Then Isabella reaches up, presses a kiss to Marcus’s cheek, and says something that makes his jaw clench.
She gets in her car, and I watch her drive away, her taillights disappearing around the corner.
Marcus stands alone in the parking lot for a long moment, his head bowed, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Then he turns and walks back toward the church, his shoulders straighter than they were before.
The ghost is finally laid to rest.
Later, I’m reviewing sheet music in the parish hall when Charlie appears in the doorway, an envelope clutched in her trembling hands.
Her hazel eyes are wide, more green than gold in the afternoon light, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath her simple cotton dress.
The fabric clings to her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry…as usual.
“It’s from Diane.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I set down the music and cross to her, my body moving on instinct. My hands ache to pull her close, to offer comfort through touch, but I force myself to maintain the careful distance we’re supposed to keep, even though the Bishop has given us his blessing and a warning.
“Do you want me to read it first?” I ask gently.
She shakes her head, her auburn hair catching the light. “I need to do this.”
I watch her hands shake as she opens the envelope, pulling out a single sheet of paper.
Her eyes scan the words, and I see emotions cycle across her face.
Surprise. Pain.
Something that might be relief.
She reads it twice, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
Finally, she folds the letter carefully and tucks it back into the envelope. “She’s not apologizing. But she’s acknowledging that she left because of her own brokenness, not because of me.” Charlie’s voice cracks slightly. “She included a phone number but promised not to contact me again unless I reach out first.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. Not yet.” She moves to the desk, opening a drawer and placing the envelope inside. “I’m not throwing it away. But I’m not responding either.”
The gesture feels significant, like she’s choosing to keep the possibility of reconciliation without letting it consume her. I’m proud of her strength, of the way she’s learning to protect herself while still leaving room for grace.
That evening, I sit at the piano in the choir loft, my fingers finding the keys with practiced ease.
The music that flows from my hands is different tonight.
Lighter.
More hopeful.
The dark melancholy that’s colored my playing for weeks has lifted, replaced by something that sounds like possibility.
I hear footsteps on the spiral staircase and know it’s her before she appears.
Charlie’s presence changes the air, makes it electric, charged with everything we’ve survived together.
She crosses to the piano bench and sits beside me, her body warm against mine despite the careful inch of space between us.
I play something beautiful just for her, a piece I’ve been composing in my head for weeks.
