Moonlight Is Magic, Too

Chapter One

Sunshine, Daydreams, And The Start Of Everything

Spring 2000

SHEA BENNETT SAVORED the final sip of her tea, grateful that the cup cradled between her hands was still warm enough to help stave off the chill of the early morning coastal air.

As she gazed out across the moonlit sea, she felt a twinge of guilt knowing that the village’s residents were all nestled in their beds and missing out on the spectacular scene playing out in front of her.

The silvery moon hung low and shone bright in the star-filled night sky; its shimmering reflection danced playfully atop the ocean’s churning waves. She marveled at the awe-inspiring palette of Nature’s canvas before her; these particular tints and tones were only accessible when the moon was present to reveal them.

The breathtaking beauty of the night was perfectly complemented by the calming sounds emanating from the shoreline.

Shea closed her eyes, turned her face into the ocean wind, and listened. For her, the steady, rolling rhythm of the waves approaching and retreating from the white sand beach formed the backbeat to nature’s longest and most beautiful song.

The captivating sights, along with the tranquil sounds of the ocean after dark, both eased her worried mind and inspired her artistic nature.

She had taken to spending a few hours every day trying to capture the magic of the town and its fabulous views on canvas, but she always found herself less than satisfied with the results. While she didn't consider herself a professional artist, she was confident in her abilities, except when it came to this particular setting. Duplicating the magnificence of this bit of God’s handiwork seemed to elude her no matter how hard she tried. With a wistful sigh, she shook her head at the thought.

I’ll be back, she said. And I’ll give it another try.

It was her last day in Star Harbor, at least for a little while. Vacation rentals in the picturesque seaside town were costly, and her visits depended mostly on prospective vacationers making last-minute cancellations for one of the few rental properties that dotted the quaint coastal village.

Her impromptu long weekends were courtesy of the local real estate agent, whom she had met during her first visit to Star Harbor.

Has it been six months already?

She wondered where the time went. During that first visit, Shea had fallen so completely in love with the little town that she did the unimaginable for her and sought out a conversation with a stranger. She walked into the one and only real estate agency in downtown Star Harbor to inquire about renting a small cottage long-term.

The agent, an older woman, had a kind smile and a desk nameplate that indicated that she, Margaret Latham, was the sole owner and proprietor of Star Harbor Realty. She nodded and smiled pleasantly as Shea explained just how in love with the town she had become and asked if perhaps Margaret could check if there were any long-term rentals available.

While long-term rentals do occasionally pop up, Margaret explained gently, they can be quite pricey.

Shea’s eyes widened as she found out just how pricey quite pricey actually was.

Oh my gosh, how dumb of me to think otherwise. The town was so postcard-perfect; how could it not be over-the-moon expensive? And although she could feel her cheeks turning red with embarrassment, she wasn’t ready to give up on her sunshine and daydreams quite yet. Do you think you could take my number and let me know if anything pops up?

Dear, do you mind if I ask how old you are? Margaret asked Shea.

I’m twenty-three and very responsible. I have references if you are concerned about that, Shea said with a spark of defiance in her voice.

Oh no, Margaret assured her with a gentle shake of her head, it’s not that. Not at all. But have you noticed the age of most of the people who live full-time here? They are quite a bit older than twenty-three. She chuckled and pointed to herself. Everyone’s about this age.

Shea smiled and offered a slight shrug. To be honest, I’m a bit of a loner. I mostly just keep to myself.

Loner was the word Shea used to describe herself when she really didn’t want to explain that she suffered from major social anxieties and fears thanks to suffering through a horribly traumatic incident when she was just eight.

It was difficult for her to be around a lot of people, especially strangers, without getting anxious. She almost never shared her condition with anyone because, inevitably, they’d want to know what happened. And that was a story she hated telling.

There was no way for Ms. Latham to know that just working up the courage to come into the real estate office was a testament to how much she truly had fallen in love with the town.

Shea continued, I haven’t run into a lot of people here, but when I did, I guess I never noticed how old they were. That doesn’t change how I feel about Star Harbor, though. Will you still take my phone number just in case?

Margaret was happy to do so and suggested that, perhaps, if Shea was willing to settle for sporadic and somewhat unreasonably short-notice vacation-length stays, she could contact her if there were any cottage or condo rental cancellations. In those cases, the rate would be 50% off the normal price, as 50% was the amount of the refund that last-minute cancellations were entitled to.

It was a proposal that had worked out quite nicely for both parties. Shea and Maggie—as Margaret had insisted she called her—had both benefited from the arrangement. Shea was able to enjoy regular visits to the quaint seaside town, and Margaret’s clients were unaffected financially by any last-minute cancellations.

Shea gave her current sporadic vacation rental a quick once-over, making sure everything was as she had found it when she had started her stay just a few days earlier. Satisfied, she gathered her painting supplies and luggage, locked the door, and made her way to Maggie’s office, where she left the key in the drop box.

About an hour into her drive back to her small apartment in Havenwood, her phone pinged and vibrated on the passenger seat beside her.

Normally, she’d wait until she arrived home to go through her messages. Shea had seen her fair share of accidents on this long and windy coastal backroad. Looking at your phone while a one hundred-foot drop into the sea loomed just beyond the passenger seat was probably going to be the last dumb thing anyone ever did.

She needed gas, however, so she pulled into Captain Dave’s Gas and Go to fuel up and check her messages. Her screen showed one missed text and a few missed calls.

The missed calls were from her Aunt Addie.

Addison Bennett Carter, the author, social media star, and Shea’s current employer, had spent the last ten years traveling from town to town, taking in the local cultures, visiting weird roadside attractions, and writing about it all.

Her series of books on the subject matter were best sellers. Her series of books on tape were even more popular. More recently, her internet videos had become a must-watch for hundreds of thousands of people online. Viewers loved to see Addie Carter speak about her cross-country adventures in her own voice. To the masses, she was Travelin’ Addie, but to Shea and her older brother Cole, she was their only living relative. When their parents had passed away unexpectedly, Addie had taken them in, and with her, their new lives were filled with healing, love, tall tales, and a lot of weird and wonderful local roadside adventures.

Once the kids were older, Addie began her traveling and story-telling endeavors in earnest.  The beloved aunt to Shea and Cole soon became the beloved aunt to millions more.

Shea paid for the gas and grabbed a hot tea to go from Captain Dave’s self-serve beverage station before she dialed her aunt as she headed out of the shop. Addie answered on the first ring.

I’ve been trying to call you for nearly an hour! Addie had no need for customary telephone greetings. She believed in just getting to the point.

Hello, Aunt Addie, Shea said. Sorry, I was in that dead zone right outside of Star Harbor. I’m here at Captain Dave’s now. There was a long stretch of road right outside of Star Harbor that was all cliffs and ocean. There were no houses, no people, and no cell service.

Ah, the dead zone. Addie had experienced it herself a few times when she had visited the small beach town. So tell me, dear, how was your weekend in Star Harbor?

Shea sighed, It’s just so beautiful here on the coast. During the day, at night. Honestly, Aunt Addie, I don’t think there is a more perfect spot on the planet.

I’m not one for ‘I told you sos,’ Addie responded, But—

Shea almost spit out her tea as she burst out laughing. "You definitely are one for ‘I told you sos!’"

Okay, okay, guilty as charged, but this is a good ‘I told you so.’ Isn’t it?

Still laughing at her aunt, Shea replied, Yes! The very best kind.

Shea had moved to the west coast on Addie’s advice. Just six months prior, she received a postcard in the mail from her travelbug aunt. On the front was a beautiful shot of the most quaint beach town she could have ever imagined. Scrawled across the back, she had simply written, Come paint!

Come paint! Painting had become Shea’s favorite hobby. She spent so many hours alone, hidden away in upstate New York in front of a canvas, putting her spin on whatever it was that caught her eye on a particular day. She found it relaxing, but it was also her version of a journal. A way of remembering beautiful moments or places in her life.

Come paint! One could not simply ignore a directive from Aunt Addie. She always had Shea and her brother Cole’s best interests at heart, so if she thought it was best to pick up and move to the west coast, she was probably right. So, not too long after receiving Aunt Addie’s postcard, Shea made the long drive across the country, leaving a very frigid and gray upstate New York behind. She stayed at the Star Harbor Inn and had a magical seven-day start to her new west coast life.

Star Harbor’s fantastic beach, its breathtaking ocean views, and its quiet downtown area with shops and restaurants were all dreams come true for Shea. There was even an art shop where she could pick up some supplies and paint right from her inn room’s ocean-facing balcony.

When her initial week-long stay in the little beach town came to an end, she confided to Addie that she had been right about Star Harbor and that Shea had fallen completely in love with the town.

Of course I was right! To be fair, Aunt Addie was seldom wrong. Her aunt was so pleased that she offered to buy a beachfront cottage for her.

Addie’s social media star status, her books, speaking engagements, and merchandise had all contributed greatly to the much-more-than-small fortune she had amassed over the years. While the offer was generous, Shea would not allow her aunt to purchase her such an extravagant gift.

So, Shea did the next best thing and found herself a cozy upstairs apartment in a beautiful old Victorian duplex in an inland town just a few hours away. Havenwood had a small town feel that she felt at home in. There was even a small record shop that sold old vinyl and new indie releases just a few blocks from her apartment. Shopping at RPMs and coming home to listen to her latest purchase was one of her favorite things to do. Music was always playing in her house. She listened while she painted, while she did household chores, and while she worked. She found it inspiring, and as such, she had no need for a television or a radio. She’d rather her music be presented without commercial interruptions. Thank you very much.

Even with Aunt Addie’s hectic schedule, she always put aside time to check in with Shea and, when he was available, Cole. They were as important to her as she was to them.

Have you heard from Cole? Addie asked after her brief ‘I told you so’ gloating session.

I think he’s off doing something that he’s not allowed to tell anyone about, Shea confided. Cole Bennett was in the military, and while she wasn’t exactly sure of his job, she knew that what he did and where he did it were mostly classified.

Well, if you hear from him, tell him I’m thinking of him and I love him. Okay, now, for the next order of business, did you find that new dress shop I told you about, dear?

I did! Shea exclaimed.

She had made it back to her car, but because the morning was so beautiful, she didn’t want to climb into it just yet. The sun shine was warm on her face, and a perfect spring breeze was wrapping its way around her like a gentle hug from a long-lost friend.

And I picked up a few new sundresses. I’m actually wearing one now. She looked down and admired the pretty red dress she had slipped into that morning. She twirled around once in the parking lot beside her car. The same gentle spring breeze she had been enjoying caused the bottom half of her dress to float up and reveal a little more than she had intended. Shea hastily tamped it back down.

Delightful to hear! Oh. The reason I called. I have another job for you.

Oh, do you have a new project? Shea loved working for Addie. Her projects were always fun, and the pay was very good. Too good, really, but that had been the arrangement that her aunt had insisted upon. I’ll keep you on retainer even if I don’t have a project, just in case something pops up.

Someone in the comments section saw my video of RPMs and thought I should go to record shops like that around the country. Aunt Addie was constantly checking her comment section. I think that’s a great idea, so my new project is all about mom and pop record stores. Unfortunately, they are a dying breed, but there are still a few of them fighting the good fight all across the country. I’m going to find them, support them, and hopefully give their business a boost.

Oh, that sounds wonderful! The last small independent business sector Addie had given a boost to were drive-in theaters. That series of videos and accompanying guidebook did a lot of good for drive-in theater owners all over the country. Mom and Pop record shops were a great follow-up as far as Shea was concerned. When they were still small, Aunt Addie stressed the importance of supporting local businesses and shops to Cole and Shea. You don’t want every town to look the same, do you? Where’s the adventure in that? Aunt Addie had been right again.

I agree. I think it will be very fun, and hopefully it will get people to start buying music from independent shops again. Those mall music stores are just dreadful. They only stock what is already selling. There’s no exploring or discovery to be done in those places. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Anyway, I’d like you to put together a cover for me. Something abstract, Warhol-esque, retro. You know what I’m saying?

I think I do. When do you need it? This was not Shea’s usual art style. She mostly stuck to flowers, birds, the ocean, and local scenery—but she loved the occasional challenge of going out of her artistic comfort zone for one of Aunt Addie’s projects.

Have it to me in a month or so, would you, dear? Now, I have to go, I’m appearing on the morning show at the local radio station here in Grant’s Pass. There’s a great record store here, and a lot of good people too. Oh, that reminds me, can you swing by RPMs and tell Jimmy about my project? I’ll call him in a few days. Bye, dear! And with that, Addie had ended the call.  

Shea checked her phone to see if she had any other messages. It just so happened that there was an unread text message, and it was from none other than Jimmy from RPMs, the owner of the local music store in Havenwood. Although she had only been a resident of Havenwood for a few months, she had quickly become his favorite new regular. Jimmy had a lot of classic vinyl and some great underground new releases. Shea decided RPMs would be her first stop when she got back into town. She had been wanting to make a point to see him anyway. She wanted to thank him again! for introducing her to a new band she hadn’t heard of from the UK.

Shea tossed her phone into her purse and got into her car. She opened her glove box and found the CD Jimmy had sold her. On the front cover of the CD, it simply said Blackpool Riot. She slipped the CD out of its packaging and into the car stereo. She rolled down her windows, cranked up the volume, and pulled out of Captain Dave’s parking lot. She headed south and east toward Havenwood, singing loudly with her new favorite band the entire way.

Chapter Two

Cigarettes, Alcohol And Love At First Sight

A pack of smokes and some booze, mate.

Milo shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, a calming technique he had read about somewhere along the line that never truly seemed to work. He wondered how the hell he was going to get through this tour or any other with Jackson St. James.

He’d heard that every band had that one member who was an absolute twat. An egomaniac who wasn’t a team player and put their wants and needs before anyone else’s. As far as Milo was concerned, that member was Jax.

He opened his eyes and looked into the rear-view mirror at the lead singer, who had somehow managed, once again, to be drunk before noon.

Jax, Milo tried to say as evenly as his clenched jaw would allow, "this is a petrol station, mate, there is no booze here."

No? Well, shite. Good thing I have all this cocaine then, isn’t it? Jax burst out laughing in the back seat while Milo just shook his head. Behind Jax, Milo could hear the band’s drummer and bassist try to stifle a giggle.

Oh, come on, lad, lighten up! Jax continued, grabbing hold of Milo’s seat in the van and shaking it. I’m just joking about the cocaine. This is supposed to be fun! Who knows when the band’ll get to see the States whilst driving in a van that looks like a ripe banana ever again? With his thick Midlander accent, it sounded more like buh-naah-nuh. And on someone else’s tab? Am I right, Fitz?

Fitz, the band’s manager, rolled his eyes, exasperated. The banter about the large, bright yellow cargo van had been constant during their road trip. For the last time, it was the only van they had big enough for all the bloody gear,  he said defensively.

"It was the only vanana they had," Noah, the drummer, offered from the back.

His joke got a chuckle from everyone in the van.

Milo switched his gaze from the rear view mirror to the man sitting in the driver’s seat beside him.

Fitz was studying Milo, trying to gauge the guitarists’ mood. This tour was the band’s first, and as their manager, he wanted to make sure it wasn’t their last. He had invested a lot of time and money into these lads, and he truly believed they had a chance to become legends. If they could just stay healthy and, more importantly to Fitz, stay together.

The band, Blackpool Riot, had formed just a few years earlier.

In early ‘99, Milo answered an ad he saw in the back of a local paper. Guitarist needed for future legendary rock band.

He liked the enthusiasm and really did love to play. He had never been a part of a band before but had honed his craft in a back bedroom at his parents’ small row house in Rishton, Lancashire. Along the way, he began writing songs. Milo thought his compositions were mostly good but could probably stand some improvement.

The audition had gone well. Mostly. The lead singer and the person who had posted the ad was Jackson St. James—My mates call me Jax—whose family owned a large house on the river in the posher part of the town of Blackburn.

He had answered the door with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Maybe it was the money, or maybe it was the drugs and alcohol; either way, Jax had an air of cocky confidence about him. It wasn’t a trait Milo looked for in close friends, but he figured it was one hundred percent what you wanted in a lead singer.

The bass player and drummer were also in the room but didn’t say much. Oliver Eastman and Noah Hill seemed to know their place in the band’s hierarchy. Jackson St. James was most definitely in charge.

Jax had asked Milo about his influences and smirked when Milo answered with Townshend, Page, Gilmour, Clapton, Marr. The truth was, Jax had heard some sort of combination of those same names from just about every guitarist who answered the ad.

Bloody shocking, mate, he said, taking a swig out of his bottle.

Are you mocking me? Milo scowled. He was prepared to take absolutely zero bullshit from Jackson St. James or anyone else. His temper had always been quick, and for better or worse, he had decided long ago that instead of trying to calm himself if it flared, it was best if he just removed himself from the situation. That’s it then, he said and headed back out the way he came.

Come on, mate, hold on a minute, will you? Jax called after him, but Milo kept walking.

Jackson ran past him and blocked the doorway leading out of the room.

Look, man, I’m sorry. I’m a bit of a dick sometimes, but I’ve seen a dozen guitarists today, and they’ve all said the same damn thing. Come on back and let’s hear what you’ve got.

Milo took a deep breath and tried to cool down. At least this guy admitted he was a dick, and now that Milo knew it, he needed to consider whether he should stay or just keep going.

Jackson could see that he had not yet convinced Milo to stay, so he tried another tactic. Listen to this, mate.

Milo furrowed his brow, not quite sure what to expect next.

Jackson St. James began to belt out an acappella version of Herman’s Hermits’ Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter, using his bottle as an impromptu microphone. He was clearly trying to get Milo back on his side, which is something true lead singers are always doing. Trying to win an audience over, no matter what the size, is just hardwired into their DNA.

And as ridiculous as it was for Jackson St. James to be singing this particular song, Milo couldn’t help but notice that his voice was amazing. Perfect for rock and roll, and most likely also perfect for his songs.

Alright, alright, Milo said, holding up a hand and indicating that Jackson could stop singing. I’ll come back.

Excellent, mate! Get yourself all set up, and let’s hear what you’ve got. Jax made his way back to Ollie and Noah and sat down with them on the floor.

Anything in particular you want to hear? Milo asked as he plugged into the large Marshall amp that was set up in the room, A cover or an original?

Wait a minute, then. You’ve got some originals? Jax asked, more than a little surprised.

I do, yeah.

Milo had first picked up his electric guitar, an old Rickenbacker 330, at a local pawnbroker when he was seventeen, and he had been writing songs ever since. While he loved playing along with his favorite bands, he also felt that in order to really grow as a musician, he needed to create his own material.

Let’s hear your best then, mate. Jax leaned in and fixed his gaze on Milo. This one’s temper is short, but at least he looks like a proper guitar player, Jax thought to himself.

Milo had shown up to the audition wearing a pair of faded black denim jeans and an equally faded t-shirt; its once legible graphic had nearly been washed completely from existence. His dark, shaggy hair hung slightly past his dark brown eyes, and he didn’t seem to care enough to push it out of the way.

Jax allowed himself a small glimmer of hope. This lad wasn’t dressing for a part, as he had seen so many others do before him. Black leather everything, a ton of hair products, designer this or that. No, this one looked to have come as he was. That was a good sign. Now let’s see if he can play.

Milo plugged the Rickenbacker into a nearby amp, then strummed the guitar to make sure it was in tune and made some minor adjustments. He then began to play what he considered to be his best original song. Like all of his songs, he had never played it for anyone before. He felt vulnerable and was more nervous than he anticipated he’d be. But he went there to audition, and that’s what he was going to do.

This one is called ‘Dark Matters.’

Could be if he never stole the rose

As the story goes

She’d never met her prince

I wonder if the night never fell

Could you tell

About sunsets that you missed

Darkness always leads to light

Can’t have dawn without the night

Would things be good if they’d not

been bad?

Could you be happy if you were

never sad?

Black as pitch and you can’t see

That candle lights because of me

The gloom that makes a Cheshire’s grin

Matters more than the tree he’s in

Please believe that darkness matters

You’ve got to believe that darkness matters

Could be if she never ate the fruit

From the crazy old coot

She’d never met her prince

I wonder what you’d think of fairy tales

Without their twists and ails

Happily ever afters only follow

Dark matters

Darkness always leads to light

Can’t have dawn without the night

Would things be good if they’d not

been bad?

Could you be happy if you were

never sad?

Black as pitch and you can’t see

That candle lights because of me

The gloom that makes a Cheshire’s grin

Matters more than the tree he’s in

Please believe that darkness matters

You’ve got to believe that darkness matters

Milo launched into a bluesy and tasteful guitar solo that neither overwhelmed the song nor overstayed its welcome.

He then slowed down the pace for the final chorus—

Darkness always leads to light

Can’t have dawn without the night

Would things be good if they’d not been bad?

Could you be happy if you were never sad

Black as pitch and you can’t see

That candle lights because of me

The gloom that makes a Cheshire’s grin

Matters more than the tree he’s in

Please believe that darkness matters

You’ve got to believe that darkness matters

After the song was over, Jax didn’t speak. Perhaps he couldn’t. He just stared at Milo for what seemed like an eternity.

Every other guitar player that had answered Jax’s ad had either tried to impress him with some wild guitar solo they had memorized from someone else’s music catalog or showed off some expensive piece of gear. Not many had any real musical talent. Most had rushed through their audition song just to get to the guitar solo.

It’s not like Jax had expected a guitar legend to walk through his door, but he had started to give up hope that there was even someone that was just good enough who would answer the ad. The guitarist who stood before him was way beyond that.

Milo, was it? Jax asked, finally.

That’s right.

You have any more songs like that one?

I have a few, yeah.

You mind writin’ down the words to that? I’d like to see how we sound on that together.

Milo scribbled out the words on a piece of notebook paper and handed them to Jax.

Noah took his place behind the drum kit, and Ollie picked up his bass.

They worked on the song for just under an hour before they were able to perform it decently as a band.

Milo had been right when he thought that Jax's voice was well-suited for his songs. He had turned a good song into a stadium-worthy anthem in less than sixty minutes.

After their last run through of the song, Jax approached Milo as he was returning his guitar to its case. I think we’ve found ourselves our guitar player. Jax put out his hand for Milo to shake. The job is yours if you want it.

Milo shook his hand and nodded. The band had sounded so good as a unit on his song, there was no way he was going to not join.

Welcome to Blackpool Riot, mate.

It turned out that his songs were the only songs that Blackpool Riot had. Ollie and Noah had written parts of songs, but nothing that was complete. Jax had a few he had written in his notebook, but he knew none of them were nearly as good as what Milo had composed.

Over the next few months, the band learned all of Milo’s songs, with each member putting their own unique spin on their individual parts. Milo thought Jackson’s vocal abilities were impressive. His voice was soulful, but with a lot of extra attitude.

In Milo’s opinion. Blackpool Riot sounded good. Very good.

He wasn’t sure if it was the St. James family name or some other-worldly stroke of fortune, but not long after the band had formed and learned all of his songs, they got a semi-regular gig playing at a hole-in-the-wall rock club in nearby Preston. The pay was low, but at least there was pay.

Within a few months of playing in Preston, they were approached by someone who offered to be their manager. That someone, Nigel Fitzpatrick, or Fitz, as they now called him, got the band some gigs in bigger venues for better pay. Blackpool Riot even began to get a small local following.

Eventually, once they had earned enough money, Fitz arranged for the recording of a demo CD. Hiring someone to design the cover was not in the budget, however, so they went with a simple design, a black background with the band’s name on the front in white. Fitz paid to have CDs made and sent a short stack of them out to a handful of independent record stores in small markets across the US.

Based on their feedback, Fitz then put together a very abbreviated tour across the United States. Tour was an extremely generous word for a string of gigs in very small clubs and theaters in equally small towns, nowhere near a major city or college.

Milo suspected that Fitz had convinced Jax’s father to foot the bill for this latest endeavor. Fitz had been working hard for the band since his first day on the job, and without him, they’d still be in Preston, playing every other Tuesday from midnight to 3 a.m.

It had only been two years since Milo had answered Jax's ad in the back of the local paper. He’d never been out of Lancashire before, and this musical adventure in the States was more than he ever could have hoped for. He just wished that Jax would take this opportunity with a little more seriousness and a lot less drunkenness.

Fitz finally spoke, and he seemed to choose his words very carefully. I am hoping that this will be the first tour of many for you lads. He could sense trouble was brewing. Jax was a great front man, but he could also be shite as a person, especially when he was inebriated, which was a good deal of the time lately. Milo could play and sing with the added bonus