Everything You Are(100)

“It was just . . . over between us. After I came home, your mom couldn’t bear to look at me. I didn’t remember about her and Mitch; the memory was already gone when I woke up in the hospital. We never talked about it. When I told her I didn’t remember what happened, how he died, she cried about that for days. It must have torn her apart. I think . . . she blamed me. I started drinking.”

“She shouldn’t have tried to take away your music,” Allie says fiercely.

“Or yours,” he answers. “You’re going to keep playing, yes?”

Allie nods. “I couldn’t bear to stop a second time.”

“God, I feel tired,” Braden says.

“I’m sure,” Len says. “Take it easy for a bit, let this settle in. You’ll maybe have bits of memory coming in for days now that the floodgates are open.”

Jean goes to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. “Drink up.”

“How did you know I’m desert dry?”

“Just had a feeling.”

He says nothing about his hands. Nobody asks. Allie sits tucked under his arm, and all of his focus is on her. At last, he looks up, reads the question in Phee’s eyes.

He lifts his hands, bends his fingers, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Phee,” he says. “Miracles only go so far.”





Chapter Thirty-Seven

PHEE

Phee carefully tunes the violin, tucks it under her chin, and plays a few measures. The action is good, everything feels right, but the tone isn’t quite what she would like it to be. Not surprising. The wood needs to season and settle before she’ll know if her new creation is mediocre, good, or great.

Still, a glow of accomplishment floods through her, as it does every time she completes a new instrument. And, as also always happens when she completes a new instrument, she thinks about the unopened letter in her trunk upstairs, wonders what it might teach her. Maybe someday she’ll read it, learn her grandfather’s darkest secrets, but she will never, ever, add a brand-new MacPhee instrument to the specials on her list.

She’s had enough of meddling with dynamite to last her for a good long time.

Since her return from the cabin five months ago, she’s had one letter from Braden, handwritten and sent through the post office to the shop.

April 2, 2018

Colville, WA

Phee,

(Not “dear Phee,” she notes, certainly not “dearest,” or “darling,” but she should be grateful he’s communicating with her at all.)

I know you will worry, so I’m writing to update you on our status.

Thank you for the offer you made when the Angels all headed back to Seattle, but we won’t be requiring a ride back home anytime soon. Allie and I have agreed to stay on at the cabin through the summer. It’s good for her to spend time with Jo, and good for me, too, I admit.

We’ve hired a service to keep an eye on the house and tend to the yard.

It’s peaceful here, a good place to think and to heal. Allie plans to retake her last semester of high school classes in the fall.

The cello is well and I believe happy. Allie plays every day, for hours, and I’ve been acting as her teacher. Hopefully this will be enough to keep your curse at bay.

I can’t quite believe I’m saying this, but thank you for dragging us out here. I am coming to terms with my life and going through the grieving process. Yes, I am sober. I suppose being here with Allie is one ongoing adventure.

Tell the Angels thank you for me. I’ll be back to meetings in the fall.

Be well,

Braden

Phee hasn’t written back. Any letter containing anything of importance would have to include words to tell him that she lies awake at night thinking about him. That even when she’s absorbed in crafting and repairing instruments, there’s an emptiness in her chest that sometimes makes it hard to breathe. She has some pride, she tells herself. She’s not going to throw herself at any man, not even Braden Healey.

All through the summer, she’s waited for the sensation to ease, but if anything, it’s grown stronger. She’s spent longer and longer hours in the shop, breaking off only to take Celestine for walks or to engage in Adventure Angels activities, or to make music of her own. Twice, she’s made herself visit Ethan, first in the hospital and then after his release from a psychiatric unit.

She doesn’t like him, but she feels responsible, as if maybe he’s yet another casualty of Braden’s broken bond with the cello. The boy’s parents, she has to admit, are self-absorbed and neglectful, and he’s been shaped by their behaviors into who he is. Still, she’s overwhelmingly grateful to Dennis, who has taken an interest in the boy and spirited him off on a series of adventures.

The instruments on her list are all currently well-loved and quiet.

All in all, things are going well, but she feels empty and restless; even the satisfaction of completing a new violin is transitory and small. Maybe she’ll take Celestine for a vacation before the last of the summer weather is gone. A ferry to Canada, maybe. Camping on Vancouver Island. Or a road trip.

When the bell over the shop door signals a customer, she looks at the clock. Three minutes to five. She should have locked the shop door early. People who come in just before closing always seem to need an hour of her time.