Matt unfolded the sheets of paper, then scanned them, trying to make sense of the ads, the bar code, the name Maud Ward.
“They’re concert tickets, doofus,” Luke said.
“And backstage passes,” Matt replied, still not believing his eyes. Two tickets to the upcoming Maud Ward concert. The sold-out homecoming concert. On the floor, six rows from the stage. He’d be close enough to watch her change chords.
“No fucking way,” Luke said, leaning forward to snatch the paper from Matt’s hand.
“Easy with that,” Matt said, handing it over hastily.
“How did she get backstage passes to Maud Ward’s homecoming concert?” Luke marveled, scanning every inch of the page.
“Eve knows her,” Matt said casually, like it was no big deal. Like Eve’s way of living, doing favors, big heart, paying it forward, wasn’t everything he was missing, everything he’d ever wanted, and thought he couldn’t have. “She got Maud some local gigs when she was just starting out.”
“Dude. Two tickets. You have to take her.”
“She’s not like that. She wouldn’t give me tickets in the hopes I’d take her. Besides, she can get her own tickets.”
Luke just looked at him until Matt had to break eye contact. He opened the folded sheet of stationery last.
Dear Matt,
Music matters too much to do without it. I’ve gotten you started with the prep playlist, but as we both know, live music is the best. It’s going to be an amazing concert. I hope you enjoy it.
Love, Eve
Sometimes you reap more than you sow. Sometimes, despite all efforts to the contrary, you reap love.
He’d walked away from her, believing it was the right thing for her, for him, for them. And she’d still sat down at her computer and made him an old-fashioned mix CD of all the songs they’d listened to while he’d fallen in love with the woman he thought he couldn’t have. He ejected They Might Be Giants, inserted the CD into the drive, and watched the list of artists appear in iTunes. Blanket, Damien Rice, Anjulie, Maud Ward, 3 Doors Down, Alexi Murdoch.
Even now, weeks after he’d walked away from her at the warehouse, she was thinking about him. Giving him the joyful things in life—concerts, music, a chance to share good times with friends. A life of duty and honor was empty without music and laughter and love.
“Earth to Matt,” Luke said.
A flash of black shifted at the edge of his vision. Intellectually he knew it was the wind in the big oak in the backyard dappling the shadows across the counters. Deep inside, he knew it was Eve.
And he knew what he had to do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“That’s it for me,” Hannah Rafferty said, closing her reporter’s notes for a softer, follow-up piece on Eve and community leaders seizing the momentum to redevelop the East Side. She shut off the recorder on her phone, and looked at the photographer. “Got what you need?”
“The light’s better over there,” he said, gesturing to the setting sunlight pouring through the storeroom’s open doorway. Eve straightened her suit jacket, then braced a shoulder against the doorframe and folded her arms, going for “determined” and “resourceful” despite Caleb hovering on the sidelines. He wore his best lawyer face, poker serious, protective. Eve found herself mirroring his look as the photographer took a few shots of her gazing at the camera, then a couple more from another angle that captured Eve studying the dust rising from the rubble behind Eye Candy. “Great. We’re good now,” he said, scanning through the images on his camera.
“Thanks so much for the interview,” Eve said.
Hannah shouldered her bag. “It’s important work,” she answered.
“Where will this run?” Eve asked. “The last time you did a feature on me it was for the Arts and Culture section.”
Hannah smiled. “Depends on the space available. If we have the inches, it’ll run as a feature on the front page, more likely the Metro section due to the community activist angle. If not, you’ll be back in Arts and Culture.”
“Right,” Eve said, trying to be grateful for any coverage at all. Despite being unable to reveal significant details thanks to the ongoing investigation, the sordid elements of guns, drugs, and two police shootings meant the basics of the story made the front page of the Lancaster Times-Herald for several days. Determined to milk the last possible drop of beneficial coverage from the incident, the politicians showed up for the photo op and spouted community-oriented quotes they hoped would be worked into the coverage.
“We’ve got to run,” Hannah said. “Deadline’s in two hours.”
“Thanks again,” Eve said, and showed them to the front door. When she returned to the storeroom, Caleb stood feet braced and hands in his pockets, admiring the ruins.
“When’s all this cleared out?” he asked idly.