Her husband was in a wheelchair. They’d never dance like that again. But something in the way they’d sat, listening to me play, their hands clasped on his truncated thigh, their bodies canted together...
“You look beautiful,” I said sincerely. To her? To the woman in the picture? “You’re very brave.”
She shrugged, swiping at her tears with the edge of her palm. “For better and for worse, you know?” She tucked the phone away likesomething precious, her smile a fleeting shadow of the happy bride’s. “Thanks for the song.”
Her words rode with me in the car.“For better and for worse... Thanks for the song.”
I’d written that song for my parents. “Miss You More.” Back when I’d imagined their love would last forever, perfect and unchanging.
Not so perfect now. They’d changed. Mom seemed so sure of herself these days. So independent. Dad seemed so... lost. Or maybe they were the same people they’d always been and I saw them differently. Was the change in them—or in my new, adult perspective—for the better? Or for worse?
The words surged, fitting themselves to a tune. I hummed in snatches as I drove, phrases coming and going in my head like a radio station fading in and out of range. I could feel the music swell inside me, bigger than hunger, filling my stomach and chest and the palms of my hands. A chord, a chorus, melody and lyrics winding together. My fingers itched for a pencil. For my notebook. For my guitar in the backseat.
When I walked into Oak Hill, Jo was behind the bar, wiping glasses. “Yay! You’re here.”
“Do you have a pencil?” I asked abruptly.
“I... Sure.”
I scribbled on a coaster. Two lines that felt true. Authentic. Not my story, but still... my voice. Maybe I could write a song—tell someone else’s story—without my own guts spilling all over the page. “Thanks.” I stuffed the coaster in my pocket. “Okay. What can I do?”
“Tell me we’re going to be ready to open tomorrow night.”
I smiled. “You’ll be ready. Everything looks amazing.”
The dining room gleamed. Amy was at the hostess station, surrounded by buckets of flowers and dozens of vases. Alec was at the other end of the bar, polishing flatware and flirting with a pink-haired teen in a black bib apron. Meg was setting tables with mismatched plates.
“Are those Aunt Phee’s dishes?” I asked.
“Great-grandmother’s china,” Meg said.
“Or great-great-grandmother’s. Or somebody’s great-great-aunt. There were boxes and boxes, all these different patterns, just sitting in the attic,” Amy said. “Aunt Phee didn’t want to sell them, and she said she was tired of waiting for us to get married to get rid of them.”
“Meg and Jo are married,” I said.
“Oh no,” Meg said. “John and I do not need a formal dinner service for twenty-four.”
“Speaking of wedding china,” Jo said. “What’s with you and Trey?”
Amy focused on her flowers, her tongue sticking out. “Well, that was a supersmooth transition. Aren’t you supposed to be a writer or something?”
“Have you seen him again?” Meg asked.
“Hard to avoid him,” Amy said. “He lives next door.”
A mile down the road.
“Uh-uh.” Jo waggled a glass at her. “No dodging the question.”
Poor Amy. I took a step closer to the hostess stand in solidarity. Our big sisters’ concern could be overwhelming. “They went to visit Trey’s grandfather,” I said.
Meg raised her eyebrows. “We know that. We saw them at The Taproom after. And then...?”
“And then... I guess we’re working that part out,” Amy said.
“What time did you get home on Saturday?”
Amy stabbed a stem into a vase. “We need to talk boundaries. You do realize I don’t have curfew anymore.”
