The crowd roared its approval.
He played a couple of notes, then twisted the tuner. Repeated the procedure. A few notes, an adjustment. Another few notes. Just a guy sitting on a stage with a guitar. Then he slipped seamlessly into the melody of the song.
He played for a few minutes without singing. His fingers moved easily over the strings of the guitar, coaxing out the song. The tune was complex and layered, full of yearning and emotion. If you weren’t watching him play, you’d never guess it was just one guy, with one guitar. Somehow he made that Alvarez sound like an entire band.
Ana watched his intensity and concentration. Her heart was in her throat. This was what he was meant to do. What he was created for. Everything else in his life was just biding his time until he could get back to the guitar.
The song he played was a new one. Completely unfamiliar to her, and she’d heard every one of his songs at some point or another. A preternatural hush had fallen over the audience as they listened to the haunting and lovely melody.
Then his finger slipped and he played a wrong note.
He tilted his head just lightly so the audience could see his grin. “Sorry. Bit out of practice.”
Everyone chuckled.
He slipped so easily back into the song, she wondered if he’d done it on purpose. Still playing, he starting speaking into the microphone. Just chatting as his fingers continued their complex fret work the way another man might drum his fingers on the table.
“When I was writing this song,” he said, matching the rhythm of his words to the natural rhythm of the song. “I got some advice from my friend, Ricky. You remember Ricky, right?”
Ricky had moved to sit on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling off.
“Ricky asked, ‘It isn’t gonna be cheesy like your other songs, is it?’” The crowd groaned in response. Ricky gave a little wave to go with his sheepish smile. Ward mocked an expression of shock. “‘What?’ I said. And then he said, ‘Dude, you sound like a—’” Ward broke off, gave the crowd a scan and then added, “Well, I’m not going to repeat the word he used. But then he told me, “You’re a guy. No wonder she didn’t believe you loved her if you talked like that.’”
Another laugh went through the crowd and Ward gave a little self-effacing shrug. “So here it is. A love song. Written by a guy. Just trying to convince a girl he really loves her. Here it is. ‘Not Enough Words.’”
The haunting and lovely melody was in such sharp contrast to its simple words. There was a playfulness to the song, a humor his earlier songs had lacked. And still, there on his expression was the pure joy at playing.
The song was about how difficult it was to describe love. The lyrics were remarkably unfussy, a little self-deprecating. As if he couldn’t really believe himself worthy of his shot at love. They lacked the poetic grace of some of his earlier songs, but she got the feeling that was intentional. Over and over again he repeated the refrain: If I could tell you how much I loved you, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.
The song trailed off. For a moment, every person within earshot seemed to be holding their breath. And then the crowd went wild with approval.
Despite her own stunned and battered emotions, Ana found herself clapping along with everyone else. How could she not? The song was brilliant. It would be a hit. It would make so much money for Hannah’s Hope, they may never need Rafe’s support again. They may not even need the fundraiser, even though the planning for it was well underway. Besides, when it came to charitable foundations, there was no such thing as too much money.
On the other hand, the money from this song would trickle in for the rest of the time she worked at Hannah’s Hope. It would always be there. A constant reminder of the love she’d turned away. Not that she needed reminding.
It took Ward thirty minutes to even get off the stage. Another twenty to make it out onto the street. Reporters were snapping pictures. People wanted autographs or just to shake his hand. He felt like he heard five hundred people say, “Great song, man,” while he shook their hand. He didn’t begrudge them—how could he?—and he appreciated the positive feedback. But in truth, there was only person he wanted to talk to. Only one opinion that mattered.
He knew she’d heard the song. After he’d taken the stage, she’d moved to a spot maybe thirty feet into the crowd. He met her gaze over the sea of people and it had been all he could do not to leap down off the stage and go to her. Screw the public performance. Forget the big gesture. But he needed her to hear the song. Needed her to know how he felt about her. Moreover, he needed her to have this experience. If he could win her back—and he hoped to God that he could—if they were going to be together, he needed her to know what it was like to have their relationship paraded about on the stage.
So despite how desperate he was to know how she felt, he didn’t rush to her side, but slowly made his way through the crowd. He kept an eye on her though as she muttered a few words to Emma and Chase and then excused herself. She wended her way through the throng of people, and then disappeared through the front door of Bistro by the Sea, which was where Omar had told him they’d set up command central for the fair.
When he saw her slip through the door, he picked up the pace. He didn’t want her getting out the back unnoticed.
He was relieved to find the restaurant largely empty. Faint sounds of cooking and cleanup drifted into the front room from the kitchen, but Ana was the only one in the dining room. She sat at a table, stacks of flyers spread out in front of her.
He waited until she looked up and then asked, “So what’d you think?”
Ana’s gaze darted away from his and she tucked her hair behind her ears. “I think you—” Then she broke off and gave a little laugh. “I think you can write a good song. But you already knew that.”
“Ana—” he took a step toward her, but she kept talking, warding off his approach.
“Donating the proceeds is incredibly generous. I’m sure we’ll do so much good with the money. I’ll make sure we do.” Finally, she looked up at him. “But this changes nothing. You have to know that.”
He bit back a curse.
“But I am glad—” her voice broke and she swallowed before continuing “—that you’re playing the Alvarez again. It was time.”
A sudden rush of anger hit him. “You know, Ana, all your theories about the Alvarez and the house…you know that’s all crap, right?”
She blinked. He barely registered her surprise before charging on.
“And to be honest, I’m a little tired of you making unilateral assessments about my life, about my emotional state and about our relationship without even discussing them with me.” He softened his harsh words with a smile, making sure she heard the gentle teasing behind them.
“What are you saying?” she arched a brow.
“I’m saying maybe you’re not always right. Maybe the fact that I didn’t play the Alvarez or sell the house had nothing to do with how I felt about Cara. Or whether or not I was over her death.”
Her chin came up defensively, but she replicated his chiding tone. “Okay then, here’s a shocking suggestion. Why don’t you talk about your emotions for a change? ’Cause unless you tell me how you’re feeling, it’s kind of hard for me to know.”
He flashed her a smile. “Didn’t you hear the song? I’m a guy. We don’t talk about our emotions.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “So that’s your excuse?”
Okay, apparently the charm wasn’t going to work here. “No,” he admitted, suddenly serious. “It’s just always been easier with music.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, there are millions of men all around the world who manage to communicate their feelings just fine and they don’t have the benefit of being world-renowned songwriters. So, dig a little deeper, okay?”
Damn it. He shoved a hand through his hair. He knew he needed to say this, but that didn’t make it any easier. “No one has once bothered to ask me why I haven’t sold the house.”
She straightened, surprise flickering over her expression. “Why haven’t you sold the house?”
“Honestly? I don’t know what to do with it.”
“I…what?”
“You want the truth? That’s it. I have no idea how to get rid of it. You’re so convinced I’m not over her death. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know how to get over anyone’s death. I don’t know how people just pick up and move on.” He tipped up her chin, making her look him in the eye.
Because if he was going to do this, he was only going to do it once.
“You want the God’s honest truth about my relationship with Cara? I loved her. I really did, but she didn’t love me. Sure, at first, she did. She fell in love with the rock star. Ended up married to a mere man. An imperfect, completely human guy. At first, she didn’t mind so much. We made it work. But once she was diagnosed, the illusion crumbled. She pulled back from the relationship. We never recovered. Why do you think she devoted so much of the last years of her life to charity work? Being married to me just wasn’t enough for her.”
Ana stood up. They were standing mere inches apart.
“Ward, I—”
“I just don’t want to make the same mistake twice. I don’t want yet another woman stuck with me and unsure how to get out of the relationship.”
“That wouldn’t—”
“I’m not an easy man to love, Ana. I’m not about to ask you to make a commitment until you know for sure what you’re getting into. You fell in love with the rock star and—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips to cut off his words. “You keep saying that, but it’s just not true. I can’t speak for Cara, maybe it was true for her, but it certainly isn’t for me. I didn’t even meet Ward Miller the musician until today. He’s not the guy I fell in love with. I fell in love with Ward Miller the humanitarian. I fell in love with the guy who’s devoted the past three years of his life to making a difference in the world. The guy who works so hard so that other people can follow their dreams. The guy who does all that and still finds time to mentor a needy kid. Maybe Ward Miller the rock star is buried somewhere in all of that. I don’t know. I guess I’ll just have to find out. Now that I’ve encouraged you to start playing again, I’m kind of stuck with him, aren’t I?”