All he’d ever asked in return was to hear me play. I hated to disappoint him.
I climbed the shallow porch steps of the Laurence house and knocked softly. The massive front door opened.
“Beth.” Mr. Laurence, still upright and vigorous at seventy-five, smiled at me from the shadows of the hallway. “This is a treat.”
I held out the gift I’d brought.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking it.
“Colt’s CD. He signed it. I didn’t want to come over empty-handed,” I said apologetically.
His keen gaze met mine. “Thank you, my dear. But I was hoping for a live concert.”
“No, I...” My voice failed.
“But what am I doing, keeping you standing outside? Come in, come in. Dee, would you bring tea and cookies to the study?” he asked the housekeeper. He looked at me. “If that’s all right. I know you’re not a little girl anymore, but it’s early in the day for bourbon. Even for me.”
My whole face relaxed as I smiled. “Tea is perfect.”
I sighed in comfort as we settled in his study.
“Cookie?”
Chocolate chip. My favorite. I put one, untasted, on the side of my plate. The room smelled the same, like bourbon and tobacco. The deep leather chair still wrapped me like a hug. The picture of his late daughter—Trey’s aunt, the original owner of my guitar—smiled from his desk, her teased bangs and soft smile fixed forever in high school.
Mr. Laurence caught my glance and smiled. “You remind me of her.”
“I’m sorry. I promised I’d play for you today.”
“It’s good to see you, with or without your guitar. No strings attached.” He chuckled at his little joke. “Besides, I can listen to you on this.” He squinted at the CD case. “You’re on here, right?”
I nodded. “Two songs.” The songs I’d written.
“Very nice. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I said huskily.
“I should thank you. For giving life to my little girl’s dreams.”
My eyes were misty. “I always wondered...” I stopped.
Mr. Laurence looked at me inquiringly.
“Well...” I owed him so much. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or spoil our time together. But something in me—a trace of Jo’s fairness, maybe, or Amy’s curiosity—drove me to ask, “It’s such a beautiful instrument. Why didn’t you give it to Trey?”
Mr. Laurence took a cookie and sat back. “Trey had just lost both his parents when he came to live with me. He was hurting, and I barely knew him. That was my fault. But I tried too hard to make it up to him. I didn’t know how to help him, so I spoiled him instead. By the time I figured that out...” He broke off, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “I had to teach him he can’t expect everything to be handed to him on a plate. Trey needed to learn to earn what he wanted.”
“But he loves music.” I had memories of Trey making playlists, constantly plugged into his iPod or playing music while Jo tried to do homework. “And your daughter was his aunt.”
He huffed. “You think the boy inherited some great musical talent?”
“I don’t know. I can’t judge. Wasn’t his mother a singer?”
“A club singer in Miami. Graciela Mendoza.” He shot me a look from under bushy brows. “I have one of her CDs, too.”
I swallowed. “You didn’t approve.”
“Gracie was all right. It was my son I didn’t approve of. Trey’s father. No interest in anything but his own comfort. No discipline. No follow-through.” His face twitched. “I didn’t want to repeat my mistakes with my grandson. I was glad when Jo got him started running cross-country. You girls were a good influence. But Trey didn’t need to take up his time with music lessons and such. I put him to work waxingcars and sweeping the showroom. Taught him to get his hands dirty. I figured he’d learn to appreciate an honest day’s work.” His mouth spasmed again on one side. “I was lucky he didn’t tell me to go to hell.”
