When Cerys entered the kitchen to make coffee the next morning, she was surprised to find the air rich with the smell of it. A glance into the family room found Jase out on the deck, his jacket tight around him, as he looked over the lake.
A lake that was almost bigger than Wales.
Snow fell softly around him, gathering in his hair, on his shoulders.
His shoulders lifted jerkily, as if his chest creaked with every inhale, then released every last molecule of air before sucking in another breath. He repeated it over and over, and Cerys recognised that pattern of deep breathing she followed when she was too much in her own head.
Ignoring the coffee, she grabbed a thick blanket from the sofa and stepped outside before draping it over his shoulders.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, her voice low.
He glanced at her and then back to the lake. “Yeah.”
Cerys blew into her hands and realised she should have taken two minutes to grab her own coat. As she shivered, Jase stepped behind her and wrapped the edges of the blanket around them both. She jumped, then stood ramrod straight, uncertain what to do next.
“Relax, Cerys. It’s no big deal.”
There was something enticing about the way he sighed, his warm breath glancing off her cheek, and the fight left her body.
Time became meaningless.
No songs needed to be recorded. No decisions about tempo and lyrics and instruments needed to be made. Musical direction had been left in the studio in Detroit.
But here . . .
Here the possibilities suddenly felt endless. A creative hopefulness flooded her, a sudden urge to write, to create, to make . . . something. With him. Which gave her an idea. There was something he needed to see.
She turned and took his hand. “Come inside, there’s something I’d like to show you. I only pointed out the cursory things last night, but there is something else.”
The previous evening, they’d eaten dinner in front of the fire in the large open-plan family room, then disappeared to their rooms.
She’d lain in bed, wondering what it would feel like to wake up with Jase’s arms around her. To share the wonder she felt as the sun breached the horizon and lazily climbed into the sky, as his fingers gently roamed her body. She wondered if the angry man ever let go enough to appreciate those moments himself.
The idea of Jase for a weekend was . . .
Grr.
Client. Client. Client.
Jase followed her inside. “Does it ever seem weird to you, being here, having access to places like this?”
Cerys nodded. “Totally. Dad sent Mum money every month, so he isn’t deadbeat or anything. But the amount he sent was nowhere near this. We live in a modest three-bedroom house with a nice garden in the centre of Conwy. It’s pretty and the mortgage is paid off. The castle walls are right at the end of our property. Mum saved for my education, putting a little away each month from what he sent and from her job. She owns a tearoom on the high street. We never had financial hardship, but to come here and find out Dad has two multi-million dollar properties in Michigan alone, plus his ski-lodge in Aspen and a waterfront home in Bermuda just feels . . .”
He slung his arm over her shoulder. “Unfair.”
Unfair was the perfect word.
He followed her down the stairs, and when she pushed open the double doors, he gasped. “Holy fucking shit.”
“Yeah,” Cerys said, stepping inside. “It’s something else, right?”
A state-of-the-art recording studio occupied half the lower level. Equipment was racked up along the walls, a large baby grand piano occupied one corner, the isolation room with a microphone stand was in the other, and a complete recording setup was to his left. The studio was double walled with acoustic isolation, the wooden floor mostly covered with large rugs.
“Dad wanted to have a recording studio up here in case he got inspired, or so he could bring acts out to record if they needed a change of scenery.”
Jase wandered into the room and picked up the acoustic guitar. He put the strap over his shoulder and began to strum the opening to Oasis’s “Wonderwall”. There was something so simple yet attention grabbing about that song. The way the simple layering of the guitar and strings, then voice and drums built into an anthem.
Cerys looked at him, slack jawed, and he stopped playing. “What?”
“You play an instrument?”
Jase slipped the guitar strap from his shoulder. “Not really.”
“Yes, really. You can really play. There was a naturalness to that. The way you held the guitar, the way your hands so naturally slid along the frets. That wasn’t the first time you’ve played a guitar. In fact, I’d say, you’re a really experienced guitarist. Why don’t you play?”
Jase stepped over to the rack to slide the guitar back in its slot, but something stopped him. He turned to face her. “Because Alex and Ben wouldn’t be in the band otherwise.” He slipped the strap back over his shoulder and began to strum The Rolling Stones’ “Angie”. “Matt wanted a duo with Luke, but Nan bribed him to include me by offering to pay for instruments. He’d play bass guitar or electric, I’d sing and play electric guitar, and Luke would play drums. But Ben and Alex wanted to join so badly. And it felt shitty to exclude them. So, it seemed pretty natural to keep fucking up on purpose, to keep missing cues, and voilà, Ben could play it better. And if Ben joined the band, it was unfair to leave Alex out.”
Cerys stepped to him and placed her hand over his, on the neck of the guitar. “You hid your own talent so your cousins could be in the band too.”
“I didn’t see it so much like that. But bigger bands are more expensive to pay and tour with, etcetera. I never wanted to be good enough with a guitar that some punk record exec with an eye on the bottom line would tell us to fire Ben.”
Cerys grinned up at him. “You’re a good man . . . Behind all that surly gruffness and bad boy image, you’re actually a very good man.”
“Don’t make me into something I’m not, Cerys.”
His presence took on a whole other meaning with a guitar in his hands. Natural musical talent couldn’t be taught. Sure, a person could learn the steps. They could learn how to read music, how to adhere to a rhythm with the help of a half-decent metronome. Basic chords could be mastered, and would even sound good to an untrained ear. But there was something about the way a gifted musician created music that filled the song with . . . genius. It became unforced, layered, multifaceted like the cut of a diamond. It sparkled in a way that exceeded words.
And Jase had it.
For the sake of his cousins, he’d hidden it. And for the sake of their sound, their album, their onstage presence, and for Jase’s personal fulfilment, she needed to find a way to encourage him to step out and be more than the caricature he’d become.
Now she wanted to create music with him even more. But she sensed he needed a moment and let him strum for a while.
She ran her fingers over the baby grand that had a mellow tone with a full spectrum of tonal colour that resonated through her chest, filling her completely inside. In her head, she could hear the strings intro to Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto no. 2 in C Minor.
It was one of her favourite pieces. She pulled out the stool and sat, waiting until Jase had finished playing.