Things left unsaid, p.1
Things Left Unsaid, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR
“Walsh has penned another endearing novel set in Loves Park, Colo. The emotions are occasionally raw, but always truly real. Readers will root for the characters to discover their potential and realize that love is right in front of them. It takes a little long to get to the point, but the journey is enjoyable.”
—RT Reviews, ****
“Walsh (A Sweethaven Summer) pens a quaint, smalltown love story, complete with an overbearing mother, an unscrupulous business partner, and a group of busybodies whose hearts are in the right place even if their actions are questionable. While certain elements are predictable, Walsh develops enough plot twists to make this enjoyable to the end.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Heartwarming! Paper Hearts is as much a treat as the delicious coffee the heroine serves in her bookshop. Courtney Walsh’s warm author’s voice tells a story of a doctor and a bookstore owner, both living in a town centered on romance, yet both disillusioned by love. Like the matchmakers that surrounded the couple in the novel, I couldn’t help cheering them on. A poignant, wry, sweet, and utterly charming read!”
—Becky Wade, award-winning author of Meant to Be Mine
“Delightfully romantic with a lovable cast of quirky characters, Paper Hearts will have readers smiling from ear to ear! Courtney Walsh has penned a winner!”
—Katie Ganshert, award-winning author of A Broken Kind of Beautiful
“Walsh’s touching debut will have readers longing for a visit to the idyllic vista of Sweethaven, Michigan. The touch of mystery, significant friendships and a charming setting create a real treasure.”
—Romantic Times, ****
“This book captivated me from the first paragraphs. Bittersweet memories, long-kept secrets, the timeless friendships of women—and a touch of sweet romance. Beautifully written and peopled with characters who became my friends, this debut novel is one for my keeper shelf—and, I hope, the first of many to come from Courtney Walsh’s pen.”
—Deborah Raney, award-winning author of the Chicory Inn series and A Vow to Cherish
“Courtney Walsh puts the sweet in Sweethaven. If you’re looking for an uplifting, hope-filled story filled with characters you’ll feel like you know, A Sweethaven Homecoming has it!”
—Marybeth Whalen, author of The Mailbox and The Things We Wish Were True
ALSO BY COURTNEY WALSH
Hometown Girl
Just Look Up
Paper Hearts
Change of Heart
A Sweethaven Summer
A Sweethaven Homecoming
A Sweethaven Christmas
A Sweethaven Romance
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Courtney Walsh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Waterfall Press, Grand Haven, MI
www.brilliancepublishing.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Waterfall Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503901476
ISBN-10: 1503901475
Cover design by Eileen Carey
For my boys, Ethan & Sam, you make me so happy to be alive.
CONTENTS
Start Reading
Lyndie, Elle texted . . .
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pastor Timothy & Nora Preston
request the honor of your presence
at the wedding of their son
Travis James Preston
to
Elle Porter
Saturday, the twenty-second of June
two thousand nineteen
at 2 o’clock in the afternoon
Sweethaven Chapel
Sweethaven, Michigan
Lyndie, Elle texted, we’re finally doing it. We’re getting married!
Congratulations, Elle! That’s so great—took you guys long enough!
Can you call me later? There’s something I want to ask you!
Oooh. I’m in a session all day today. Tomorrow?
Oh, I know it’s not proper etiquette to ask in a text, but I can’t wait till tomorrow! Will you be my maid of honor? You’re my oldest friend—it has to be you.
. . .
Lyndie?
Sure, Elle. Of course I’ll be your maid of honor.
:) THANK YOU! You won’t have to plan anything! I just can’t wait to see you again! It’s been too long.
It has. It’ll be so good to catch up.
Chapter One
This is it, Lyndie. Don’t blow it.
Lyndie St. James stood in the hallway of Judson Music Studios, willing herself to open the door. A door that, in the past few months, had come to mean so much, thanks to constant reminders that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And do you know how many songwriters would kill for a chance to pitch to these people?
She knew. She’d been in the industry long enough to know.
But if she thought about that for too long, she’d buckle under her fear.
“You going in, St. James?” Dylan Markert. The guy behind this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. “Or are you going to stand out here all day?”
Lyndie forced a smile. “Just gathering my courage.”
“You’ve got me in your corner—what do you need courage for?” Dylan put his hand on the knob of the reclaimed-barnwood door. The studio was tucked inside a renovated warehouse in Nashville. It seemed everything old was new again, at least at Judson Music.
Lyndie took a step back on wobbly legs. Dylan must’ve sensed her trepidation, because he faced her then. “Look, Lyndie, you’re a rising star. You’re one of the most promising young songwriters in the business today. You know this, right?”
She gave him another feeble smile. How else was she supposed to answer that question?
“You’ve already written three huge hits. The fact that Jalaire Grant wants to hear your new stuff proves I was right about you all along. Everyone sees it but you.”
“I just don’t want to mess it up.”
“Then don’t.” He grinned. “Now, let’s go. Jalaire is waiting.”
Lyndie had a matter of minutes to impress Jalaire Grant and her people. Jalaire Grant! Should she pinch herself?
Don’t mess this up.
She followed Dylan through the door, and he motioned for her to take a seat on a stool at the center of the space. She did, then perused the room of men in suits sitting in a semicircle on either side of one very important woman—Jalaire Grant.
How had Lyndie gotten here?
Oh, Cassie, if you could see me now.
She could almost imagine her friend was sitting beside her, that she wasn’t a solo act, that they’d actually made it.
Almost.
Slowly, Lyndie dared a glance at Jalaire. The woman was tiny—really tiny—and while usually decked out in layers of makeup, wild hair and the kind of costumes that would make her mother blush, today Jalaire looked very . . . normal. Plain, even.
Her paper-thin white button-down was partly tucked into jeans paired with wedge heels. Honey-blond hair hung in loose waves down her back. Without the costumes and makeup and colored wigs, Jalaire Grant was just another woman.
But if that was true, then why did she make Lyndie so nervous?
Lyndie had heard the stories—the woman was a diva—but today she almost didn’t believe those rumors. Today, Jalaire Grant looked like someone Lyndie would have coffee with.
Regardless, it didn’t matter. Jalaire was a huge star, and she wanted to hear Lyndie’s new songs.
Surely this was all a dream, right?
Lyndie’s eyes found Dylan’s. Her manager was older, wiser, savvier. Lyndie wasn’t thirty yet. She knew she didn’t have the life experience many songwriters did, but apparently she had a “new sound.” And apparently that was important.
Dylan had spent a good five minutes pumping her up with his she’s-coming-to-you speech in his office at Judson Music when Lyndie had first arrived that morni
Jalaire Grant hadn’t said a word, but she was in control here.
Lyndie admired it. It terrified her, but she still admired it. One day, maybe she’d be the one calling the shots.
“What do you have for us, Ms. St. James?” one of the men asked.
His words pulled her from her thoughts. Now was not the time to lose focus.
Not the time to think about the wedding. Or Elle and Travis. Or Cassie. Or Tucker. Not the time to think about the fact that in just three days she was expected in Michigan, and the only thing waiting for her there was heartache.
“Lyndie?”
She found Dylan’s watchful eye. He knew she was prone to daydreaming, though he probably assumed she filled those daydreams with song lyrics and not unwanted memories. She’d been doing so well with the latter, as if she’d found a box, placed everything she wanted to forget inside and buried it in a place no one would ever find.
But every now and then, the box cracked open—just enough to leak something noxious—and it infected her like a virus.
Why can’t I just let it all go?
Dylan stared at her, eyebrows raised, expecting something amazing. Did she have something amazing to give? Ever since she’d agreed to be in Elle’s wedding—one that could’ve easily been held in Chicago, where Elle and Travis lived and which would’ve been much more manageable—she’d been off her game. Apparently when the box cracked open, it made composing difficult.
And this wasn’t a good time for writer’s block. She hoped what she’d come up with would be enough to spark Jalaire’s interest, but Lyndie’s stomach roiled, her breathing unsteady.
Hooking her heels on the rung of the stool, she set the guitar in position on her knee. She situated herself and, for the first time, made eye contact with Jalaire.
The woman had been in the music industry for years now, and according to Dylan, she was looking to reinvent herself.
“What does that mean?” Lyndie’d asked him—because reinvention could mean a million different things.
He’d shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out. But whatever you do, don’t gush over her. Celebrities hate that. You’re a professional. Be professional.”
Lyndie felt like anything but.
“I have three songs for you today,” she said now to Jalaire, feeling removed from her own body, like her voice wasn’t her own.
Don’t gush. Be professional.
“Thank you for giving me a chance to play for you.” She started strumming the familiar chords of a song she’d been working on for several weeks. It still wasn’t perfect, but it was different, and if Jalaire was looking to reinvent herself, maybe this was one way she could go?
Lyndie sang through all her new songs, and as she played the final chord, she kept her eyes on the ground, almost too afraid to look up and discover her future in the eyes of strangers.
After a long beat, she finally raised her eyes. The men all seemed to be waiting, as if none of them could speak without first getting Jalaire’s thoughts. Lyndie’s eyes shifted to the singer and found Jalaire staring. At her. Lyndie didn’t dare look away, but Jalaire’s gaze unsettled something inside her. Was this music icon reading every private thought Lyndie had?
“Gentlemen, can we have the room?”
Lyndie’s eyes darted to Dylan, whose surprised expression told her this wasn’t normal. The other men did as Jalaire said, filing out of the room in silence. Dylan, however, sat—unmoving—in the chair at the end of the semicircle.
“Mr. Markert?” Jalaire faced him.
“Lyndie’s my client, Jalaire. I’m not going anywhere.”
She met his gaze. “We’re just going to have a conversation. She’s not signing anything, and we’re not negotiating. But the conversation is private.”
Tension hovered for several seconds until finally Dylan stood. He looked at Lyndie.
“It’s fine, Dylan,” she said, though it didn’t feel fine at all.
Once he’d gone, Jalaire stood and shook out her arms, as if loosening her muscles. “These things are always so formal.” She walked across the room and picked up a bottle of water. “Dylan played me your demo.”
Heat rushed to Lyndie’s face.
“There’s something missing.”
She braced herself for hard truth. “What’s missing?”
Jalaire took a drink of water, recapped the bottle and faced her. “You.”
Lyndie stood. “I don’t understand.”
“Your songs are beautiful. Melodies that are unique but catchy—I’ll be humming them for weeks. But your words are . . .” Jalaire drew in a breath. “Empty.”
So, she’d blown it. That was that. “Well, thank you for the opportunity.” Lyndie opened her guitar case and set the instrument inside.
“Hold on. Are you really giving up that quickly?”
Lyndie stilled. “You just said the songs are empty.”
“The words are empty. But the songs are fabulous. I’d suggest you work with a lyricist, but I think that’s wrong here. I think you’re supposed to write these songs.”
“But I’ve already written them.”
“But they aren’t finished.”
Lyndie’s mind spun. She didn’t know how to do what Jalaire wanted.
“Look, Lyndie, I made it to the top singing bubblegum music for tween girls, but that’s not who I am anymore. I’ve lived more life. I don’t want to sing about anything I don’t personally feel connected to—but in order for me to feel that, you’ve got to give me songs you’re personally connected to. I know there’s more depth to you than this. You’re holding back.”
Lyndie met the other woman’s eyes. She’d mastered the art of looking strong and confident, but inside, Lyndie felt like a phony. Inside, she wanted to cry.
“You bring me something authentic,” Jalaire said. “I know I’m going to love it.”
Jalaire strolled over to where she’d been sitting and picked up her oversize bag off the floor. That bag probably cost more than a month of Lyndie’s rent.
“What are you saying?” Lyndie asked.
“Get back to work. And call me when you have a new song.” She reached inside the bag and pulled out a small white card, then walked over and held it out to Lyndie. “Something real. I don’t want to put anything else out there that doesn’t actually say something.”
“So, you’re giving me another shot?” She took the card, which was completely blank except for a phone number. Jalaire Grant was giving Lyndie her phone number?
Jalaire smiled, and for the briefest moment, she seemed like an older sister. “You’re talented, Lyndie. You’re just detached. Tell me how it feels to have your heart broken or to lose someone you love. Tell me about a time you lost something important or screwed up so royally it still keeps you up at night. Put it on the page. You’re going to have to revisit your own heartache to come up with anything that means anything. That’s what artists do. We bleed.”
Lyndie’s throat went dry. She wasn’t about to do that.
Could she fake it—better than she’d faked it this time?
“Let’s meet up again in a couple of weeks and see where you are.” Jalaire slung the bag over her shoulder. “I’m expecting great things.”
But Lyndie knew better. Some pain might be worth reliving in order to bring about great art, but Lyndie’s was not.
And she wasn’t about to try.
Chapter Two
The apartment was warm. Stuffy. With the royalties from her last song, Lyndie had been able to move into a place of her own six months ago, but she had yet to make it homey. There were no photos on the walls, no cute pillows or curtains or quotes. All in all, it was perfectly functional, but nothing about it would make anyone feel cozy.
When would she stop living like a nomad? She was putting down roots here. She’d be smart to actually unpack. After all, she should be thrilled to be out of the three apartments she’d lived in since graduation. They hadn’t been much of an upgrade from campus housing, and she’d always had at least two roommates.
It was June, and even she had to admit it might be time to turn on the AC. She went through her home-from-work ritual: Hang up keys. Take off shoes. Change into something comfortable (shorts and a tank top). Fill up water bottle with ice water. Water plants. Go through mail.
