Life Rewritten
by Margaret Watson

CHAPTER 1

          Sweat dripped into her eyes, making them sting.  She let them burn as she finished the complicated drum solo of 'In the Air'.  As the cymbals crashed and faded, Paul strummed a chord on his guitar, the rest of the band began singing again, and the pub exploded into applause.

         The microphone stands jiggled as people stomped on the floor.  Evenly spaced, the silver poles were bright bars in front of her.  Caging her and the drums, protecting her.  Keeping her safe.

         The applause steadied her, made it easier to lose herself in the music.  Tonight, she needed that release.  It had been three years, but she'd never played publicly on the anniversary of Diesel's death.

         It was harder to handle than she'd thought it would be.

         The lights blazing down on her turned the faces of the audience into dark shadows, but they didn't hide the figure waving an open cell phone in the air.  That moving streak of color, the twenty-first century version of a lighter at a concert, jerked her back to reality.

         She'd let her need to forget go too far.  People were paying attention to her.  Watching her.  She shouldn't have let herself get carried away with that solo.  She should have reined in her passion for performing, her craving to drum.  She should have played a bland, unmemorable riff.

         Diesel wouldn't have wanted her to be bland.  Diesel would have insisted on her best.

         An ache of misery swelled in her throat.  She should have told Paul she couldn't make it tonight.

         She should have stayed at home and mourned privately.

         But she'd convinced herself that this would help.  That the heat of the lights on her face, the sweat running down her chest and pooling between her breasts, the ache in her arms would soothe her.  That the power of the music, pouring through her body and into her fingers, her voice, would allow her to forget everything else.

         Instead, it brought all the memories flooding back.

         Diesel, flashing a grin as they played, completely in sync, perfectly attuned.

         Leading the cheers as she finished a drum solo.

         Lying dead on the bed in their hotel room.

         They finished 'In the Air' and segued right into 'Can't You See.'  No drum solo in this one.  No vocal solo.  Thank you, Paul.  She wasn't sure she'd have been able to sing right now.  She took a deep breath, wiped away the sweat with her sleeve, and tried to bury her grief.

         Two songs later, Paul stood his guitar on its rack and nodded to the other band members.  Fifteen minute break.  Hank set his guitar down and headed outside to smoke.  Stu, on keyboards, fiddled with his controls and amplifier for a moment.

         When she'd been with the Redheads, she'd coordinated her drinks with the sets.

         First break, first drink.  The music always heightened that emptiness inside her.  The one only vodka could fill.

         Delaney leaned against the cold window at her back and let the craving wash over her.  If she closed her eyes, she could taste the ice-cold Grey Goose.  Feel the heat as it slid down her throat.  Tonight, more than most, she would welcome the oblivion it could provide.

         The thirst was always worse on March twentieth.

         Fingering the AA medallion in the pocket of her jeans, she slid off the stool, set her drumsticks on the embroidered seat, and wove through the cords and mics and guitar stands toward the bar.

         "Great set, Delaney".

         "Loved your drum solo."

         "Can you guys play 'Landslide' in the next set?"

         Damn.  Someone always asked for that song.  She forced a smile at Ian, the professor who showed up almost every Friday night.  "I'll talk to Paul.  He does the set lists."

         As she headed for the bar, Quinn saw her coming and poured her coffee into a mug.  He set it on the marble surface, and she picked it up and inhaled the rich scent.

         She wished it was vodka.

         "Made it fresh," Quinn said as she closed her eyes and sipped.  He'd ground it fresh, too.

         “Thanks, Q.”

         “Nothing but the best for our star.”  He nodded at the crowds sitting at the booths and tables and standing three deep at the bar.  “People are getting here early on Fridays to make sure they have a table, and that means we're selling more food and drinks.  Everyone wants to hear you.”

         “I’m not the star,” she said sharply.  “They want to hear the band.”  There was a wet ring on the marble of the bar.  As she held her coffee, she concentrated on soaking up every drop with a napkin.

         "Don't fool yourself, Delaney.  We never had crowds like this until you started playing with Paul and the guys.  So would our star like something to eat?"

         “Maybe later," she managed to say.  One of the pub's chicken pot pies would be good, but her stomach had clenched so tightly when she heard star that she could barely get the coffee down.  "Okay if I use your office?  I need to change my shirt."

         "Sure, go ahead."

         Delaney closed the door behind her.  The air was cooler than in the pub, and she shivered in the damp tee shirt that clung to her skin.  She shucked it off and slipped into a dry one from her bag – a ritual between sets.  Just like the sweaty one, the dry shirt billowed around her body and hung to the middle of her thighs.  Paul had asked why she was camouflaging herself, but what did he know?  She needed room to move when she drummed.

         More comfortable now, she sank into Quinn's office chair to drink her coffee and try to manage the memories.  Once they'd escaped, it was hard to shove them back into their box.

         Three minutes before the band was supposed to start playing again, she left the sanctuary of the office.  On the way to the front of the pub, she veered toward the bar.  Quinn had the coffee pot ready before she reached him.

         “You’re good,” she said as she held out her mug.

         “Some people think so.”  He glanced toward the corner of the pub, where his wife Maddie was talking to one of the patrons.

         Delaney rolled her eyes.  “God save me from people in love.”  Her stomach settled and she took a deep breath.  This was exactly what she needed – to talk and joke with Quinn just like she always did.  To remind herself that this was just another Friday night.  “Don't think much of yourself, do you?"

         "Maddie thinks I hang the stars, and that's all I care about."  He pulled a beer and slid it to another patron, then added, "Lots of new faces in here tonight – probably the ice fishing tournament. You should sing a few more songs in the next set.  Maybe they'll come back tomorrow night."

         "I don't need to sing more," she said, trying to keep her voice light.  "Where else are they going to go?  The Harp is the best bar in Otter Tail."

         "The best pub," Quinn said automatically.

         "That's what I meant."  She hid her smile in a swallow of coffee.  She'd spent enough time at the Harp to know how to distract Quinn.

         "There are guys here from all over the country," he said, passing a basket of pretzels to another customer.  "They love you.  It's a huge potential audience."

         Guys from all over the country?  A huge potential audience?  God help her.  She sank onto a bar stool.  "Our Otter Tail audience is plenty for us."

         She didn't want an audience from all over the country.

           She thought about the custom furniture business she was nurturing, the friends she'd made in town.  She felt safe in Otter Tail.  She'd managed to bury her past, but if someone recognized her as Chantal, everything would come crashing down.

         She could forget about her placid, peaceful life.  She'd be lucky if she could stay in Otter Tail.

         Deep breath.  Calm down.  The chance of some anyone recognizing her was slim to none.  She wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her jeans.  “I think Paul is getting ready to start.”

         Quinn nodded as she hurried away.  When she reached her drum set, she set the coffee on the floor beside her, then sat down behind her drums and made herself think boring thoughts.  Bland thoughts.  That's what she needed to be for the rest of the night. 

          As she adjusted her snare drum, the door of the pub opened and a tall man walked in.  He sat on a stool and talked to Quinn for a few moments, then leaned against the bar.

         His gaze touched on the décor and the other patrons before it reached the band.  As he studied them, something about his eyes reminded her of Diesel.

         Damn it.  She fumbled on the floor for her mug and took a drink of coffee.  Everything reminded her of Diesel tonight.  It had been stupid to try to perform.

         No.  she could do this.  She wasn't going to let a stranger rattle her.

         And despite that flash of familiarity, he was a stranger.  She would have remembered if she'd met him before.  His dark, wavy hair brushed the edge of his collar, and his narrow face was all angles and planes.  He had to be a fishermen – the lines around his eyes hinted at days squinting in the sun.

         Most women would be intrigued by that face.  Challenged by the air of mystery and tension swirling around him. 

         She didn't get involved with strangers, even ones with compelling faces.  She wasn't Chantal anymore.

         Whoever he was, he didn't live in Otter Tail.  His jacket was battered leather, and his jeans were faded and white at the stress points.  She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but they scanned the room, cataloging then dismissing one person after another.

         The people in this town were mostly open, trusting, easy to read.  Not this guy.  No one from Otter Tail could slice through a room with a glance like that.

         When he focused on the band again, Delaney wanted to duck behind the bass drum and hide.  She didn’t want those eyes on her.  It felt as though he could ferret out anyone’s secrets with the intensity of his gaze.

         “Okay, are we ready to go?  Any additions to the playlist?"

         Paul's voice drew her attention from the stranger at the bar, and Delaney, grateful for the interruption.  The four of them conferred quickly, agreeing on teh next fifteen songs.

         "And 'Landslide'.  I got three requests for it," he added.

         "Fine," she sighed.  She'd managed to steer them away from songs that usually featured her.  It was too much to hope that she could get away without singing at all during the set.  "Not the first one, though."

         "Nope.  Everyone needs another jolt of energy.  We'll save ‘Landslide’ for later in the set,” Paul said.  He strummed the first chord of ‘Rockin’ in the Free World’, and Delaney closed her eyes as her hands banged out the rhythm.

         As she lost herself in the music, Diesel's laughing face flashed in her memory.  She forgot about the man who'd just walked in.  She forgot about her vow to hold herself back, to try to keep herself separate from the music and the rhythm.

         All she wanted to do was get through the evening.

         So she could go home and mourn privately for her lost lover.

         The woman behind the drums couldn’t be Chantal.  Sam shifted on the bar stool and leaned forward, trying to see her more clearly.  This woman was a petite blond with short hair, no visible tattoos and a face of delicate beauty and strength.  There was absolutely no resemblance to the notorious rocker with black, spiky hair tipped with pink and the tattoos covering her upper arms.  She didn't have Chantal's self-indulgent expression and hard eyes, either.

         His source must have been wrong.

         But the PI hadn’t been wrong yet.  Every lead he’d gotten from the guy had panned out, from the name of the town where she was born to the name she was using now.  Sam had paid more money than he could afford for the PI’s services, but if this woman was Chantal, it had been worth every penny.

         When it led to a little pub in this town with the stupid name, he’d been confident he’d found her.  He’d been sure he would recognize her the moment he saw her. 

         How could he not?  Chantal had ruined his brother’s life.  Was responsible for his death.

         The blond sat behind the two guitar players, her face almost hidden by the microphone.  The drum set concealed the rest of her body, but when she moved, her shirt flowed around her and he saw a hint of curves.  Her arms were those of a drummer - toned and firm, although he only caught a glimpse of them beneath her baggy tee.  The shapeless shirt was the complete opposite of the tight, provocative outfits she used to wear when she performed.

         The three men played a few chords, adjusted their microphones and put their heads together for a moment.  But Chantal, if it was her, said a few words then sat with her back against the window, sipping from a mug.

         She’d always drank from a mug during a show.  It had held Grey Goose, ice cold from the freezer.  Chantal had expensive taste.

         Sam wondered if the bartender in this place kept her vodka bottle frozen.

         “You here for the tournament?" the bartender asked him, and Sam swiveled around to face him.

         "What tournament?"

         "Ice fishing."

         “Hell, no."  Sam shuddered.  “Sitting on my ass in a little shack on a frozen lake?  No, thanks.”

         The bartender’s mouth quivered.  “Got it.  Not an ice fisherman.  Welcome.  I’m Quinn Murphy.”

         He held out his hand, and Sam shook it.  "Sam McCabe."

         “Nice to meet you, Sam.  What can I get you?”

         “How about a beer?”  He'd have to drink one beer, or the bartender would wonder why he was here.  But he'd only have one – he didn't want the woman watching Rennie and Leo to smell the alcohol on his breath.  He'd told her he had to work tonight.

         “What kind?”

         “Whatever you have.”

         “How about a local beer?  We’ve got a pale ale from a Green Bay brewery called Hopasaurus Rex that’s good.

         Hopasaurus Rex?  He sure as hell wasn’t in Miami anymore.  “Why not?  I’ll give it a try.”

         As Murphy pulled a glass of pale gold beer, he said, “If you’re just passing through town, you picked a good night.”  He nodded toward the musicians.  “They’re our most popular band.”

         “They have a name?”

         “We just call them Paul’s band.”

         “Are they local?”

         “Mostly.  The keyboard player comes in from Sturgeon Falls.”

         He glanced at the band and saw Chantal take another drink.  How much was she drinking at a time now?  Two fingers?  Three?  "How often do they play?”

         The bartender studied him a little more carefully.  “Once a week, usually.  This weekend, they’re covering tomorrow night, too.  How long are you going to be here?"

         “A while," he said easily.  "I've got business in the area.  If they’re as good as you say, I’ll come to hear them again.”

         Quinn nodded.  “They’re that good.”  He studied Sam for a moment longer, then began filling another glass for a customer several seats down.  “Maybe we’ll see you around, then.”

         “Probably so.”

         Sam settled against the bar.  He hadn't wanted to come after Chantal.  All he'd wanted to do was forget about her.  Forget what she'd done to his brother.  To his niece and nephew.

         Sam had failed his brother, and Chantal was a reminder of that.

         Guilt swept over him again, and nothing could make it go away.  When child protective services had called and told him the kids were alone, he'd told the woman he'd hire someone to take care of them.  Her voice had gone from friendly and sympathetic to cold when she told him he was the emergency contact their mother had listed.  He had custody of them now.

         He didn't have the time, the energy or the patience to take care of two kids.  Diesel's kids.  But Heather's breakdown hadn't given him any choice.

         When the PI had called to say he'd found Chantal, Sam had still been trying to hire someone to care for Leo and Rennie.  One prospective nanny after another had fallen through, and he'd been forced to take them himself.

         That meant dragging them to Otter Tail.  What was supposed to be a quick visit, in and out by himself, had turned into an ordeal.  Rennie got air sick on the plane.  She got car sick on the road.  Leo had been sullen and resentful and barely spoke to him.

         The tiny motel room left him no escape from the kids.  He couldn't even put them to bed and close a door.  He'd better be able to get those tapes from Chantal quickly.  He wasn't sure how much more up close and personal time he could take with the kids.

         Diesel's children needed the money those tapes would bring in.  They needed to be out of the limelight and protected.  The school he'd picked out for them would do all that and more.  They'd have the best education money could buy.  And they would be shielded from the paparazzi, the constant attention their mother received.

         If he could do that for Diesel's kids, it would give him at least a little redemption for the way he'd failed their father.  But in order to get them in the school, he needed money.

         Money he'd get from the tapes he was certain Chantal had.  Or Delaney Spencer, as she was calling herself now.  It was the least she could do, after what she'd done to Diesel.

         At the familiar burn in his gut, he leaned against the bar.  He didn't give a damn about Chantal, if it really was her sitting behind those drums.  All he wanted was enough money to get Leo and Rennie off his hands and into a safe environment.

         The guitar players slid onto stools, the keyboardist ran off some chords, and the noise level in the pub dropped.  Then they started playing.

         The music was nothing like the Red Headed Stepsisters.  It wasn’t hard rock, pounding rhythm, angry lyrics.  They played covers from a wide variety of bands, and they did it well, Sam admitted grudgingly.

         The drummer was good.  She didn’t overpower the other instruments, she didn’t draw attention to herself.  But it was clear she was talented.  She didn’t sing, though.  There was a microphone hanging in front of her, but for the first several songs, she kept her mouth shut.

         Then the keyboard player hit a chord, the guitar players let their hands fall away from their instruments, and the drummer set her sticks on her lap and pulled the microphone toward her.  The murmurs in the room quieted.  It felt as if the whole room held its breath.

         He played with a cardboard Guinness coaster as he waited.  Watching.

         The drummer's chest rose as she drew a breath.  She launched into a poignant Fleetwood Mac song, and he snapped the cardboard coaster in two.  There was no mistaking that voice.

         Chantal.

         He’d found her.

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