Chapter 3

He saw those dark, gently judgy eyes again that very day.

The first time, at the roundabout. Carl had stopped abruptly at the sight of Jason's rainbow helmet hanging from the powerlines, and a vehicle had to come to a sudden halt. This had Carl jumping and throwing out a thanks that got truncated when he noticed the familiar ute, and the more familiar dark-haired heartbreaker behind the wheel. The toot that came sounded incredulous, and their eyes locked as the ute carefully passed.

The second time, after lunch. Carl had headed off to explore Jason's suburb on foot, and narrowly avoided being run down by an electric scooter. In the process of leaping aside, he smacked his hand on a freshly painted green fence, through the gaps of which dark eyes stared with a series of disbelieving blinks. Carl blinked back, and Berhampore's Heartbreaker rose out of his crouch with his green-dripping paintbrush, reached over the pickets, and without a word erased Carl's handprint.

The third time, mid-afternoon, when Carl headed to the supermarket to stock the pantry and ended up on the phone with Jason, shaking his head at his twin becoming involved in a fake-boyfriend plot in his name—only to have Berhampore's Heartbreaker round into his aisle as he was saying ". . . I'm into PDA." Which earned him a look like Carl had said it only to let him know. Like he really was hounding after him!

He returned home, unpacked, dealt with a wash he'd forgotten to hang out, and slunk into a local bar to drown the mortifying moments involving those gently judgy eyes. Seriously, who was this guy?

Behind the bar, the bartender was unpacking a box of cider. Carl used the time to glance over the beer list.

"What would you like?"

"A hazy IP—" Carl looked up and lost the rest of his order. His mouth gaped open, and unfortunately, he suspected a string of saliva had followed in the suddenness—leading to yet another assumption Carl was here drooling at all this beauty.

There—that jump of his brow. That totally implied he thought Carl was another groupie chasing after him.

Outrageous.

He smacked away any traces of unwanted drool. "Just the beer, please."

He paid, zipped to the furthest table available, and shielded himself from view with a menu. His beer came with a low tutting and blunt-tipped fingers dragging condensation off the glass. Carl refused to look up until he was sure the man was once more behind the bar.

Yep, stay right there where he could keep an eye on him, make sure he didn't poof! and turn up again in Carl's shadow.

A gaggle of prettily dressed-up ladies and gents swelled into the pub and took seats at the bar. Carl wanted to point a finger and declare that was flirting, nothing like what he'd done. He shook his head and grumbled into his beer. And grumbled some more upon witnessing those groupies getting sweet, polite smiles.

Not that he was a groupie, dammit.

At the table behind a beam on his right, Carl caught a glimpse of three middle-aged women in various shades of green seating themselves and clinking their wine glasses. "Let's down these, girls, and head to the Street Greet."

The Street Greet. He'd forgotten about it. Which was probably an indication he'd sensibly given up the thought of heading there as his twin.

"I saw Sage when I picked up some breadsticks," one of them said. "She was harking on about having seen Jason Lyall; she's invited him, apparently."

"Probably meant she glimpsed him heading home and stuffed a flyer in his letterbox. She's always exaggerating."

"She has to, though. She's got nothing else to talk about."

"Bit dim, that one."

"What kind of conversation do you expect from a mum who got knocked up at fifteen?"

"All right, fair. We can all just nod and smile."

"It's the kind thing to do. Won't last long anyway, she can't keep up with other things."

"So do we ask about Jason?"

A scoff. "Don't be so mean. You know he never takes part in these things. There's no way he'd show up."

"Honestly. Sage. How'd she end up with a name like that?"

"She's a baker. It still fits."

Laughter.

Carl's stomach twisted.

The out-of-towner and his magazines. His ex marrying super-smart veterinarian Nick. A corner store stockpiling donuts and kitty Catbernet. Duds and dead ends.

These women laughing at Sage behind her back could have been laughing at him.

He abandoned the last of his beer, pulled up his flannel hood, sidled past the groupies, and balled his fists the entire way to the villa. There, in a haze of sympathy and self-pity, he yanked open Jason's wardrobe.

Carl tookhis cleanly shaven jawline and styled hair towards Sage's Street Greet, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. A glance in a shop window had him squaring his shoulders with confidence. The charcoal, the crisp white, the black tie. Sharp. He totally exuded accomplished.

But... jeez, it was a wee bit constricting.

The jacket was the problem. Sort of pinched around his biceps. Perhaps he could get away without it? The double-breasted waistcoat should still give off a slick air of the refined.

On the main drag, before turning into the Street Greet, he shrugged out of the jacket and a typical Wellington gust made off with it. He attempted to play chase, but there came the blur of bike wheels and all that tailored material cling-wrapped the rider, who swore under wool and silk.

Carl watched between his fingers as the helmeted figure continued riding, one hand pulling the jacket off and holding it by its collar. Yeah, that grip wasn't lessening. Yup, the rider was taking off with it.

Looked like Carl would be replacing that one.

Never mind. The Street Greet . . .

He turned the corner and headed towards the end of the road. Like he'd stepped into some kind of alternate universe, evening sunset streamed down on him in glorious gold as he walked towards the gathered residents and their jaw-dropped mouths.

"Is that Jason Lyall?"

"The musician?"

"Oh my God. I go to all his local shows."

"Ha, I go to the ones in Auckland too."

"I need his autograph!"

"I want to hear him play."

"I wonder what his favourite pieces are!"

"Those fingers!"

"Truly talented."

Did they call him ‘truly talented'?

Wow, were they actually scrambling to make way for him?

"He usually keeps to himself."

"Who lured him out?"

"Does he know Sage? Are they . . .?"

"No way she could know someone like him."

Carl spotted Sage at the far end, on the edge of the crowd, her strawberry head cast down as if she'd caught all that too. She was starting to slink away.

"Sage!" Carl called out, and waltzed past the three bit—witches—from the pub. "Nice to see you again. How's Leo?"

Sage looked up, blossoming into a smile. And gosh, how satisfying, seeing the mums sag into mystified puddles as he accepted Sage's wide-armed, bouncy "Hello!"

Being Jason Lyall was rather intoxicating.

He smiled at neighbours and signed Jason's name on t-shirts and notebooks and promised to help a few old ladies tune their pianos. Really, he couldn't say no, could he? He'd simply put it off until the real Jason returned. He'd tell his brother helping out was good for karma.

He let Sage introduce him to everyone, and when asked by one of the witches to remind them of the story behind Tartini's Devil's Trill Sonata he begged off to ‘visit the bathroom.'

Sage ushered him to her place, calling into the house for Leo to come out. "Grayson is bringing your favourite apple shortcake! Made from the apples off our tree!"

When there was no response, Sage ‘huh'ed. "Maybe he's already found him. I'll go check." And Carl was left to find the toilet on his own.

Not that he needed it. But he went in anyway and perched on the fluffy lid while frantically searching up musical histories.

On his way back out, he caught sight of Leo peering out from under the table. "Psst."

Carl checked he wasn't talking to anyone behind him and pointed to himself. At Leo's nod, he crouched and waited.

Leo whispered, "Are they out there?"

"The neighbours? Yeah."

"The other mums?"

Carl nodded again.

Leo shuddered. "I'll stay here, then."

Carl thought of the ones he'd met so far, and had to agree. "What about that apple shortcake?"

"This is a conundrum!"

Carl laughed. "How about I sneak some in for you?"

"You'll come back?"

Carl winced, imagining all the other musical queries that'd come his way. "Fairly sure I'll be hiding in the bathroom again soon."

"I'm good at hiding. I can show you some better spots!" Leo brightened and crawled out from under the table. "First find Grayson. His shortcake is the best. The other mums try to make it but theirs is too sour."

"Grayson's shortcake. Got it." Carl rose to his feet; only after he closed Sage and Leo's gate did he wonder: who was this Grayson? What was he supposed to look like?

He didn't spy Sage, but one of the friendlier older ladies—Linda?—whose piano he'd promised to tune smiled and beckoned him to a picnic table on the footpath. "You look lost."

"Need to find someone."

"Of course you do, honey."

Carl scratched the back of his head. "His name's Grayson?"

"Nice young man. Bit burdened by his past."

That was... a bit more information than he needed. "Any idea where to find him?"

"It'll be quite a journey."

"He lives very far from here? Any idea when he'll arrive?"

"You'll find one another eventually."

Sage returned with a chipper laugh and a hug for Linda. She patted the top of Linda's white ringlets, and mouthed to Carl that she wasn't all there.

That was . . . quite okay.

What wasn't okay was the sudden reappearance of the witches. "You're back. Where were we? Ah, Devil's Trill Sonata."

"Tell us about it."

"Yes! Please do."

Carl started to sweat under his double-breasted waistcoat and paused to channel his best Jason: Knowledgeable. Professional. Accomplished.

He wriggled his fingers. Giuseppe Tartine's Violin Sonata in G Minor. Often performed with a piano accompaniment. He cleared his throat and told them the story he'd just looked up online. "Guiseppe Tartine dreamt he made a pact with the devil: his soul in return for musical genius. After obliging, the devil took Giuseppe's violin and played the most enchanting sonata he'd ever listened to. Upon waking, Giuseppe rushed to put all he'd heard down on parchment. The trill was challenging for many a musician, and this sonata was full of them. So full, he named the tricky piece after the tricky devil who gave it to him. Devil's Trill."

"Fascinating! Are there many other stories about musical pieces?"

Carl tugged at his tie. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"What about—" one of the witches started, and Carl jerked a finger towards the table, where a pitcher of lemonade and a stack of plastic cups sat.

"Excuse me," he rasped. "Throat's a bit sore. Talk more another time."

He dashed for the lemonade, and Linda helped pour it for him. Sage, perched on a chair beside her, cupped her chin and stared up at him in awe.

Carl felt a little guilty at this. But then he remembered how Sage had cheered up seeing Jason Lyall come to her Street Greet and nodded to himself. Right thing to do under the circumstances.

Sage waved brightly to someone behind Carl and to the left. "Grayson!"

Grayson of the apple shortcake?

Carl turned—and dropped his lemonade in a sticky splash down his waistcoat. That was Jason's suit jacket! And in it...

Gently-Judgy-Eyes.

They both blinked. Carl in an incredulous, you're-kidding-me way, and Grayson in an I-expected-nothing-less-from-my-newest-groupie way.

Grayson stared at him, a long scroll from silk tie to polished Oxfords. And those dark, judgy eyes were in fine form.

Which was... completely enraging. Such a thought must be stopped at once. "I'm not into you!"

"No one's introduced you?" Sage began pointing between them. "Grayson, Jason Lyall. Jason, Grayson Woods. Ha, that's a mouthful. Let me take that plate off you." She whisked the apple shortcake to the table, and in the process became a momentary buffer between them. Carl stepped back, shaking his head in utter disbelief, while two twenty-somethings in slinky black dresses came over and pulled Grayson in their direction.

One held out a small card to him. "This is to thank you for helping my aunt paint her fence."

"No problem," Grayson said with a polite smile.

"I—I'd like to take you out to dinner to say thank you?"

Grayson pocketed the card. "This is thanks enough." With that he walked away—towards Carl!—and paused as he passed, whispering with a scrape of lips against his ear, "by the way, that isn't how you pronounce Giuseppe."

Carl's heart did a wild, panicky lurch and set off a cascade of shivers.

Grayson had been watching him since then?

Carl had pronounced the composer's name wrong?

Oh shit.

Had that been what his judgy eyes were about?

Was the gig already up?

Carl spun around and watched the man disappear into Sage and Leo's home.

An arm hooked around his and Sage grinned up at him. "We all gaze after him like that."

Carl blinked at her. "What's his problem?"

"Why does he reject us all, you mean?" He actually meant in the metaphorical sense, but Sage kept going. "Not sure exactly. He doesn't talk about it, but he's been like that since his mother died and he broke up with his ex. Two years ago."

A loud crackle and squeal came from a megaphone, and a voice was amplified.

"A reminder number five, seven, nine, and eleven have opened their backyards for you all to admire their gardens."

Sage ‘ohhhed' and jogged off, and at the sight of a witch pivoting in Carl's direction, Carl scooped up some apple shortcake in a napkin and made for Sage's—

Another witch came towards him, blocking that route—were they triangulating him? His only option was next door, number eleven with the open backyard.

Along the side of the house he went, only to emerge into a beautifully manicured garden where the third witch was greeting neighbours on the back deck.

She saw him, waved, and loudly asked her ‘hubby' to help her bring out the electric keyboard.

Trapped.

Of course, he could confess to his crime, but... the entire neighbourhood would be laughing at Sage behind her back if he did.

They'd be laughing behind his back too.

He couldn't face it.

He started up the side of the house again and reversed upon glimpsing familiar green fabric rounding from the front yard. He jogged deeper into the garden, looking for a tree to hide behind, or—

Sage's place was next door.

He tucked the napkin-wrapped apple shortcake into his breast pocket.

At a distant cackling laugh, Carl rushed the fence, threw himself over it, and landed in... outstretched, charcoal grey arms.