Resonating Souls (Bermuda Nights #1)(6)
He raised an eyebrow. “So, not too fond of the family fortune?”
I took a sip of my drink. “Money like that comes with more than strings – it comes with heavy chains. Rules about how you’re expected to act, who you’re expected to see, and how you should live your life. I had to put up with it for the first eighteen years of my life.”
I looked out over the water, back to where the Boston skyline was lost in the distance. “When I turned eighteen, I cut all ties. My parents pushed hard to make me go to Yale. They would have paid for everything. Bought me a new Lexus to celebrate.” The darkness swirled in, as it always did. “And I would have been theirs forever.”
I shook myself. “Thank God, I had my scholarship to Boston University. They were furious, but I went. I severed the cord and left. I wanted to live my life on my own terms, not relying on an allowance from Daddy or worrying about what Mommy might say.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Lots of folks would be eager for a rich relative.”
I chuckled without mirth. “Those would usually be the ones who haven’t had to deal with said relative,” I pointed out. “I think people don’t realize just how much they already have, in their blindness of looking for something better. Just think of all of the billions of people in the world who struggle just for food. Here we are, worrying about what types of shoes we wear or what restaurant we should go to. And we think we don’t have enough?”
He tilted his head to the side, his eyes refocusing on me as if drawing me into a new awareness.
My shoulders slumped. I’d done it again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”
“No, no,” he assured me, his gaze holding mine. “It’s all right. It’s just, I don’t hear that type of talk much on the ship. It’s refreshing.”
A waiter stopped by, taking up the empty glasses. “Would you like another, miss?”
“Sure, why not.” I reached for my purse.
The guitarist waved me off. “Put it on my tab, Rico,” he instructed the waiter.
The waiter winked at him. “Sure thing, Evan. And good job on the set. Lucky break for you, that other guitarist falling sick like that.”
Evan grinned. “Lucky, indeed.”
The name rolled around in my mind. Evan. A solid, Irish name. He looked the part, too. I could see it now, the sturdiness in his face, the sense of taking on all comers that I’d seen in the men in Boston’s many Irish bars.
I turned to Evan as the waiter headed back to the bar. Rico’s words swirled in my mind. “So you’re not the regular guitarist?”
He shook his head. “Just a fill-in. It’s a long story.”
I glanced at the stage. “OK, you probably don’t have a long break. Can I have the elevator speech version?”
He chuckled. “Your degree’s in something business related, I take it.”
I flushed. “I’m afraid so.”
His eyes held mine. “That’s all right. Short version it is.” His tone became somber. “It’s because of the Boston Marathon bombing. I was at the finish line when those bombs went off.”
I reached a hand automatically for his, laying my fingers over his warmth. My voice hushed. “God, Evan, I’m so sorry. I had several friends running in that race, and I was further back in the crowd when that happened. Those first few days – they were like a nightmare. Even now, I think about it any time I go into that area of the city.”
He nodded. “Something like that changes you forever. There was the shock, and the injured bodies, and I raced to help. I did what I could, but in some cases it just wasn’t enough.”
He looked down. “So I turned my shows into benefit gigs. Supporting the victims, supporting the recovery efforts, and it just never seemed to be enough. I poured every drop of my savings into the cause.” His shoulders tightened. “I had this small apartment in the combat zone, not much, but I got evicted. A friend of mine convinced me to sign up for a four month tour on this cruise line as a bartender. Free food, free board, and it’d help me get my feet back under me. Most of the people taking this run are from the area, so I’d still be helping out – I’d help them heal. And … and I suppose I needed some of that too.”
My fingers wrapped around his. “Of course you did.”
He let out a long breath. “I brought my guitar, of course. I don’t go anywhere without it. I’d play for the crew, in our free time, and got a loyal following. Then, about three weeks into my tour, the band’s guitarist got ill, and the band needed someone to fill in.” He gave a low chuckle. “You’re on a ship at sea – there aren’t too many spare musicians lying around. The guys had heard me play, and they lobbied for me to get transferred.” He spread his arms. “And here I am.”
“You’re quite good,” I praised. “They were wise to choose you.”
His eyes lit up. “Glad you think so.”
Rico came back with my drink, placing it before me with a wink. “On the house.”
Evan glanced up. “No, Rico, I’m paying.”
Rico’s smile widened. “God, Evan, you help us out when it’s not your shift, and you spend all your free time playing for us. Think of it as just a tiny bit of good karma, coming back your way.”