Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
CHARLOTTE (NOW)
I pack up my violin and music. My fingertips feel a little tender. A sign I’ve been too lax in my practicing this past week. With the audition looming, the little voice of panic gets a little louder every day.
When I toggle my phone out of DO NOT DISTURB, there’s a missed call from Pierre.
“Charlie, hello,” he says in that formal tone that never falters.
“Hey, Pierre. How is he today?” I ask.
“It’s a very pretty day here. We went out into the garden.”
I imagine Henrik strolling past his dahlias and roses, the September sun warming his hunched shoulders. “That sounds nice.”
“He requested potato salad and strawberries for lunch,” Pierre adds. “And we listened to Claire de Lune in the sitting room. He dozed for about an hour. The speech therapist is here now.”
I wince. Henrik doesn’t like doing the speech therapy exercises. He gets agitated. Probably because they make him feel stupid, and for a man like him, it short circuits his deteriorating mind. Which means my chances of talking to him today just dwindled to zero.
“I’m borrowing a sound booth from my old friend Crosby to rehearse in,” I say, leaning my back against the padded wall and rolling my neck from side to side. Tonight, I’ll do my MELT routine to loosen the fascia in my hands and fingers and use the foam roller on my shoulders.
“That’s encouraging,” he says with a gusto that makes me smile.
“Do you think he’d be up for a video call in the morning tomorrow?” I’ll have to ask Crosby about switching my slot in his sound room to midday.
“We can definitely try,” Pierre says. “How is your sister?”
I haven’t had the guts to hit the pawn shop in Pinedale yet. Mostly because I’d have to confront Morgan about it and I’m not ready for that. However, I did share what I found in her bathroom with her care team.
During my visit this morning, Morgan broke down when I brought up that fucking farrier, R.J. He’s going to leave me now and it’s your fault. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that R.J. has bigger problems than saying goodbye—like hopefully being arrested.
“She’s hanging in there,” I reply. Morgan didn’t want to be part of Henrik’s Summer Youth Symphony, so they were never connected. But because I talk about my sister and I’ve shared our music with him, Henrik would sometimes ask about her in that caring, grandfatherly way.
“That’s good to hear,” Pierre says. “We’re sending her strength and peace.” His use of “we” is sweet, and I try to breathe some faith into it. If Henrik weren’t fighting the loss of his mind, I know he would send those thoughts.
I close my eyes. “Thank you.”
When I slip into the hallway, muted viola notes filter down from Crosby’s private lesson room on the other side of the house.
It makes my heart happy to know he put his passion to work helping kids.
Does he still audition, or is he content playing for weddings and parties and teaching?
Is this how my life would have turned out if I’d returned to Finn River like he did ?
Walking into The Sweet Spot floods me with so many good memories that I almost miss Wren waiting at the back of the line.
“Oh my god you’re here!” she whisper shouts, wrapping her arms around me.
I hug her back, inhaling her subtle jasmine scent mixed with a hint of sweet alfalfa.
She’s dressed for ranch work in Wranglers, a fleece pullover, and her trusty pair of ropers, her long hair tied back in a braid.
The only thing missing is her trusty cowboy hat.
When we step apart, we both have tears in our eyes. She laughs, wiping hers away. “It’s so good to see you.” She links our arms. “Are you hungry?”
What is it about being back in Finn River that makes food taste better? “Starved,” I say while scanning the menu board. Because of my busy morning, lunch was a tiny tube of trail mix and tap water. “Everything looks good.”
“They have a new peanut butter and honey shake that’s pretty awesome,” she says. “Definitely filling, even for your bottomless stomach.”
I laugh. After we place our orders, we walk through the narrow eating space alongside the kitchen to the fenced outdoor courtyard in the back.
A half dozen round wood tables, some with brightly colored umbrellas sprouting from the centers, fill the space.
A giant Magnolia tree grows in the corner, creating a welcome pool of shade.
White fairy lights spiral up the trunk and around the lower branches.
Two of the tables are occupied—one by an older couple dressed like tourists, or maybe it’s a first date, and the other by a group of men and women with their laptops open, like they’re having a work meeting.
A giant black Labrador is tied to the leg of one of the chairs.
Though he’s passed out asleep on his side, his nose twitching in the dirt, I choose a table on the opposite side of the courtyard.
We’ve barely sat down when a woman follows us out carrying two giant smoothie bowls heaped with granola and fruit.
“Enjoy!” she says, then retreats.
My chocolate peanut butter smoothie bowl is piled high with sliced bananas, seeds, shredded coconut, and toasted walnuts. Gratitude floods me so fast I have to blink back emotions and rub my tight chest.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Fortunately, Wren is too focused on tucking her napkin on her lap to notice.
“How’s your new place?” I ask, picking up my spoon. “…and living together?”
Wren gives a dreamy sigh. “Denny’s just the sweetest. Our place is great. Small, but we don’t care.” Her big brown eyes shine with sincerity. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay with us. But we don’t even have a couch yet. And there are boxes everywhere.”
“It’s okay. Will’s place is fine.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “Wait…you’re staying at William’s? I thought…”
“Theo and Will are roommates.”
She gives me a slow nod. “And you guys are cool with it?”
Back then, I couldn’t share the truth about why I ended things with Will, so I went with a version of it. He’s going to Oregon, next stop the NFL. I’m going to Cornish, next stop a career in music.
“It’s a little awkward, but we’re managing,” I reply, and spoon a bite of my bowl. The rich chocolate is the perfect sweetness mixed with the crunchy walnuts. That same mix of emotions pulses through me, but this time I don’t fight it. It feels good. Almost like pleasure, or a version of it.
“Because he wants you back,” Wren says after swallowing a giant bite. She grins.
A fluttery heat coils low in my belly. “I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you guys…talked?” Wren asks, spooning up another bite. Hers is some kind of berry version topped with sliced mango and granola.
“He came to Boxcar’s last show.” Even though William stood in the back, I could never miss those eyes. Or that unmistakable susurrus bending the airwaves whenever he’s near, a steadfast pulse beating in sync with mine the way no one else’s ever has .
This isn’t an answer to Wren’s question, but she doesn’t push.
“I heard he saved Morgan’s life,” she says, compassion shining in her eyes.
“He did.”
“I want to hear about how she’s doing, but…” She covers my hand with hers. Her skin is warm and smooth, and the contact with my oldest friend kicks off a cartwheel of warmth inside me. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay, thanks. Morgan’s recovering, and for now, she’s safe. I’m rehearsing at Crosby’s.”
She pulls her hand away and spoons another bite. “I see him around sometimes. He keeps to himself.”
I hate that the choice I was forced to make at eighteen has made it awkward for Crosby to connect with our old friend group. After everything Sally did for me—and Morgan—that’s the last thing he deserves.
I swallow my bite too fast and the cold stings my sore tooth. I suck in a breath.
Wren cringes. “You okay?”
I try to warm the spot with my tongue. “Toothache. It won’t go away.”
“Denny’s uncle is a dentist if you need someone,” she says.
I wave her off. Dental visits are tricky. I’ll just have to wait until I’m back in Seattle. “When’s Emmie coming back?”
“Next week, I think. Will you still be here?”
“Probably.” I spoon up the melted edge of my smoothie then add a slice of banana.
She nudges my arm. “Don’t look so glum.”
I laugh. “I’m not glum. But, you know, I’ve got stuff to get back to.”
She gives me a knowing smirk. “I bet none of them are as swoony as William Hayes.”
I try to roll my eyes, but her look says she’s onto me .
“Do you think…the two of you…” One of her dark eyebrows arches. “Could you guys give it another shot?”
Panic chews at my insides. “No. There’s…too much has changed,” I say, fumbling to come up with the right words. Leave it to Wren to put me on the spot. “And my life’s in Seattle. I’m about to nail the gig of my dreams, Wren.”
She gives me a dramatic sigh. “I get it. But…what if your dream gig was in Finn River? You could take over the summer youth symphony. You and Morgan could make music again.”
I try to smile. She makes it sound so easy.
When I don’t reply, she covers my hand again. “I just want you to be happy.”
My phone buzzes, thankfully giving me a much-needed diversion, though hopefully it isn’t another emergency. “Sorry,” I say to Wren as I peek at the screen.
I need help with these demos
Sparks dance under my skin. I tell myself that I’m irritated, and definitely not intrigued.
“What demos?” Wren asks with a scowl, reading over my shoulder. “Isn’t QB what you called William?”
After I broke things off, I had to block his number. But after I saw him at Boxcar’s last show, I unblocked it. Not that it’s fixed anything.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Did you hear he bought The Limelight?”
Her face blanches in shock. “Seriously? When? And…why?”
I give her the few details I have. “I think Will has this crazy idea that I’ll help him run it.”
She cocks her head. “Plot twist.”