“Every time.” Steffi rubs her wife’s wrist, then links their hands together.
“Who else is coming?” I ask just as the front door bursts open.
Rae and Laney wave to us and then they’re sitting down. My gaze whips around the table, not quite understanding what I’m seeing. I keep expecting Lynn to tell them the chairs are saved.
I sit up straighter, my shoulder blades pinching. “How come you—How do you—”
“Steffi invited us,” Laney says.
I frown.
“Dance classes,” Laney explains. “Believe it or not, I’veneverbeen here, and we got to talking about it yesterday during my lesson, and Steffi told me to come check it out, that you’d be here, but I’d already made plans with Rae—”
“—so I invited myself along,” Rae says.
It sounds like such a tall tale that I look at Steffi for validation. She sips on her wine, exchanges a look with Lynn, then sets her glass down. I think that look’s about me, but then she’s reaching for Lynn’s hand and saying, “Honey, you’re amazing. You’ll blow them away. Like you always do.” Which has me realizing how selfish I am for assuming the look was about me.
“Were you planning on telling me you were coming?” I ask Rae.
A grin overtakes every inch of her face. “We wanted to surprise you.”
“Are you surprised?” Laney asks.
My rigid stance finally loosens. “Very.”
Laney reaches for one of the menus in the middle of the table. “I’m starving.”
“So you’re opening, Lynn?” Rae asks, and it’s weird because both hold such an important place in my life, but to my knowledge this is the first time they’re meeting.
I toy with the edge of the menu, listening in rapt silence as they talk. I don’t hang on their every word; I simply observe them. For some odd reason, I’m a little nervous, but as the ice breaks, I begin to relax.
Steffi orders for the table—spinach dip, mozzarella breadsticks, nachos, sweet potato fries, and chicken quesadillas. My stomach rumbles happily at the sound of all that food. And then my heart rumbles too, because I’m in one of my favorite places, with a lot of my favorite people, and it’s so unconceivable, yet completely real.
The only person missing is Nev. She would’ve loved to be here. But then my gaze snags on a framed, autographed Mona Stone picture, and I reconsider. This place is her mother’s temple.
“Good evening, folks!” The manager asks for quiet and then: “I’d like to welcome a Bluebird favorite to open up for the Moon Junkies tonight. Please give a warm welcome toLynn Landry!”
The band’s name sounds familiar, and yet I’m not sure where I’ve heard it before.
“Isn’t that the band that played at homecoming?” Rae asks.
That’s it!
Lynn settles behind the keyboard set up in the middle of the room, then pushes her orange hair back. “How y’all doin’ tonight?” Her jazzy voice fills the room.
Greatmingles with the scrape of chair legs as diners angle themselves around Lynn.
She smiles at the crowd, and then her fingers glide over the keyboard. “Ever heard of a singer named Roberta Flack?”
Yeses arise as she plays the opening chords of “Killing Me Softly.”
“I thought so.”
The crowd settles as she begins singing the old hit. Her voice is as thick as syrup, and hazy around the edges like fog. Lynn never became a star. I’m not sure if this was by choice or because she was never in the right place at the right time.
At the bar, I behold a familiar face—a dark-haired boy with made-up blue eyes. The lead singer of the Moon Junkies. Like the rest of the audience, he watches Lynn with rapt attention.
After she finishes, the room erupts in applause. She nods and smiles. “For my next song, I wanted to play you something a student of mine wrote. She’s actually here with me tonight.”
