Jake drowned out our conversation when he hit the chorusand belted it out: “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts.”
“… and humility.” He grinned.
“He’s in middle school,” I said. “He’s got time to improve in both areas.”
Scott nodded at Jake’s dramatic chorus. “Yeah… if that’s the audition, I’m not losing sleep over tuition.”
Finally bored with tormenting us, Jake slid effortlessly into the opening movement of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 1, a piece so demanding that, if you closed your eyes, you’d never guess the hands creating that sound belonged to a thirteen-year-old skater boy. They called him a prodigy—but even that fell short. Jake didn’t just play music, he heard it somewhere deep inside himself, like it lived there. He could reproduce anything after a single listen. He’d inherited my perfect pitch and discipline… and Scott’s charisma and stage presence. But it was more than that. Anyone listening could hear it.
After showing off, Jake changed course, filling our modest five-bedroom house with the soft, aching notes of one of his own compositions. His chord progressions were sophisticated, and the way he resolved tension showed a natural grasp of theory he hadn’t even learned yet. He called the piece “First Light,” in honor of the hour he loved most—just him, his dad, his brothers, and the ocean. Jake had notebooks full of songs, but this was the melody he always came back to. It spoke to him in a way neither of us had ever been able to explain.
Like it was waiting.
“Goddammit,” Scott said, shaking his head. “Kid’s definitely going to Juilliard. Mail fraud, here I come.”
“Mommy?”
“What, honey?” I said, covering Grace in her favorite naptime blankie.
“Don’t let the reindeer man in.”
Grace’s Christmas obsession had come out of nowhere this week—Santa this, reindeer that—and always with that tiny crease of worry between her eyes.
“He won’t come for months, sweetheart.”
“But I don’t want him to come at all.”
“You don’t want Santa to bring you presents?”
“No,” she said firmly. “The reindeer man. I don’t want him to come.”
“Why not?”
Grace reached up, grabbed my face with both hands, and pulled me down until her lips were at my ear. “His smile makes my tummy freeze.”
I arched a brow, wondering what on earth the boys had shown Grace to spook her like this.
“Mommy’s got you,” I whispered, stroking her cheek. “No more tummy-hurting smiles, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.” She kissed me, rolled over, and clutched her blankie.
I was halfway out the door when she added, soft but insistent, “Don’t let him in.”
32
SCOTT: WITHOUT A TRACE
The suburbs held their breath.
Best two out of three. I’d taken the straight-line mow-off. He’d won the leaf-blower drag race. Now the hedge-shaping speed round would crown the champion. No medals. No cheering. The Turf Olympics dealt only in pride.
Two men.
Two machines.
One wildly unnecessary showdown.
Malcolm, the next-door neighbor, and I stared each other down across the property line, jaws set, protective goggles sliding into place like we’d rehearsed it. His hedge trimmer revved first—loud and aggressive, clearly trying to intimidate me. Cute. I thumbed my own ignition.Brrrrrrr. The sound ripped through the cul-de-sac.
