Chapter Seven Boise, ID Present Day #3
Imagine her surprise when, a few months after Malcolm’s funeral, she’d been allowed to take formal lessons on the same instrument that had sat sacrosanct for so long.
Not because her parents longed to hear the bright sound of music in the house again, and not because they thought she might enjoy a chance to share something with her brother, but because they simply had no idea what else to give her.
Not their attention. Not their time. Not their love.
She pushed the memory firmly aside, but the feelings lingered as she began playing the last song she’d ever put her hands to.
The old Leonard Cohen standard, “Hallelujah,” had been done and redone so many times that almost everyone knew the chords—secret or not.
She was still faltering over the opening when a low, beautifully raw female voice joined her at the piano.
She might have faltered even more once she realized that the voice belonged to River, but the girl nodded so encouragingly that she pushed through the clumsiness to what lay beyond.
Chrissie would never have Malcolm’s natural talent—that fact had been borne in on her from the start—but she’d always loved the feeling of getting lost in the music.
Practicing was brutal on her hands and recitals had been devastating to her sense of self-worth, but sometimes, just sometimes, she’d managed to convey her feelings in a way that even her parents had understood.
Pain. Anger. Fear. Loneliness.
Hope.
This time, when the song came to a close, the bar exploded in applause—or as much applause as half a dozen half-drunk patrons could muster when the clock hadn’t yet reached five in the evening.
“Oh, wow. You’re really good,” River said, showing none of the self-consciousness that made Chrissie’s whole body shake. “Do you know anything else?”
She did, but there was no way on earth she was making the attempt. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said as she rose on wobbly knees and managed a smile. “Do you usually sing along with the piano player?”
“No way. Carlito would never allow anyone to outshine him.” River tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking closer to eight years old than her supposed eighteen. “In fact, once he hears about this, he’ll probably have me fired. So much for my ticket out of this city.”
Chrissie darted out a hand and clutched River’s forearm. It was the second time she’d done that—touched the girl without permission—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Scarlett’s impulsivity must be rubbing off on her.
“Don’t leave tonight without stopping by my table, okay? I’d like to help you if I can. What time are you off shift?”
River looked down at her arm and back up at Chrissie, her expression muted. “Not until midnight. You’ll probably be in your hotel and asleep by then.”
“I won’t.”
River hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Maybe not, but your friend will. She doesn’t look so good.”
All thoughts of rescuing the girl fled at once, replaced by the even stronger need to rescue her best friend. Chrissie jumped down from the platform and marched over to the table.
“Scarlett, you wretch. If you’re tired, you have to tell me. Are you feeling okay? Are we pushing too hard on this trip? We can always hop on a plane and go somewhere with beaches and a dangerously high UV index.”
Although she was looking pretty tired, Scarlett didn’t glance up, her phone in hand as her fingers flew over the keys.
“Thank you, Mommie dearest, but I’m fine.
And you’re already a huge hit with my listeners.
Look.” She showed Chrissie a clip from the song.
Chrissie had to admit that the glittering tank top she wore looked good under so much illumination—especially once River joined her, her own black waitress uniform seeming to absorb both the light and the sound.
“TikTok is gonna eat this up. They love a public sing-along like you wouldn’t believe. It’s the new flash mob.”
“You put us on TikTok?” Chrissie asked, disregarding the bulk of this commentary. “Scarlett, what if River doesn’t want to be filmed? What if I don’t want to be?”
Scarlett kicked out Chrissie’s chair and gestured for her to sit in it. Sometime in the past half hour, a second glass of white wine had made it to her side of the table. “Then I guess you shouldn’t be so freaking talented.”
As Chrissie sat and refreshed herself with most—okay, all—of the wine, Scarlett added, “How did it feel, by the way? Playing the piano again? Letting yourself go?”
Chrissie glared at her friend over the top of her glass. Drat Scarlett for putting her in this position. Drat her for always being right. And drat her for knowing exactly how hard to push before letting Chrissie’s nature take its course.
“It wasn’t as awful as I thought,” she admitted before pointing a warning finger. “But don’t think that means you can manipulate me into doing it again. I’m not a little kid anymore, willing to do your bidding at every turn.”
Scarlett snorted. “You were never willing, Chrissie. In case you don’t remember, every daring thing I got out of you, I had to get by force.”