Thank You for Listening(104)

At the look on her friend’s face, Adaku uncrossed her arms and stepped gently over to her. “Actually. I’m going to put the kettle on, make us some more tea.” She dropped a hand on Sewanee’s shoulder. Squeezed. “You go ahead.” She went inside and closed the sliding door firmly behind her.

Sewanee sat back, took a breath, and looked out over the railing at the last beads of light being washed from the sky. She pressed play.

A lone guitar. Slow. Rhythmic. Lulling. Like the silky drift of a gondola. An effortless chord progression, masterfully played.

Then a voice. Rich. Caramelized. The pace and cadence of a sensual lullaby. Lyrics, poetic yet plain. A stealth hit to the heart.

For all its simplicity, it was deceptively deep, as if she’d stepped boldly into shallows and found herself over her head.

Even as it beckoned her forward, she missed where she’d been. It was far from over, but it took every ounce of willpower to not stop it and start over.

It felt soulfully Irish and yearningly American. It felt like Nick.

And his voice. What did he mean he only sang “a bit”? Good God.

Then it changed. A build began. A driving, forceful purpose accelerating toward some ethereal summit.

The tingle began in her scalp. It traveled down to her jaw. To her throat. Another tingle began in her toes and rose to her hips, her stomach. They met deep in the hollow of her chest. They mingled and vibrated together as he sang the song’s final note and his voice, to Sewanee, felt like a call to God. A prayer. An offering. A promise.

It felt like something to believe in.





Coda


Resolution doesn’t mean a happy ending–which I’ve been accused of. I don’t think I write happy endings. . . . I try never to end the play with two people in each other’s arms–unless it’s a musical.

–Neil Simon in The Paris Review

Of course there should be an HEA. I’m so sick of this question. It’s a Romance! That’s the deal we make with our readers. It’s misogyny, plain and simple. You don’t see anyone telling Mystery readers they’re silly and unserious for wanting to know by the end of the book who the murderer was. Fuck off.

–June French in Cosmopolitan





Epilogue


“A Stranger Comes to Town”

BLAHBLAH WOULD HAVE APPROVED OF THE SERVICE. IT HAD BEEN elegant and cheeky and a touch theatrical. Just like her.

They interred her ashes at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, six weeks after she died, and were currently having a garden-party reception at Seasons. Sewanee knew Blah would have wanted to wait that long to be put to rest if it meant more people were able to attend, social butterfly that she’d been.

It had worked.

Marilyn and Stu flew in from the Panama Canal and were chatting with Dan, who was helping Sewanee bartend the event and had just brought them two martinis; Mark was over by the food, telling Alice about the condo he’d found in Costa Rica; Adaku had wrapped the Angela Davis project the previous week and was talking with Mitzi–well, listening to Mitzi–who was still going strong and loud; Henry was on the bench Sewanee had sat on with Nick all those months ago, conversing with Amanda.

Adaku left Mitzi (not that she seemed to notice), took a Mallomar off the massive platter, and came sidling up to Sewanee. She followed her friend’s gaze over to Amanda and Henry and whispered, “Is he making a move?”

Sewanee swatted her.

“What, at least she’s age-appropriate! Progress!”

Sewanee reluctantly laughed as Dan came back, dropped off his tray, and left again to get more ice. The two women quietly assessed the crowd. Adaku hooked her arm into Sewanee’s and murmured, “She would have liked this.”

Sewanee nodded softly.

Adaku gave her a knowing squeeze. It had been a rough six months even before the last two, which had been horrible. But it had also been the most productive time of Sewanee’s life; professionally, personally, emotionally. She could feel everything, including her grief, settling now into a new, consistent normal.

“Sorry about Nick,” Adaku murmured.

Sewanee huffed a forlorn sigh. “Please, don’t remind me.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t bring it up, it’s a real sore spot,” a sexy voice said, and they turned to greet it.

He was wearing the suit he’d been wearing in Vegas and the voice that had made him famous. “Maybe his flight wouldn’t have been delayed if he’d flown into Burbank,” he continued, as he came around to stand in front of the bar, “which someone definitely tried to tell him to do.” He beamed down at her. “What a fart-head.”

She reached over the bar and grabbed his face, bringing it to her own. She kissed him half as ardently as she wanted to and threw her arms awkwardly around his neck. He turned his lips to her ear and said, in his normal voice, “I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”

She swallowed and pulled back. She smiled at him. “Better now.”

With everything going on in each of their lives, they hadn’t been together for the past couple of months, though they’d spoken nearly every day. In some ways, the distance had brought them closer. But now that he was here, in front of her, she wanted to close the door on everything and everyone else and lose herself in them. First, though: “I see you brought a date.” She turned her attention to the dark-haired man standing next to Nick. “Something you want to tell us?”