“For sure,” Annie said. “Now it’s not just Madison, but you too.”
“We’re all family,” Grace said. “And now you’re part of it.”
Margot beamed, then picked up a fry and dunked it into her ketchup.
“Are you looking forward to high school?” I asked the three older girls, mostly to keep myself from crying. They were being so kind to my little girl, and it hit me right in the chest.
“Not really,” Mia said. “Although our moms have assured us it’s better than middle school.”
“Middle school should be outlawed,” Grace said, biting an end off a piece of fish.
I chuckled. “Yeah, it’s always been terrible. And think about this—my mom was a teacher. Thirty years of seventh grade.”
They all groaned.
“Are you rich from that wine app thing?” Annie asked, surprising me.
I hesitated, unsure how to answer. I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging, but the truth was, it had made me very wealthy. “Let’s just say I don’t have to work again if I don’t want to.”
“Do you want to?” Grace asked.
“I thought about opening a wine shop,” I said. “But I quickly talked myself out of it. I wouldn’t be here with you girls if I had a job.”
“I’m glad you don’t have a job then,” Mia said. “Because this is the best day ever.”
“The best,” Margot echoed, smiling at Mia.
Later, we wandered down Wrenport’s main drag, where the sidewalks were uneven with age and every window promised a new treasure: glass-blown jellyfish, hand-stitched sea creaturepuppets, baskets of polished sea glass. Wind chimes whispered from every corner.
Then we reached Groove Line Vinyl, a little record shop tucked into what used to be a boathouse. “You girls want to check this out? See if we can find anything for my vinyl collection?”
“You have a vinyl collection?” Mia asked. “You totally should’ve put that in your profile. Mom’s been talking about getting a record player for ages.”
“Is that so?” I asked. Today would be the day she got one. “Let’s find one for your mom. And we’ll get her some records. You know her favorites?”
“Sure. She makes me listen to them in the car on the way to school,” Mia said.
I held the door open for the girls and followed them inside the shop, which smelled like old cardboard, sandalwood incense, and static. The walls were plastered with concert posters, and the wooden floor creaked with every step. Crates lined every wall, labeled with handwritten tags: Jazz Queens, Coastal Blues, Sad Girl Indie, Desert Road Trip.
The girls dispersed like firecrackers, flipping through the bins with delight. Margot stayed beside me at first, watching the others.
“Want to help me look?” I asked.
She nodded. “What are we looking for?”
“Anything you think Lila would like. Jazz, mostly. But also singer-songwriters.”
“I don’t really know what that means,” Margot said.
“Here, I’ll show you.” I guided her to a crate and pulled out a Diana Krall album. “See? Her name’s on the front. And there’s usually a song list on the back.”
Margot studied it carefully, then started flipping through the bin with newfound confidence.
“I’m low-key obsessed with this place,” Annie said, holding up an Emmylou Harris album.
“I found Norah Jones,” Grace said. “Should I grab it?”
“Yes, please do,” I said.
