Island in the Sea by Anita Hughes Page A

on black coffee and turkey sandwiches with mayonnaise and wilted lettuce. At night I can’t sleep because I have music tracks running through my head.” Juliet clutched her wineglass. “But when I’m driving on the I-405 and hear that new song on the radio, I feel like my heart is going to explode.”
    They ate silver bowls of pistachio ice cream with sliced kiwis. Juliet felt the breeze blow down from the mountains and wrapped her arms around her chest.
    â€œThis has been lovely.” She stood up. “But I’m going upstairs to bed.”
    â€œI forgot your name.” Henry jumped up.
    â€œI didn’t tell you.” Juliet frowned.
    Henry slipped his hands in his pockets and smiled. “Then, we’ll have to fix that.”
    Juliet walked to the French doors and turned around. She gazed at the night sky full of stars and at the turquoise swimming pool and pink bougainvillea. She saw Henry’s blond hair and broad shoulders.
    â€œIt’s Juliet,” she called. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    *   *   *
    Juliet slipped off her sandals and stood on the balcony. She felt her cheeks flush and her heart beat a little faster. It had been fun to drink a glass of rosé and talk to Henry. It was lovely to feel young and bright and pretty.
    She pictured Lionel saying she didn’t believe in love and flinched. She loved everything about her life: Yesterday Records’ glass offices in Santa Monica, her studio apartment a block from the beach, and attending concerts and awards shows and nightclub openings.
    Suddenly her head throbbed and her shoulders tightened. She walked inside and picked up a paperback book. She climbed onto the four-poster bed and began to read.

chapter eight
    L IONEL STOOD UP FROM THE piano and walked to the marble bar in the living room. He poured a glass of scotch and gazed at the candy wrappers and crumpled pieces of paper scattered over the wood floor.
    *   *   *
    He woke at 3 A.M. and couldn’t go back to sleep. The house was quiet and he padded downstairs to the library and searched the shelves. He selected leather volumes of Oscar Wilde and Emily Dickinson and Wordsworth. Finally he tossed the books on the mantel and entered the living room.
    The piano was open and he leaned down and inhaled the scent of mahogany and lemon polish. He sat on the wood bench and opened his notebook.
    *   *   *
    Now he carried his shot glass to the Regency desk and flipped the pages of the notebook. He read the verses quickly and felt his heart hammer in his chest. He read it again and let out his breath.
    He thought of all the years he wrote love songs: the midnight snacks of sausage rolls and butterscotch pudding, the endless supply of scotch and cigarettes. He pictured his unbrushed hair and cheeks covered in stubble. He remembered the moment he knew he could discard all the scraps of paper because he had written the perfect song.
    He gazed at the rumpled cushions and half-eaten Cadbury Fruit & Nut bar. Juliet would be here soon and he was too exhausted to clean up. What would she say if he told her he wrote the first song in twelve months and it was the best thing he’d written in years?
    Then he pictured Gideon in his impeccable Brooks Brothers suit and shuddered. If he told Juliet she would insist he write more songs. And even if he could, would he really give them to Gideon? He sunk on the floral sofa and put his head in his hands.
    He heard a knock at the door and jumped up. He scooped up the crumpled sheets of paper and tossed them in the garbage. He grabbed his notebook and shoved it in the desk drawer.
    â€œYour day of rest seemed to do wonders.” Lionel opened the door. “You look like an ad in a glossy travel magazine.”
    Juliet flushed and fiddled with her silver necklace. She wore a yellow linen dress and white sandals. Her hair was held back with a ceramic clip and