. "You mean you don't know her name?"

  "I did. She got married." With that, he thumbed the phone off and tossed it back on the dresser, not caring when it skittered across the polished surfaced and dropped to the floor.

  Oh, shit. Serena. What was he going to do now?

  Riff slumped back in the chair and stared sightlessly into the darkened room. Would it have been better if he'd never stopped that afternoon? Just kept driving and called a tow? At least then he wouldn't have had to do what he did. But then he never would have known Serena. And that would have been worse. He was sure of it.

  * * * *

  15 years earlier …

  The dull red Firebird rocked as it left the relatively smooth pavement of the highway for the gravel road. Riff Logan cranked the driver's side window up to keep the resulting cloud of dust from curling into the car. Not soon enough to prevent a quick cough as the dry dust particles aggravated his throat, already scratchy from singing in the smoke-filled bar in Whitefish the night before. The distraction was enough to pull his attention from the road for the instant it took the right front wheel to find a particularly brutal pothole. The undercarriage bottomed out with a loud thud that snapped his teeth together.

  "Christ!" Riff dug the heel of one hand into his forehead in an attempt to ground out the needle-like pain. His entire skull felt like it had been subjected to the gorilla hands of the world's worst acupuncturist, but the stabbing in his forehead seemed to bear the brunt of the bone-rattling abuse courtesy of the washboard road. Winter had taken its usual toll, and even though it was already the end of June, the town still hadn't sent the graders out yet.

  Irritably, Riff slapped down his sun visor then did the same to the visor on the passenger side. His sunglasses were doing a piss-poor job of shielding his aching eyes from the sunlight, which was bright enough at this time of the morning to make him blink myopically. Okay, so maybe it was closer to eleven than dawn, but on Riff Logan time, that was damn early enough. He slowed the Firebird in hopes of avoiding any more hell pits.

  He should've come right home after the gig last night instead of crashing at Dan's place. But once he was there, and the stereo was blasting, and the beers were going around …

  The curve in the road hid the station wagon until he was almost on it. Surprised, Riff hit the brakes. The Firebird fishtailed a bit before coming to a stop. He'd cleared the parked vehicle by a few inches, but if anyone had opened a door at that moment, his battered red sports car would've had a new hood ornament. Wasn't that the Harpers' station wagon? Guess they're back for the summer. The car was jacked up, exposing the naked bolt assembly of one wheel. He could make out the dark donut of the discarded tire slightly hidden in the long grass at the side of the road.

  Riff turned his eyes back to the front and slowly pulled away from the abandoned station wagon. He squinted to focus his stinging eyes on the road ahead. In the distance, he could make out a slim figure walking on the gravel road. She was moving quickly, irritation evident in the tight set of her shoulders. As he drove closer, his eyes were drawn to the saucy sway of her hips in what, on someone else, should be unattractive white walking shorts. Her long blond ponytail bounced angrily with each step. Serena Harper. The closer he got to her, the less Riff's hangover bothered him.

  Every summer for the last five years, Serena's family had rented the cottage next to the two-bedroom cabin Riff lived in with his grandparents. And every summer, he thought, Serena Harper grew more beautiful. In recent years, that assessment included "sexier." Riff was aware he wasn't the only one who thought so. Guys talked. What was she now? Eighteen? Nineteen?

  Riff rolled his window down as the Firebird came alongside her.

  "Hey."

  Serena glanced at him, startled, like she hadn't even heard the car coming up behind her. "Oh! Riff. Hi."

  She stopped walking and Riff threw the car into Park. Taking off his sunglasses, he leaned on the window frame, fascinated by the growing blush on her high cheekbones. It perfectly matched the rosebud-pink golf shirt tucked into her shorts. Her nametag was pinned above the curve of one breast, while the logo for Aunt Ida's Ice Cream Shoppe was embroidered in fancy script over the other.

  "I passed your car back there. You need a hand changing the tire?"

  She glared back at the station wagon. "The tire, I could change myself," she said, surprising him. In his experience, even if a girl could change her own flat tire, she'd rather have some guy get his hands dirty. She added, "If the spare wasn't flat, too. I'm hoping my dad has a pump at the cottage."

  "D'you want a lift back?"

  For some reason, Serena's blush brightened. She looked up and down the road, then at Riff. He suddenly realized what he must look like: Unshaven, blood-shot eyes, pale-faced from too much beer and not enough sleep. He didn't doubt he smelled like the floor of that grubby, smoke-filled bar after a bad Saturday night. No wonder she looked a little spooked at the idea of getting in a car with him on a deserted road. But hell, it wasn't like he was a stranger or anything. They weren't friends—he was at least four years older than she was—but they'd lived beside each other every summer for enough years for her to know he wasn't some sex maniac or something.

  "Sure," Serena said, breaking into his thoughts. "That'd be great, Riff. Thanks." Decided, she hurried around the grill to the passenger side. He lean
ed over and popped the lock for her. She opened the door and paused, her eyes going to the overflowing bucket seat.

  "Oh. Hold on a sec." Riff scooped up several handfuls of CD jewel cases and crumpled fast-food wrappers and dumped them on the backseat. "Sorry."

  Serena shrugged and got in. "No problem. You should see my room."

  Riff put the Firebird in gear and grinned at her. "Yeah?"

  Serena's blush spread from her cheeks to the rest of her face and she stammered, "Uhh, um—never mind."

  The gravel popped under the tires as they rode together in silence for a few moments.

  "I really appreciate this, Riff," Serena finally said. "I'm going to be late for work as it is."

  "Back at Ida's for the summer, huh?" He gestured at her uniform. "First day?"

  "Yeah. That's how I know it's really summer – the scent of Heavenly Hash follows me everywhere." She laughed a bit self-consciously.

  Riff made a non-committal sound. She didn't smell like chocolate ice cream, he thought. More like fresh peaches.

  "So, how are your grandparents?" she asked. "We've only been back in town a few days, so we haven't run into them yet."

  "They're good. Gran had a bit of a rough winter, but she's a lot better now that the warmer weather's here. And Grandad's Grandad."

  A simple statement that encompassed so much. Liam Logan was the best father his grandson could have wished for. Riff's mother had never quite gotten around to telling them who her son's real father was—if she even knew. Riff doubted they'd ever find out, either. It had been years since Megan Logan had even bothered to check in with the elderly parents she'd dumped her kid on.

  "So what's up with you?" Serena asked. "Busy winter?"

  "Pretty packed, actually. Me and the guys have been playing a lot of gigs lately. That's where I was coming from when I saw you." The subtext being, See? I'm not actually coming home from a bender. I was working. "We're planning to make enough this summer to hit the road this fall. Do the college towns and stuff when school starts."

  "Wow! That sounds amazing. Your group's, uh, Morven, right?"

  He nodded.

  "Well, I'll have to watch for you, then. I've got a scholarship to State," she explained.

  "Congratulations."

  Serena shrugged, as if earning an academic scholarship was something anyone could do. "It doesn't cover everything, but it helps. So, Morven," she continued. "Where's the name come from?"

  It was Riff's turn to blush. "Uh, me. My name, I mean."

  "What does 'Riff Logan' have to do with 'Morven'?"

  "Not Riff, Finn."

  "Your name's Finn?"

  "You didn't think my grandparents named me Riff, did you?"

  "Well, no. I'd never wondered about it, to tell the truth."

  Ouch. "It's Finn McCool Logan." He put on his grandfather's exaggerated brogue. "A good Irish name, lassie, for a good Irish lad."

  Serena laughed. She'd relaxed enough to turn and face him, leaning her shoulders against the passenger door. "Finn. I like that." He liked it, too—when she said it. "But I still don't know what Finn McCool Logan has to do with Morven."

  "Finn McCool was an Irish king. He ruled Morven."

  "Ah. Clever."

  "Thank Grandad. He's the clever one."

  "Your grandfather came up with your band's name?"

  "Yeah. He growls about me being in a band, but I think he's convinced himself that music is entrenched in my Irish soul, so he might as well go along with it."

  Riff guided the Firebird down the drive to the Harpers' rental. It looked deserted.

  "Aren't your parents here?"

  Serena frowned, then shrugged. "They must have already gone out on the boat."

  "Do you know where the pump is?"

  "Probably in the shed, or in the boathouse."

  "Why don't I wait here while you check? I don't want to take off and leave you stranded. Besides, you'll need a lift back to the wagon."

  Serena nibbled on her lip, her need to get the tire fixed as soon as possible warring with her dislike of imposing on Riff. Work and duty won out. "Okay. I'll just be a minute."

  Riff watched as she ran first to the rickety aluminum shed tucked back in the trees and disappeared inside. A few moments later, she reappeared. "Nothing," she called. "I'll check the boathouse."

  He waved his acknowledgment. Man, look at those legs. Though summer had just begun, Serena's legs looked long, sleek and golden brown in the white walking shorts. He thought the low white socks and pristine tennis shoes she wore were sexier than four-inch stilettos.

  To distract himself, Riff opened the glove box and half-heartedly riffled through his CDs. He settled on some Stevie Ray Vaughan and slid the disc into the player. Stevie's whiskey-mellow voice and distinctive guitar work filled the car.

  Serena was back before the first track ended. She opened the door and leaned in. "I know my dad must have an air pump somewhere, but I can't find it. I even checked on the back porch. I'm going to have to call Ida's and let them know I can't make it."

  "Why? I can give you a ride."

  "Oh, I couldn’t—"

  "Sure you could. I'm not doing anything right now. Get in. We'll pick up your spare on the way by and I'll fill it up at the gas station in town and drop it back off here for your parents."

  Again, Serena hesitated, but only briefly before getting back in the car.

  To Riff's disappointment, the drive into town seemed to take no time at all. Serena turned to wave one more time before going into Ida's. Riff lifted his fingers off the steering wheel in a subdued acknowledgment, and watched as the door closed behind her. Through the window, he could see her greeting the other girl behind the counter before hurrying down the back hallway and out of sight. Realizing he was sitting in the idling car like an idiot, he put the Firebird in gear and started for the garage to fill the Harpers' flat tire. With every breath, he could smell the irresistible scent of fresh peaches.

  * * * *

  Riff abruptly pushed himself up from the chair, shaking off the memories. The hotel room smelled of generic cleaner and wood polish. Any hint of peaches was purely an imaginary one. He yanked open the drawers in the bureau and began tossing clothes onto the bed. He wanted to be ready to leave as soon as Milo called with the address.

  Chapter 2

  Serena Jeffries was late.

  Story of my life, she thought. Still, she slowed when she came to the town limits. Just her luck, Boscoe would be lurking around somewhere nearby in hopes of catching a speeder. Jerk. The man had too much time on his hands. She guessed she should be grateful Elmwood wasn't exactly a hotbed of crime, but jeez! The deputy was such a stickler; he'd nail anyone who was going so much as a mile over the speed limit.

  Personally—and she'd bite her own tongue off before she said so out loud—she thought he did it just so he could use that cop swagger he'd probably perfected in front of the mirror at home. He walked like he had a stick up his … somewhere.

  Serena sighed. It was sooooo tempting to swear, but she'd made herself a promise that she would at least try to clean up her language.

  She thought of her impromptu buying trip and immediately felt her mood lighten. When both kids had been invited for sleepovers the night before, she'd jumped at the chance to go to a huge arts and crafts bazaar she'd had to take a pass on. Instead of spending Friday night doing laundry, she'd made some good contacts and arranged shipments for several items she was sure would fly off the shelves at her store, especially once tourist season hit.

  Simple Pleasures featured an eclectic mix of art, books and intriguing collectibles, with the added bonus of a café that invited customers to sip a cup of fancy coffee and indulge in the baked treat of their choice. The business was her pleasure, even if keeping the doors open had sometimes been far from simple. Serena's dream had been a long time in coming. After her husband had died, she'd finally mustered the courage to put the business plans she'd reworked again and again into action.
And here she was, a little over two years as the proprietor of her own shop, and all her hard work was starting to pay off. She loved every minute of it.

  Last night's buying trip had been entirely worth the long drive, though she was a bit miffed the front desk had forgotten her wake-up call. Thanks to that screw up, she'd gotten a late start heading back. Instead of stopping at home to drop off her bag, she'd had to drive directly to Simple Pleasures. Thankfully, it was her assistant's weekend to open, so she didn't have to worry about annoying her customers. Even on the weekends, there were regulars who made the trip "downtown" for a triple mocha latte or hot raspberry smoothie. When the alternative was burner-warm sludge in a fast-food polystyrene cup, who wouldn't? At least Serena liked to think so.

  Her bubble of happiness expanded when she saw the number of cars parked in front of Simple Pleasures. Of course, the cars' drivers could be patronizing any of the shops—which ranged from a hair salon and a wedding boutique to an antiques dealer and a music store that carried both the latest hits on CD and rare vinyl recordings—that shared the block with Simple Pleasures. Still, behind the glistening front window, it looked like most of the tables in the café portion of her shop were filled. Well! What a nice way to make her forget her irritation over the missed wake-up call.

  Serena drove her Tempo to the tiny staff lot behind the row of shops and parked in her reserved spot. As she always did, instead of cutting through the more direct service entrance off the parking area, she used the alley to get to the main street. There was just something thrilling about walking in the front door of Simple Pleasures and knowing that everything she saw was exactly as she'd planned it, down to the waist-high brass urn she kept by the door to give customers a place to put damp umbrellas on rainy days. But when she reached the sidewalk, she almost plowed right into a short, grey-haired figure. Serena rocked back on her heels and reached out a hand to steady the elderly woman.