He smiles, and it’s like someone turned on the sun. “Thank you for the ride this morning.”
My cheeks warm at his phrasing.
“Ride?” my father says, making my cheeks burn. “Take the horses out?”
I nod.
Miles pours a little gravy on his potatoes. “Yeah. We rode all over and then had a picnic. It was great.”
“Had a picnic, did ye?” My father has mischief in his eyes as he says it. Cheeky bastard. “That’s wonderful. And a great way to spend the day before you have to buckle down for the film. I heard from your people. They should start arriving tomorrow in the early afternoon or evening.”
I move my food around on my plate, suddenly not as hungry. What if all these people being here changes things, and I can’t write like I have been? What if I won’t get to spend time with Miles anymore because he’ll be too busy?
“Are they? Guess I should check my phone once in a while.” Miles’s smile falters, too. He says to my father, though it feels for my benefit, “I shouldn’t be busy with the film the whole time. I’m not in all of the scenes.” Then, almost to his plate, he says, “Not anymore, anyway.”
Dad and Miles make small talk about some crime show from America calledThe Wire. I’ve never seen it, so I tune them out and let the back of my mind knit words and ideas together. When theknitting is louder than the conversation at the table, I excuse myself and head back to my writing room.
I writeat a more measured pace this time, and this time I do light the candle and make some hot chocolate. It feels good to be inspired. It’s been so long, I wasn’t sure I would ever feel that way again, like this whole writing thing was a cold that I finally shook. I’m delighted it’s not.
Once my mug is cold and the candle is a pool of wax, I tune back into my surroundings and hear music. Not just any music, but music so familiar, it’s etched into my bones.
Closing my laptop, I head downstairs to find the source. The ground-floor library is dark, even with the lamp on and the fire roaring in the hearth. This library is larger than the one I write in. There’s a large leather couch and loveseat, with two soft red damask chairs positioned around the fire. On the shelf nearest to the sitting area, instead of books, it’s records, hundreds of them. Most of them were my mother’s, but some are my dad’s, and over the years I've also added to the collection. The record player sits on a long wooden table behind the couch, spinning away, my mother’s voice booming out. She had such a melodic voice, deep but feminine. Like a Scottish version of Nico or Fiona Apple.
I used to love listening to her records. When I was growing up, I’d put them on, and she’d come in and casually change the album. She’d say, “Have you heard this one?” or “I have this song stuck in my head; I have to listen to it now.” She never said she didn’t want me to listen to the albums she made, but I got the hint. After she passed, I couldn’t bear to put them on. Not just hearing her voice again, which is its own exquisite kind of fresh pain every single time, but also the waiting. Expecting her to come into the room and change the record. Only now, she never does.
The notes of the song playing reach right into my heart andsqueeze until I can’t stand the pressure anymore. I shut off the record player. Miles sits up from where he was lying on the couch, his script that was on his face falling to the floor.
“Was I being too loud?”
“Where did you find this?” I hold up the record sleeve.
Miles motions to the record wall. “Just on the shelf.”
I shake my head. “You just picked this at random?”
There’s no way. What are the odds?
Miles stands and comes over to where I’m standing. He looks pensively at the sleeve. “It wasn’t entirely random. It’s going to sound”—he sighs—“silly, I guess.”
I carefully put the record in its case and put it back on the shelf, choosing a Simon and Garfunkel record instead. “The Boxer” rings out through the room like sage smoke.
Miles continues, “But I was looking through the records, and I thought the woman on this cover looked a little like you. So, I put it on.”
I go to the bar cart, pour a whiskey, and raise my eyebrows at Miles. He nods, so I pour him one too. After I hand it to him, I sit in the chair closest to the fire.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve asked about the records before I put one on.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. You can put on any you like. Just not that one.”
He sits back on the couch. “Got it.”
“Or any by that artist.”
He smiles. “Not a fan?”
“She was my mother.”
“Oh, that explains the resemblance.”
