Epilogue
Three years later
We decided to stick to calling it the Outpost. No other name really stuck.
We tried on “the Artist’s Loft” and briefly “Ricky’s Place,” but we kept slipping up and defaulting to the original name.
The gingerbread-colored house on the hill lives on as what it has always been: a place to gather and create.
Not just music, although that’s certainly at the forefront.
We host touring acts passing through on their way to or from Chicago, plus sober songwriting retreats every fall.
Mostly, we’re a full-service recording studio with sliding-scale rates and scholarships available for sober acts.
Dad gave me the privilege of chasing a dream, a gift I’m passing along in fractions eleven months a year, all except August. That month is reserved for the band that started it all.
This really is Ricky’s place, regardless of the name. He’s in the creak of the floorboards, the whine of the back door, the jangle of the porch-swing chains. All the ordinary music of this place reminds me that he’s still here. That I’m never alone.
And I rarely am anyway. I hardly leave Renee’s side.
My best friend. The love of my life. The only woman for whom I would willingly attend all twelve performances of a production of Grease.
She is, by far, the hottest of the Pink Ladies.
And the cutest. And the smartest. She is the best person I have ever known.
But I haven’t been honest with her. Not about everything.
Next month, when Gin turns thirty-two, Renee thinks we’ll be singing a track off Songs for Alice at her karaoke costume party.
And we will, that’s true—but that’s only the start of my plan.
I can’t control how it plays out, but I can create the environment that allows the moment to happen.
I’ll hang the twinkle lights. I’ll dress as Danny Zuko.
I’ll somehow cram a ring box into the pocket of my leather pants.
When the song ends, the next one will begin: that damn duet from Rent.
I, Alice Pierce, will publicly perform a show tune, loud and proud, taking all the harmonies.
It might be embarrassing, but not nearly as much as not going after what you love.
When I drop to one knee, I’m praying she’ll know exactly what to say.