After Nadie’s benefit performance went viral, she became a local celebrity. She wanted to be a star, but Tyler reminded her—school came first. A deal was a deal.
Bert played the first few notes before counting Nadie in, and the room fell silent as her voice exploded.
Hark! The Herald. This angel can sing!
Cary took out his phone and pressed the red button to capture the moment.
When the song ended Nadie took a bow, and the room erupted with clapping and cheers.
“Come sit in, son.” Bert tapped on the empty seat beside him.
“Dad!” Tyler’s voice came out shrill. She hadn’t invited Cary there to perform. He’d just ended a six-week stint.
“I want to sing Santa Baby!” Nadie clapped, jumping up and down. It wasn’t surprising, given the amount of sugar in the vicinity.
“I know that one,” Cary said, lifting his guitar out of its case. “C major, I think.” He clamped the Humbler’s capo onto his guitar and strummed the first few chords. “Sorry, it’s out of tune . . . I should’ve checked.”
Of course he was used to having people do that for him, like everything else.
Cary tuned his guitar by ear and started to play, and Dylan beamed at her daughter singing “Santa Baby” with the most famous rock star in the world.
“What do you think?” Tyler asked her sister.
“Their voices sound great together.”
“Yeah, they do.” It surprised her how well they harmonized.
Dylan took a gulp of wine. “You shoulddefinitelysleep with him.”
“Dylan,” she hissed. “Keep your voice down. I still need to talk to him.”
The song ended and everyone applauded.
“Happy Merry Christmas!” Nadie called out the song like James Brown directing his band. It was her niece’s second favorite Christmas song, almost tied with the first.
With a guitar pick between his fingers, Cary tapped his lips. “I don’t know that one.”
“Key of G.” Bert played the simple chord on his guitar. “Follow my lead.”
Everyone sang along except for Cary and Tyler. She couldn’t carry a tune if she were in the Abbey Road Studios’ echo chamber.
Again the room erupted with clapping and cheers.
“Good job,” Bert said to his family.
“I think I’ve been on the road too long.” Cary shrugged out of his guitar. “I don’t know any new Christmas songs.”
“It’s not new,” Tyler said.
“Daddy wrote it.” Dylan pointed at Bert, spilling wine onto the floor. “Didn’t you, Daddy?”
“I did.” Bert covered his mouth, trying not to laugh.
Tyler shook her head. “Oh, Dylan. You really must learn how to pace yourself.”
At the stroke of midnight on Cary Kingston’s thirty-ninth birthday, Tyler snuck him into her childhood bedroom like a rebellious teenager. But before anything happened, she needed to know where she stood.
She handed him a box wrapped in “Happy Birthday” paper.
