Lies and Lullabies
Sarina Bowen
Lies and Lullabies
Sarina Bowen
Tuxbury Publishing LLC
Copyright © 2020 by Sarina Bowen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Editing by Edie’s Edits.
Contents
Get the song!
1. Jonas
2. Kira
3. Jonas
4. Kira
5. Jonas
6. Kira
7. Jonas
8. Jonas
9. Kira
10. Kira
11. Jonas
12. Kira
13. Jonas
14. Kira
15. Jonas
16. Kira
17. Jonas
18. Adam
19. Kira
20. Jonas
21. Kira
22. Jonas
23. Kira
24. Kira
25. Jonas
26. Kira
27. Jonas
28. Kira
Epilogue
Rifts and Refrains Chapter One
Need more?
Acknowledgments
Get the song!
Did you hear? The song “Sweetness” that Jonas wrote for Kira is a real song that you can hear with your ears!
GET THE SONG
One
Jonas
Pine boughs scraped against the windows of the forty-five-foot tour bus as it crept along the last half mile of the dirt road. By the time the driver came to a stop outside the Nest Lake Lodge, I was already on my feet. And when the door swung open, I jumped out to taste the Maine air.
This was the moment of truth. I inhaled deeply, taking in the summery scent of lake water and lilacs.
Yes! It still smelled the same. That was a good sign.
Slowly, others began to trickle off the bus behind me. First came Quinn, our drummer. She stretched her legs without comment. But then Nixon, our lead guitar, stepped down and began to laugh. “No shit, man. Really? We drove a hundred miles out of our way for this?”
“Hey! Trust me.” I smiled at my two best friends. “Nest Lake is magic.” At least it had been once upon a time. And that was why we were here. This detour was supposed to help me remember the last time I’d been truly happy. Before I wrote another album, I needed to convince myself that happiness wasn’t impossible.
“Christ.” Nixon pulled his T-shirt down over his tattooed abs. “Where’s the bar? Where are the women?”
I took a moment to examine my oldest friend, and I didn’t like what I saw. A pale, tired face with dark circles under the eyes. ’Twas the season to worry about Nixon.
Most people looked forward to the summertime, but not him. Summer was when Quinn and I watched Nix for signs of a breakdown. From June till September—usually in the midst of a grueling tour—Nixon would trade his beer for whiskey. He would sleep too much and brood too long.
It was only Memorial Day Weekend, and already the man looked hollow. Not good.
I put a hand on Nixon’s shoulder. “Think of this as a couple of days off, okay? There’s nothing here but trees and the lake. You can thank me later.”
He eyed the lodge’s low-slung roofline with suspicion. “Have we fallen on hard times? Should I be worried?”
They both stared at me, but I didn’t give a damn. “Forty-eight hours,” I told them. “No TV, no cell phone service. Just put on a pair of trunks and jump in the lake.”
“Shit, I lost my suit in Toronto,” Nixon complained. “That sick night in the hot tub with those triplets? I’m lucky I still have both of my balls. Things got hairy.”
“Enough about your hairy balls,” I quipped. “No suit, no problem. Jump in naked. Or read in the hammock. When the weekend is over, you’re going to beg me to stay.”
Nix twitched, and then slapped at his neck. “Mosquitoes? Fuck. This is going to be the longest two days of my life.”
I’d already begun to walk away, but I turned around to say one more thing to my two best friends. “Listen, team. I wrote seven of the songs off Summer Nights about a half a mile from where you’re standing. If it weren’t for this lake, the words ‘one-hit wonder’ would appear in each of our Wikipedia entries. So quit bitching about my favorite place in the world.”
At that, I turned away. Walking toward the lake, I spotted two canoes parked on the bank, with life jackets and paddles at the ready. I walked past these and out onto the lodge’s private dock. The green scent of Maine was strong on the breeze.
“I only have one beef with Maine,” said a voice from behind me. “But it’s legit.”
I didn’t need to turn around to identify the speaker. Our tour manager—and my good friend—was the only one who could cast such a huge, bald, muscular shadow on the dock boards. “What’s that, Ethan?”
“There aren’t any other black dudes in Maine.”
I chuckled. “I’ll give you that. But it’s just a visit. We aren’t moving in.”
“Color me relieved. You need anything? I’m going inside to divvy up the rooms.”
“I’m good. Really good, actually.”
“Glad to hear it. Dinner’s at seven.”
An hour later, I convinced Quinn to row across the lake with me. “You don’t even have to row. I’ll do all the work.”
“Hey, I’m game.” She picked up a paddle and strapped on a life vest.
She tried to hand me the other vest, but I held up a hand, refusing it. “The summer I was here, I swam across this lake most days.” I squinted against the glare off the water. “In the morning I’d write. And if I made some good progress, I’d swim and lie in the sun in the afternoon. Otherwise, it was back to the grind after lunch.”
“Sounds very disciplined,” Quinn said with a sigh. “Maybe I should try it.”
“Totally worked!”
Five years ago I’d used that summer to regain control of my life. Secluding myself in the woods had served a couple of purposes. First, it got me away from the crazy Seattle scene. Then, with no distractions and nothing to occupy myself in my room at the tiny bed and breakfast but my favorite acoustic guitar and several empty notebooks, I’d finally written the band’s overdue album.
Not only had that album eventually gone double platinum, I’d had the best summer of my life. Because for once, I’d proved to myself that I could get the job done. I didn’t have to be just another blip on the music scene—a chump who got lucky with two hit songs before fading into oblivion. I didn’t have to be a fuckup. Not all the time, anyway.
Now I steadied the canoe at the edge of the water. “Hop in,” I instructed. “You sit up front.”
After Quinn was settled on the seat, I shoved off, then stepped carefully into the rear of the boat. Sitting down, I dug my paddle into the water and headed toward the western shore and the tiny town of Nest Lake. After only a few minutes of paddling, the little public dock and the B&B where I’d rented a room that summer came into view.
It had all happened right here. The narrow door at the back of Mrs. Wetzle’s house had been my private entrance. After a day spent writing, I used to slip on my flip-flops and shuffle down to the dock for a swim. On the Fourth of July, I’d gone skinny-dipping here with my only Nest Lake friend.
Just remembering that night made my chest ache. No wonder songwriters made so much of summertime memories. If I closed my eyes, I could still conjure the potent, warm air and bright stars.
And beautiful Kira. She was the best part of that memory.
Even though I’d been sorely tempted to peek, I’d turned around, obeying her request. Kira was gorgeous in the same way that Maine was—fresh and unspoiled. But she’d been off limits. It had been a rare instance of me staying “just friends” with a girl. And staying “just friends” had been another of my summertime goals.
At the time, I was freshly dumped by my supermodel girlfriend. We’d had the worst kind of pathological relationship, and I’d needed to prove to myself that I could go twelve weeks without relying on a hookup to feel better.
I’d almost succeeded.
Funny, but now I couldn’t even picture that ex-girlfriend’s face. But Kira’s was seared into my memory. Her tanned legs and sunny energy had tempted me from the minute I’d blown into town.
But I’d stayed strong. I hadn’t watched her strip down that night on the dock. In fact, I hadn’t made a move all summer long. Not once. Every time my gaze had strayed from her sparkling silver eyes to the swell of her breasts under her T-shirt, I’d kept my urges to myself.
Of course, looking wasn’t really against my rules. So after we’d slipped naked into the dark water of the lake, I’d admired Kira’s shoulders shimmering in the moonlight and the place where the water dripped down between her breasts. She’d held herself low at the surface, preventing me from seeing much. The mystery had made my attraction that much more potent. I’d floated there, close enough to touch her, while the gentle current caressed my bare skin.
Submerged in the water, we’d watched the fireworks shoot up from the other end of the lake, their bright explosions mirrored in the water’s surface. When it was finally time to get out of the water—and after my brain had invented several dozen fantastic ways to appreciate Kira’s naked body—I’d asked her to turn around while I climbed out on the dock.
Usually, I’m a hundred percent comfortable with nudity. But I couldn’t let Kira see the effect she had on me. I didn’t want her to know that my mind had been in the gutter the whole evening. Pulling my dry briefs and khaki shorts over my dripping wet body had been difficult with a rock-hard cock in the way.
“Jonas, it really is a beautiful lake,” Quinn said, interrupting the movie reel of my memories. “I can see why you’d come back.”
“It was the best three months of my life. No lie.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I thought the conversation was over. But then Quinn asked a question. “So… Why did you wait five years to come back?”
I rolled my neck, trying to shake the last of the tour-bus tension from my neck. “Because I’m a goddamned idiot,” I said, rowing toward the little beach. It was the truth, too. If Maine had lost its magic, it wasn’t the Pine Tree State’s fault. It was my fault. I’d been too stupid to see what was right in front of me.
When we reached the water’s edge, I dragged the canoe up onto the gravelly sand. “We can leave the boat right here. Nobody will bother it.”
“Really?”
“Really. That’s how it’s done here in Outer Bumfuck.”
Quinn laughed. “Are you going to show me the town?”
“Of course I am. But it will take about ten seconds.”
I admired Quinn’s shapely legs as she leaned over to stash her oar in the boat. It took surprising body strength to play the drums, and the muscle looked good on her, especially in her bathing suit and Daisy Dukes.
My drummer and I were truly just friends. We’d met eight years ago at work in a Seattle bar. Years ago—when I was hammered on Jack Daniel’s—I once kissed Quinn, in just the kind of dumbass move that can ruin a good friendship as well as a good band.
Luckily, after about five seconds of stupidity, we pulled back and sort of stared at each other. I’d said, “Okay, nope” at exactly the same time she’d said, “Ewww.” Then we’d burst out laughing, and never tried that again.
Thank goodness, because I was usually too impulsive for my own good. Quinn and I would’ve never worked as a couple, anyway. Two moody artists? That’s just a bad idea.
Besides, Quinn shied away from romantic relationships. She was happiest when she was scribbling music into her notebook or tapping out a rhythm with the drumsticks that she never seemed to put down.
From the public beach, we made a left toward Main Street. “So…” I gestured like a tour guide. “Here you see downtown metropolitan Nest Lake.”
The only living being in sight was a golden retriever sleeping on the sidewalk. As I began to talk, he opened one lazy eye to look at us.
“You have your post office, which is open about a half an hour a day, but don’t bother trying to figure out when, because they haven’t updated the sign on the door since 1986. And there’s the soft-serve ice cream place, the Kreemy Kone. Open until nine. The crown jewel is here—Lake Nest General Store—where I ate dinner every single night for an entire summer, even though it isn’t actually a restaurant. And that’s it. You’ve seen the whole town.”
Quinn raised a finger, counting the cars. “Four.”
“This is busy, actually. A big crowd for Memorial Day weekend.”
“Wow.” She smiled. “And your fans are about to rush you, I can feel it.”
Right on cue, a woman came out of the general store with a gallon of milk. She dismounted the wooden stairs, turning away without giving us a second glance. Then she tucked herself into one of the cars and drove away.
“And then there were three,” I said under my breath.
Seeing Main Street brought me into a strange reverie. In spite of the sunshine, I felt as if I was having a very vivid dream. I’d thought about this place so often, and now I was here for real.
Crazy.
“I can see why you came here to write,” Quinn said. “But how did you find it?”
“My mom used to come here when she was a little girl. One of the few pictures I have of her is on the porch of the general store.”
“Ah,” Quinn said. And because she knew I didn’t like to talk about my parents, she left it at that.
I’d lost both my parents when I was seven. Coming back here five years ago was a way to try to remember my life before everything had gone wrong.
Did it work? I guess. But the cure was only temporary. Lately I’d been feeling just as lost.
Five years ago I’d come here when my band’s new album was overdue. The record label was pissed off at me, so Maine seemed like a good place to hide from their nagging. And my glamorous girlfriend had just dumped me. A tabloid had just run a story about how I’d cheated on her. They used pictures of me with a woman that I slept with the night after we broke up.
I was twenty-five years old and already in a slump. So I’d come to this place my mother used to tell me about. It was one of the only details I could remember about her.
I’d needed some magic, and that’s what I’d found here in Maine.
“God, it’s hard to believe places like this still exist,” Quinn said. “Can we go into the general store? And then I want ice cream.”
“Lead on.” I followed her up the store’s wooden steps, through the screened porch and into the shop itself. What hit me first was the scent. It smelled exactly the same inside—musky and rich, like pickles, salami, and sawdust. And it looked mostly the same, lit by old soda lamps hanging from the ceiling on chains, with half an inch of dust on each one.
What’s more, Kira’s father stood behind the cash register, looking just as grumpy as he had five years ago. The old man proceeded to ignore us both, because he always ignored the summer people. And yet he’d been in business forever, because there weren’t any other stores for ten miles.
Two or three years ago, drunk and in a melancholy mood, I had finally picked up the phone to call this very store. It was a call that I’d waited too long to make, and I’d
known it was hopeless even before that surly old man answered the phone in his gravelly voice.
“Is Kira there?” I’d asked, knowing it was a long shot. No girl waits two years to hear from the asshole who’d rejected her. Besides—Kira had always said that she was going back to college after our magical summer.
“They moved to Boston,” the old man had told me.
Right. That’s what I’d expected. They’d moved to Boston.
They.
Hell, I’d expected that too. Kira wasn’t single anymore. Why would she be?
Thousands of miles away, in a Texas hotel room, I’d hung up the phone and poured myself another two fingers of scotch. But I’d never stopped thinking about Kira. And I probably never would.
Only one thing in the store looked truly different now. And although I’d expected this, it still made me sad. Her sign was missing. Above one of the back counters, a carved wooden plaque had once hung. KIRA’S CAFE. Her homemade specialty had been a quirky little meat pie, about five inches across. Under an artfully cut-out crust lay curried chicken, or sausage and peppers. There’d been a ham and egg version I’d particularly liked. My first week in Maine, I’d tried a different one each night. My second week, I’d repeated the cycle.
That’s how we’d become friends. After I’d eaten her savory pastries nine nights in a row, Kira began feeling sorry for me. So she’d surprised me with some new dishes. I walked in one night to find that she’d made me a big square of lasagna. The next night, she’d grilled up a bacon cheeseburger while I waited.
