CHAPTER 7
TYLER
The following day Tyler woke up in her childhood bed a little later than usual. The two-hour time difference didn’t help and she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.
“It’s Mommy’s birthday, Ror-Ror.” The dog let out a sigh and went back to sleep. “I hear you, buddy. Birthdays are shitty.”
She was thirty-two years old and no closer to having a baby unless she counted the acts on SDM’s roster that she was constantly bottle-feeding.
Out of habit she checked her phone, but it was too early for their artists to bother her. No doubt the legacy acts would text her later with questions they could have googled.
She smiled as she read the birthday cards from Marnie and Heather. She’d been friends with them since kindergarten, and they’d grown up together. But after high school Marnie and Heather moved to Toronto to attend university, and they ended up staying after graduating to be closer to their boyfriends, now husbands. Long-distance relationships were tough, even with girlfriends. Would it be easier if she were onFacebook? Sure. But at least it had spared her from random Happy Birthday wishes from people she used to know or who were just acquaintances.
What’s Cary doing?
Last night was so much fun. She still couldn’t believe he’d shown up in the hospitality suite after singing the anthem. Once the initial shock wore off, she was able to have a decent hang with him, but she’d fumbled the ball when he’d asked her to go to his concert. Of course she wanted to go, but she was also starting to have feelings for him. And that was a no-no.
She scrolled through his Instagram but found nothing new.
The habit of stalking his account started after their kiss—or whatever you wanted to call it. She had to admit the photos he posted were spectacular, but the comments from his fans, mostly women, were more than suggestive. If people had said those things to his face they would have been arrested. Hopefully he’d disabled his DMs. She couldn’t imagine the filth in those messages.
But enough about Cary. Today was a big day for her family. The benefit concert was meant to celebrate her mom’s legacy. Her dad believed that music, not laughter, was the best medicine.
She wanted to buy something special to commemorate the benefit’s anniversary. She googleddad + gifts, but it resulted in nothing more than corny coffee mugs and jokey T-shirts.
Cary’s wine.
She searchedpenfolds grange + 2011 + liquor martand clicked the link.
“Eight hundred and fifty dollars!” she cried, waking Rory again.
Not in this lifetime.
When Tyler came out of her bedroom that morning, there wasn’t a soul—or a balloon—in sight, so she walked across the street to give Dylan a chance to wish her a happy birthday.
“Hello?” Tyler opened the door and a blond Afghan Hound barked. “Samson! Shh . . . who’s a good boy?” The dog galloped toward her, his hair blowing like Beyoncé’s.
“In here!” Dylan hollered from the kitchen. “Samson! Shut the hell up!”
“Auntie Ty!” Nadie ran toward her.
Tyler beamed at her niece. Their bond was undeniable. Her brothers had sons, and she loved them too, but having a boy wasn’t the same thing as having a girl.
Nadie was an only child, not for a lack of trying. Dylan and Joe had always wanted another baby, but in her late twenties, her sister was diagnosed with fibroids. After several attempts at removing the tumors the doctors predicted her condition wouldn’t improve, but it wasn’t the end of the world. They’d always said that Nadie was a gift, and they counted their blessings.
Full stop.
“Hi, honey.” Tyler hugged her niece. “How are you?” She floated her hand over Nadie’s head. “I think you’re still growing.”
“Geez.” Nadie glanced at the floor and wiggled her stocking feet. “I sure hope not. I’m the tallest girl in my school.” She twirled her long black hair with her fingers. “I’m stoked for tonight! I can’t wait to sing in frontof a live audience.”
Even though Dylan said Nadie was ready to perform a solo number, it was still a lot of pressure for someone so young and inexperienced.
“Tyler! Get your ass in here!” Her brother-in-law’s voice bellowed from the kitchen.
Joe Grant was a stand-up guy. He was Cree, First Nations, and his family had lived on the lands for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The Grants had embraced the Robertsons as if they belonged to their nation, and they’d reciprocated in kind.
“Looking good, Joe,” Tyler said.
