Page 15 of Moonlit Hideaway
“What do you know?” he continued with a chuckle. “Come Christmas morning, the shadow of a large ship offshore was reported. It was tearing apart, and the rescuers couldn’t launch a boat. They shot out lifelines and dragged men, women, boys, and girls out of the roiling sea. Some washed up, lifeless, and had to be wrapped in bedsheets and buried. But many were hungry and had nothing but the clothes on their backs.” He tucked a strand of hair whipping across Sierra’s face back over her ear. “But that evening, everyone had a Christmas meal and got their slice of pie.”
His lingering touch was at odds with his words, awakening an ache she hadn’t known she had.
“I see many Baxters on the monument,” Sierra noted to divert her confused feelings. “She must have come from a line of heroes.”
“She did, but that Mrs. Baxter, Elizabeth, was rescued herself as a young girl on her way to the north. She was orphaned and married Mr. Baxter. That Christmas, they started Moonlit Inn. It was 1899.”
She wanted to ask him where his wife had gone, but she wouldn’t pry. He’d let her know in his own time, or maybe it didn’t matter. She was just another young lady who washed up on the beach or, rather, drove up in a clunker truck. She wore someone else’s clothing, and she was orphaned from her old life—the glitz and glamour of the stage, the flashing lights of Vegas, and the dazzling celebrity that had almost been within reach.
“The inn and the island’s heritage must mean a lot to you,” she said with words that were inadequate.
“I cannot let go of her memory, and I can’t let Emma go off the island.” His pained gaze was like a plea—a bargain with the gods.
Chapter Seven
That afternoon, Sierra agreed to give Emma her first guitar lesson. While she understood Hank’s reluctance to let his daughter go, it saddened her that Emma was confined to the small island and not allowed to go out with friends. What a contrast to her life in Philadelphia, where her mother was a socialite who dragged her to all the fancy balls and fundraising galas.
While her father wasn’t much in her life, he always showered her with party dresses, jewelry, and vacations. He’d gotten a kick out of her rise to pop star status, and she’d never lacked in terms of music and dance lessons, voice coaches, and support staff.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed in her room, she withdrew Emma’s mother’s worn guitar from its battered case. It was a basic mass-produced acoustic guitar, nothing fancy—but it looked well-loved. She tuned it by ear as Emma peeked through the partially open door.
“I finished my homework, and Dad says I can hang out with you if you’re okay with it. Did you get a lot of songs written?”
“I’m still trying to relax enough to get my creative juices going.” Sierra handed her the guitar. “Why don’t you start with something you’ve been working on?”
“Oh, I’m not that good yet. Mom only got as far as teaching me a few basic chords before she…” Emma hummed a tune while strumming.
Her voice was uncertain at first, then grew stronger as she lost herself in the lyrics of a simple folk song—poetic in its way about small towns and big dreams.
When the last chord faded, Sierra clapped. “You have such a beautiful voice. You’ve got real talent.”
“You think so?” Emma’s face was pink. “I mean, it’s a small town here, but I don’t think I can cut it anywhere else.”
“You absolutely can, and you will. You sing with heart, and with training and hard work, you can get anywhere you want to go.”
“That’s what people say, but it’s not true.” Emma shrugged. “Mom never made it off the island.”
“What was your mom like?” She gently took the instrument from Emma and began finger-picking a poignant tune she was working on. “Tell me about her.”
“Mom was beautiful,” Emma said with a hint of pride. “She loved Dolly Parton and wanted to be a country star, and she had this amazing laugh that would light up the room. She almost made it when she was my age, but then, she had me and got stuck playing gigs in town for the tourists.”
“Nothing wrong with entertaining tourists.” Sierra hummed along with the calming chord progression.
“Dad was one of the tourists. He fell in love with her the moment he heard her sing.” Emma’s expression turned somber. “He’s been so sad since she passed.”
“I’m sorry. It’s hard when you lose someone you loved.” She passed the guitar back to Emma. “Let’s make your mom proud and continue the lesson. How about I teach you the blues progression?”
“I already know the bluesy country stuff,” Emma said. “I wish I could get an electric guitar and do cool riffs like the one from ‘Neon Heartbeat.’”
Sierra felt a jolt, but she kept her face neutral. “I’m not sure I know that song. How does it go again?”
“Are you kidding me?” Emma jumped off the bed and grabbed her phone. “Sierra Rayne is only the hottest star around. I wish I could see her live, but Dad won’t let me go to concerts.”
She pulled up a video of Sierra belting out the catchy tune, effortlessly shredding the song’s iconic riff onstage.
“Wow, that’s really good.” She cringed internally at having to compliment herself.
“Sierra’s the best,” Emma gushed. “She’s so talented, and I heard she’s nice, too. Dad won’t let me get an electric guitar, but when I grow up, I want a pink one like hers.”
