“Yeah...” he drawls, like he’s trying to coax us for more information. “They were major players in country and bluegrass. Heck, I remember studying them in my music historyclasses.”
“That’s Mom and Dad,” Amber shrugs.
“Oh my God,” he says, digging his fingers beneath his pulled-back hair. “I’ve been in the presence of bluegrass music legends this whole time?”
Amber preens. “You have.”
“That’s a stretch,” I say flatly.
He’s leaping for the mandolin case before I know it. “Would you like to play? Or sing?”
“No. I don’t do that anymore.”
Ignoring me, he places it at my feet and busts open the latches, revealing a regal, mustard yellow velvet interior. The instrument itself is maple and rosewood with an open scroll F-style construction, and a rounded V neck profile. She’s remarkable. Memories long buried rise to the surface, and I feel a pang in my chest, all words lodged behind my throat.
Delta races to stand next to me. “That’s so pretty,” she coos. “Mom, please, can you play for us?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Jonah adds. “Please?”
“No, I’d be too rusty anyway. Jonah, why don’t you play them something?” Lo walks over, and I lift her in my arms before taking a seat in the corner, showing that I do not want to take part.
“I can do that,” he says, and points at Delta. “But only if you sing with me. I’m not a talented singer. What songs do you know?”
“Can you play 'Blackbird?'”
“By The Beatles?”
She just shrugs, because no, she wouldn’t know the artist. All she knows is that it’s the song I sang to her almost every night for years. It’s breaking my heart to realize I haven’t sung to her since before her father died. Now here she is, eager to sing the first song that comes to mind—oneof comfort.
“I’ll need my guitar for this one, then.”
Jonah closes the mandolin case and replaces it before plucking an acoustic guitar from the rack. He throws the strap over his broad shoulder with the ease of a seasoned musician and tunes as he meanders back. When he’s finished, he lets loose a fervent strum and smiles. “Lo, would you like to join?” he asks.
My silent daughter shakes her head, but doesn’t tuck herself away in my chest. She watches; she waits. And there it is again, my stupid heart pumping harder because heknowsshe doesn’t talk, and he still asked if she wanted to join.
“Alright, Shortcake, but if you feel the urge, just join in, okay?”
Lo’s brief nod is quick, and I know she won’t sing, but hope is a powerful drug. Andoh God, now he’s calling her Shortcake? I’m cooked.
Yogi lays at my feet, ready to enjoy the show. Lo takes that as her cue to wiggle free from my arms and sit next to him, shoving her hands through the hair at his neck.
He takes a few measures1 to connect the tune in his mind to his fingers, but when he does, Jonah flashes his wide smile at Delta and nods along with each beat. His fingers don’t stumble; it’s like he’s played this song a thousand times before. He said he can play most of these instruments, and if that’s the case, he must be one of those people born with a golden ear.
My daughter waits for his cue, and when she releases her first note, I’m soaring. Delta sings in the car with Amber sometimes, but when we’re home, she sings quietly in her room when she thinks I can’t hear. But this... this is different. Tears well in my eyes, and goosebumps cover my skin before she’s even finished the first verse. Amber’s hands settle on my shoulders, but I can’t look away from the two of them—watching each other, waiting for the right beatand the perfect note to meet and fly away together.
When the song ends and the last note lingers, I have to wipe away my tears. Delta launches herself at me with a satisfactory grin, and I hold her for as long as she lets me.
“That was amazing, sweetie.”
“I knew all the words.”
“Are you proud of yourself? Because you should be.”
She pulls back enough for me to study her face—round, freckled, brighter than the sun—and she nods.
“Good.”
“Why are you crying?” she asks.
