“Is that or is that not the richest sound you ever heard? That’s how you recognize a good guitar.”
“I can’t believe the difference between this and my old guitar. They’re not even in the same ballpark.”
“Exactly. And it’s a lot easier to play, with the strings so close to the fretboard.”
Paige played a couple more chords, did a little fingering. Then, with a sigh of regret, she lay the guitar back in its velvet nest. “Not so fast,” he said.
She glanced up, her face awash in puzzlement. “What?”
“Do you like it?”
“Of course I like it. It’s friggin’ amazing.”
“That’s a good thing, then, because it’s yours.”
Her face changed, grew wary, suspicious. Not quite the response he’d hoped for. Something tightened inside his chest, temporarily constricting his breathing. Damn it. Kids learned what they were taught. So who had taught her not to trust?
“Mine,” she said carefully. “Why?”
“Because,” he said. “Because you’re my kid, and I’m proud of your playing. Because I saw it in this dusty little pawn shop in Memphis, and it had your name written all over it. Because serious musicians graduate from fifty-dollar department-store guitars to the real thing. And last but not least, because I like to give presents.”
“This is not a cheap guitar,” she said.
“No, it’s not. It’s also not brand-new, but whoever owned it took damn good care of it. I’m trusting that you’ll do the same. Because even though it’s not new and I didn’t pay full price, I still dropped a pretty penny on it.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you will be sufficient.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes met Casey’s, and a silent message he couldn’t decipher passed between them. “Did you—”
“I swear I did not,” his wife said. “I’m as surprised as you are.”
Biting her lower lip, Paige bent her head over the guitar, ran her fingers up and down the fretboard, played a few notes. “What?” he said.
“Later,” Casey said, and over Paige’s head, gave him a look that said Please don’t argue.
He shot her a wink, said to the kid, “Thanks for the breakfast, kiddo. I’m off to take a shower.”
And he left the two of them to whatever they were secretly plotting.
Paige
They’d been practicing for a week, she and Luke, but still she was nervous. It wasn’t the profusion of relatives that bothered her, all those aunts and uncles and cousins squeezed into her father’s house. She’d sung in front of people before. Hell, she’d sung solos with the school chorus before five hundred people, and been unfazed by it. Luke had a decent voice, and they sounded good together. There was nothing to be nervous about. But tonight her nerves were on edge. Because tonight, for the first time, her father would hear her sing.
Casey had written the song for her, and it wasn’t some wussy, saccharine, fifteen-year-old-kid song, it was a real piece of music, complex enough to do her voice justice, simple enough to appeal to a wide audience. Her stepmother knew what she was doing when it came to writing music, and she knew how that piece of music needed to be performed. Tonight, there was no backup band, no amplification, no rocking out. Just the two of them, playing their acoustic guitars and singing.
“You ready?” Luke said.
“As ready I’ll ever be.” She glanced around the room, at the assembled Saturday-night regulars. Bill, with coffee mug in hand, leaning against the fireplace. Trish and Rose, side by side on the couch. Paula and Chuck Fournier, sitting in matching armchairs. Billy and Alison with their new baby, looking tired but happy. Jesse, standing in the doorway to the front hall, leaning against the door frame. And her father in the Boston rocker, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, waiting. Casey stood behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. Paige met her stepmother’s eyes, and Casey nodded.
She beat out a soft 1-2-3-4 rhythm on the body of her guitar, the one her father had given her. And she and Luke began to play.
There were more than a dozen people in the room, but as her voice gained momentum and she lost herself in the song, only one of those people counted. Only one of those people existed. Her father sat watching, listening, with a flat expression she couldn’t decipher. With Luke singing harmony, she wound her voice around the notes, wrapped herself around the lyrics. It was a song about a woman who’d given her all to a relationship and lost everything. She’d given up on love and life until this special guy came along and made her believe again. The song was raw and touching and uplifting, a perfect vehicle for her voice. Her audience seemed entranced, and she saw at least one mouth hanging open.
But still her father sat there, deadpan, sending her stomach plummeting. Was he disappointed? Did he hate the song, her singing? Had he expected something she couldn’t deliver? As far as she knew, Casey had said nothing to him beyond, “Paige is going to sing for us tonight.” So she had no idea what his expectations had been. Or if he’d even had expectations.
Maybe it was her own expectations that had exceeded the realm of possibility.
The song ended, and she barely heard the applause, because her father still had no reaction. While Luke, ever the ham, took bow after bow for his part in the performance, Paige set down her guitar and fled. In the kitchen, she brushed wordlessly past Mikey, who was just arriving, pulled her jacket from the coat tree in the shed, and let herself out into the crisp autumn evening.
She stood on the steps and breathed in the night air as she shoved her arms into her jacket and zipped it. Then she made her way around the house, up the seldom-used front steps, and across the porch to the swing.
Hands tucked into her pockets for warmth, she huddled in one corner of the swing, her feet curled up on the wooden slats beneath her, a confused mix of emotions tumbling around inside her. How could he have just sat there, unmoved, unspeaking? And what possible difference could it make if he did? She hated her father. Didn’t she? Nothing he did or said could possibly matter. The fact that he’d wooed her with postcards and a new guitar didn’t mean a damn thing. Just because he was a professional musician, the one person who should have understood, didn’t mean zip. She was her own person. She didn’t need him, didn’t expect anything from him. She’d done this on her own for fifteen years. She sure as hell didn’t need his approval to keep on doing it.
Then she saw him, a shadowy figure in the darkness, tall and lanky, coming around the corner of the house, moving unerringly toward the swing. Of course he knew exactly where she’d gone. It was the same place he always went when his own wounds needed licking. Was it too farfetched that they would have chosen the same place to do their serious thinking? After all, they shared DNA. And as much as she hated to admit it, from the prickly outer shell right through to the marshmallow center, they were so clearly father and daughter that there was no escaping the truth.
He sat down beside her, propped his ankles on the porch railing, and set the swing in motion. Paige folded her arms around her stomach and waited. After a long silence, he said, “And I thought you only liked rap.”
In spite of her desire to maintain her distance, she let out a soft snort of laughter.
“So,” he said amiably, “were you planning to keep this from me forever?”
“It’s my thing,” she said. “I’m under no obligation to share it with you.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You have a gift, Paige. A real gift. Don’t you think you have an obligation to share that gift with the world?”
“I’ve never thought about it that way.”
“Think about it.”
“What if I said I don’t want to? Share it with the world?”
He turned his head, studied her in the faint lamplight that fell through the bay window. “Then I’d say I don’t believe you. I don’t believe anybody can sing the way you do without wanting to share it. Without wanting to drown in the music, lose yourself in it, let it
swallow you up and hold you there forever.”
How was it he could see inside her soul and read what was written there? Was it because he was a musician? Or was it just another symptom of that shared DNA?
“I was blown away by what I heard tonight,” he said. “Completely and utterly blown away. Do you understand that? You have the most amazing voice I’ve heard since Danny Fiore. I don’t toss around compliments lightly. I don’t bullshit. You have a talent that rendered me speechless. Have you ever seen me speechless?”
“Um…no?”
“Exactly. Casey says I came out of the womb already talking. Tonight, I couldn’t believe that voice was coming from my kid.”
“Mom always said I got my musical talent from you.”
“Well, wherever it came from, kid, you impressed the hell out of me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud.”
Why did it feel like this, hearing him say those words? She hated him. Had hated him since birth. Paige searched inside herself in an attempt to resuscitate that sleeping hatred, and realized that at some point, when she wasn’t paying attention, it had fled. What it had left behind in its place was a lump of raw clay, one she could mold into any shape she wanted. But the molding was up to her. She was the one who had to decide what kind of relationship she wanted with her father. Or whether she wanted one at all.
They sat for a while longer in a companionable silence. “Why don’t we go back inside?” he finally said. “Your legion of fans awaits. You were the belle of the ball tonight.”
She held back a smile. “I think,” she said, “I’ll just stay out here for a while. I have some thinking to do.”
He swung his feet down off the railing and stood up. “Just don’t stay out here too long,” he said. “You’ll turn into a Popsicle.”
And he lumbered down the steps and across the lawn, disappearing into the shadows.
***
She’d been sitting for a while, arms wrapped around her folded knees, studying the night sky, when Mikey walked up the porch steps and sat down beside her. “You dad said you were out here.”
“Don’t be so shy. Feel free to sit down and join me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I hear you were quite a hit tonight,” he said. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t that big a deal. And it wasn’t just me. Luke was there, too.”
“According to Luke, he was just window dressing.”
“He would say that.”
“One of these days, I’ll have to hear you sing.”
“Band rehearsal three times a week. You’re invited. Any time you want.”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“A walk?” she said. “Where would we walk around here?”
“Just up the road a bit. Get away from this crazy crowd. The moon’s full, the stars are out. It’s a great night for walking.”
“It’s freezing cold, Mikey Lindstrom! And you’re nuts.” But she slid off the swing and went with him anyway. Hands tucked in pockets, they walked, elbow to elbow, down the driveway to Meadowbrook Road. “Which way?” she said.
He looked left, then right. “North,” he said.
They crossed the road and began ambling along the shoulder, facing traffic. “So,” he said, “how’s algebra going?”
“Better. Mrs. Silverburg’s been really good. I never could get the hang of it before, but with her teaching, it suddenly makes sense.”
“That’s good. Do you know, my dad had her for a teacher back when he was in school? As far as he’s concerned, she’s a cross between Mother Teresa and Margaret Thatcher.”
“Your dad’s a cool guy.”
“He’s all right. I think he’s happy with your Aunt Rose. He was alone for a lot of years after my mom left. I’m glad he found someone.” He looked up at the night sky. “Life is funny sometimes. If he’d married Aunt Casey like he was supposed to, I wouldn’t be here today. Or if I was, I’d be somebody different.”
“What do you mean, like he was supposed to?”
“I thought you knew. It’s the stuff of family legend. They were childhood sweethearts who got engaged in high school. Four weeks before the wedding, she met Danny, and married him instead.”
“Wait. Your father is the guy she left at the altar?”
“Not quite at the altar. But, yeah. Can you imagine if they’d gotten married?”
She couldn’t. Even she could see there was no spark between them. They were friends. Good friends. But boyfriend and girlfriend? She couldn’t fathom such a thing.
“Wow,” she said. “I had no idea. She told me she was engaged when she met Danny, but she never told me who the guy was.”
“They grew up together. After she left, Dad ended up marrying her sister instead. My mom. I don’t think it was a love match. She was never happy. I can remember, even as a small kid, sometimes she’d just sit and cry. Then one day, she up and left. I see her a few times a year. She hasn’t neglected me. I think she’s still trying to find herself.”
“Getting kind of old for that, isn’t she?”
He let out a soft snort that might have been laughter, but she couldn’t be sure. “Look up there,” he said, pointing. “See that grouping of stars? Ursa Major. And just below it, you have Ursa Minor.”
“It’s amazing. All I could see in Boston was electric lights.”
“And over here—“” He caught her elbow and turned her. “That’s Cassiopeia.”
She tried to follow, but it was all too confusing. To her, all those stars looked alike. She turned to tell him so, and suddenly they were face to face, standing on the side of the road, cloaked in velvety darkness, and she couldn’t breathe.
She shivered. “You’re cold,” he said.
“I told you it was freezing out here, but did you listen to me?”
“Here. Put your hands inside my jacket.”
She hesitated, then slipped them, clasped into tight little fists, inside the unzipped football jacket. His body heat enveloped her, warmed and loosened those fists. She looked up into his face, that gorgeous face, and all the moisture left her mouth. His dark eyes, ravenous, examined her. His hair, in the moonlight, looked almost white, and she had an overwhelming urge to reach up and touch it. But her hands were trapped inside his jacket, pinned there by his arms, which had somehow managed to find their way around her. When had that happened, and how could she possibly have missed it? “I think,” she said, “that this is a bad idea.”
“It’s a really, really bad idea.”
“So…?”
“So…” He dipped his head down and kissed her.
It wasn’t her first time. She’d been kissed before. Stewie Katz had kissed her after the eighth-grade graduation dance, and Sonny Malone had edged her into a dark corner at a party last summer and laid a good one on her. But those kisses had been nothing like this. They’d been child’s play. This was different. This was the real thing. Her first real kiss. His mouth was soft and warm and seductive, and the kiss went on and on, until she thought she might faint right here in his arms.
They broke apart for breath. She was trembling all over, her body aching in ways she’d never imagined before. So this was what all the screaming was about. Who knew? Paige MacKenzie wrapped her arms around Mikey Lindstrom’s neck and kissed him again, a kiss she could feel in every inch of her body, a kiss she wanted to go on and on forever, or until she died, whichever came first.
From out of nowhere, a car raced toward them. They broke apart, each of them taking a step backward. For a moment, they just stared at each other. “Holy shit,” he said.
The car, moving too fast, raised a cloud of dust on the gravel road. Just before it reached them, she recognized it. The driver’s window came down, and as he passed them, Luke leaned his head out the window and yelled, “Whoo-heeeee!”
And he was gone, around a corner and out of sight. She looked at Mikey, and he looked at her. “That boy,” he said, “has some serious issues.”<
br />
Rattled, she said, “Looks like the party’s over.” But she wasn’t one hundred percent sure which party she was referring to.
“I’d better get you back,” he said, “before they come looking for you.”
“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”
He hesitated. “Look, Paige…”
Trying to slow the erratic beating of her heart, she said, “What?”
He took a deep breath. “Never mind. It’s not important. Come on, let’s get you home before you freeze to death.”
Rob
“Alone at last,” his wife said. “I thought they’d never go home.” She took off her robe and hung it over the chair, then lifted the bed covers she’d already turned down and slipped between soft Egyptian cotton sheets.
“It was a little intense, wasn’t it?” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he bent to peel off his socks, and she ran the fingertips of one hand up the center of his bare back.
He turned to look at her, green eyes searching green eyes, and she gave him a tender, intimate smile. “Hey there, sailor,” she said. “Going my way?”
“I could probably be convinced.” He stood to unfasten his jeans. Reached out to turn off the lamp, and crawled into bed and into her waiting arms. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“That was quite a coup you pulled off.”
“She’s something else, isn’t she?”
“She is.” He paused, unsure how to approach this for fear of trampling on toes and starting something. But he’d instantly recognized the song his daughter was singing as his wife’s work. That knowledge had left a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. That, contrasted with his pride and elation, made him feel like he’d been run through a blender set to puree. “You wrote it,” he said. “The song.”
“With a little help from Paige. She’s such a great kid.”
“You haven’t written anything since Danny died.”
“I know. But the minute I heard her sing, I knew she had something special. And for the first time in years, I wanted to write again.”
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