"Yeah, sure. Anytime you want," I said, still not convinced that I'd be terribly helpful. "Give me an idea of what you need so I can pull together the right research and resources. I'm more useful when I have some time to prepare."
In other words, I rambled like the town fool when I was put on the spot. There was a reason I spent four hours preparing lecture notes for one hour of class.
She lifted her shoulders, her face pulled tight in uncertainty. "Big picture: I think I want to run an early strings program."
I sucked in a breath and pressed my hands to my cheeks. "Oh, my God. Early strings changed my life. That's no exaggeration. I would be the grumpiest waitress in New Jersey if it wasn't for learning the violin when I was little, and no, it's not for everyone but it taught my brain how to listen and think, and I'll do anything you need."
"I want to find a way to make it happen," she said. "I need to figure out the logistics, and I need your wisdom. When would work for you?"
We toggled through our calendars to find the best day to meet. I couldn't look at my calendar without a stir of dread in my belly. It was a buffet of meetings and more meetings, and I hated every one of them. They never offered new information that wasn't also common sense (à ladon't fuck your students), and they rarely resolved any of the ongoing issues (the curious case of whiteboard markers vanishing from the classrooms). Add to that some heavy-duty contempt for any music therapy methods that deviated from academia's directives, and downright condescension when it came to pop music in therapeutic settings, and I rolled my eyes hard enough to give myself headaches in these meetings.
And calendars did a splendid job at reminding me when we'd know if that hearty lumberjack sperm took down the forest, crossed the bay,andyelled "Timber!"
I'd given up on the tea—and good grief, that stuff was horrid—but now I was all over vitamins, supplements, essential oils, and charting. Ellie instituted a forever-long ban on discussing fertility and baby-making with her, and she was known to hang up immediately if I brought up the particulars. Apparently, I was making vaginas unappealing to her.
"Huh," I murmured, casting a quick glance around the room when I finished blocking the time on my calendar. "There's free food and alcohol. Sounds like something Nick would enjoy, right? Is he stuck at the hospital tonight?"
She nodded. "Nick would be all over this. He'd probably bring a baggie or two to save some snacks for later. He does that every time he eats at my house. I don't think that boy has a single pot, pan, or plate in his apartment. But…he's in Ghana," Lauren said with a hint of awe. "It's a Doctors Without Borders gig. He's there for a couple of months, and then he's up for another brief tour over the summer. That one's in Central America, I think."
"Wow," I said. "That's…amazing. I don't think I could ever pick up my life and move to a foreign country for a few months like that, and do all kinds of incredible work. If you told me I needed to teach violin to kids in Ghana, I'd be a disaster. I'd be more harm than help, and spend all my time looking for some decent coffee and bagels."
Lauren murmured in agreement. "All the creature comforts." She took a sip of her drink. "He's been talking about doing it for as long as I've known him. It didn't work for his fellowship schedule until now, but I also think the travel bug jumped up and bit him. He's spending a few days in Morocco and southern Spain before heading back home."
I wanted to ask if she knew anything about him and Erin. I couldn't be the only one who'd seen them arguing—yelling, storming off, chasing after, and repeating the process—at the wedding, and I knew others had seen him scoop her up and carry her out of the firehouse when the party was winding down.
But there was one thing I knew to be true from the short time I spent talking with Erin last December: when she was ready to invite me in and share her side of things, she would. There was no rushing this girl.
"Okay, we know where Nick is, but where's Andy? Shouldn't she be here?" I asked. "Or did I miss her somehow?"
Will was walking our way, and he shared a quick chin lift greeting with Lauren before nodding at me. "Tiel," he said.
"It's always disconcerting to see you in clothes," I mused, surveying his dark blue suit. To me, he'd always be the dripping wet guy with an inadequate scrap of terrycloth covering his bits and bobs who'd answered Shannon's door months ago. "I just assume you only wear towels."
"So wrong," Lauren muttered. "Andy has food poisoning." She shook her head, grimacing. "It's been pretty rough for her. She hasn't been to work all week, and she'sneversick. I went over there this morning, to their apartment. We talked for a couple of minutes, and we watchedFixer Upper, but she fell asleep halfway through. She hasn't kept anything down in days."
"Oh, God," I murmured. "That's awful."
"Yeah but she's tough," Lauren said. "I'm slightly more worried about Patrick, actually. He had a tiny nervous breakdown when I was leaving. I don't think he's slept much this week."
"That's no fun," I said. "I'll have to bring them some orzo. That always settled my stomach when I was a kid, and at the very least, Patrick will eat it."
Will muttered something under his breath, and Lauren drove her elbow into his side.
"Judy is still pissed," Lauren said to Will. "You're ranking below Wes right now."
He stared into his beer bottle, his ring finger tapping against the glass. "Judy will be fine," he said.
"Oh really? Did you see the blog post?" Lauren held up her phone. She glanced at me as she navigated her browser. "Our mother has a travel blog, and it's turned into a really big deal. After she heard that Will and Shannon got married without invitinganyone, she reposted all of her photos from the trip she and our father took to Montauk a few years ago."
Lauren handed me her phone as Will rolled his eyes. The post featured beautiful photos of the village and beaches, and sassy captions.
"See that?" Lauren pointed to a block of text at the bottom. "That's where she sweetly slams Will for eloping in the Hamptons. 'The closest thing I have to priceless memories of Sailor 1's wedding are these old sunny shoreline snaps. The Commodore and I can only hope we're invited to visit Sailor 1 and our new daughter-in-law—we'll call her Ginger—someday soon.'"
Will squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. "Motherfuck," he rasped.
"You're in so much trouble," Lauren said, and she sounded downright giddy.
They continued sniping at each other while I watched guests flow in and out of the kitchen. From this vantage point, I could see straight through the great room and into the front hallway, and that was where I spotted Magnolia.
