He shakes his head. “No, I want to do this.” We reach the garage, and he holds the door open for me. I step under his arm, squeezing close to him, my shoulder brushing against his chest.
“It was always one of the things I liked most about piping,” he says, following me inside. “When we were in school, James and I would do these gigs for extra spending money. We did some graduation ceremonies, and a few weddings, but a lot of funerals. And it was nice, being able to be there for those families in that way. To meet all of them, to see the impact, the comfort our music could provide. Maybe it’s strange to say, but I enjoyed playing at funerals more than anything else. More than school or the competitions we used to do. I would have kept doing it, only…after my parents’ service, I didn’t feel like doing it anymore.”
The garage is quiet, something electric humming faintly in a neighboring room, but there’s no one else in here.
“I can understand that,” I say.
He sets his bagpipe case on the floor, scanning the room for a mechanic.
“I’m sorry, I remember you saying it happened a few years ago, but I never asked…How did they—”
“Car accident,” he says, turning to look at me. “I was away from home when it happened. At university.”
Something twists in my chest.
It was more than a few years ago, then. He would have been so young.
“I’m going to go look for someone to help us,” he says, rolling back his shoulders.
“I’ll go with you.”
We search one office only to find it empty, then walk down a hallway, heading toward the buzzing sound.
“And your parents—I never—” He clears his throat. “You said you were young when you moved from here. Is that when they split?”
“Yeah. I was four, maybe five. I don’t remember much of it.” I pause. “I can kind of picture our house if I try. I remember always being cold, and not feeling like that anymore once we moved.”
The electric buzzing sound gets louder, and Jacob raises his voice over it. “Where did you move to? When you left with your mother?”
“L.A.,” I respond. “We’ve been there ever since.”
He squints a little at that, but before I can figure out what his reaction means, another voice calls out.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” a man says. We can’t see him, his face hidden by the raised hood of a car, but he must have heard us talking. “We’re closed.”
Jacob steps forward. “I’m sorry. It’s just—we have a car here getting repaired and we wanted to see if we could get an update. I tried calling, but no one answered.”
“No one answered because we’re closed,” the man says. The hood slams down, and the man wipes his hands on his coveralls. “Anyone tell you it’s rude to trespass?”
Jacob frowns, adjusting his glasses. “The front door was open.”
The man snorts, coming around the car. “And that just gives you license to—” When he looks up, his mouth snaps shut, his eyes bouncing between Jacob and me.
From the smoky tone of his voice I assumed he was older, but he can’t be that much older than Jacob and me. Late thirties, at most. He has a shock of dark, thick brown hair, and a short beard the same color, with a little gray mixed in.
He’s handsome, I realize, even with the grease stain smeared down his cheek. And there’s something about this outfit that’s really working for him. A thin white undershirt, with his coveralls rolled down and tied at his waist.
“Sorry,” he says, lifting a hand in my direction. “I’m not even supposed to be here today. I just snuck in to finish this, but now I’m going to be late, and I really need to lock up.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “We can leave.”
“No,” the man replies quickly. “That’s—I can walk you out.”
He looks over at Jacob again, then back to me, his eyes flicking up and down. “I’m guessing you’re going to the funeral?”
“Yes,” Jacob responds. “We are.”
We shuffle single file out the small door, then back through the hallway. “I’ll be there too,” the man says. “Brian was a relative.”
