The Unsinkable Greta James(61)

When she makes it back to the ship, the same officer is standing at the door.

“Glad you decided to keep going,” she says, like she knows something Greta doesn’t, like she’s managed to peer directly into her brain.

“Keep going?” Greta asks as she passes over her key card.

“With the cruise,” the woman says, as if this should be obvious. “You know. Instead of moving here.”

Greta half-turns to take one more look at the little town and the great mountain behind it, then, once the card is scanned, she slips it into her pocket and hurries onto the elevator. She’s about to press 7, then thinks of her tiny room with its thin walls and hits 2 instead.

When she gets out, she looks left and then right down the corridor, trying to remember where it is, the jazz club they’d passed that first full day at sea. She wanders by the piano bar and the casino before she finds it tucked back beside the nightclub. There’s no door, no rope, just an easel advertising tonight’s shows, one at eight and one at ten. For now, the tables are bare and the lights are dim.

Up on the stage, there’s a keyboard and a drum set, surrounded by various speakers and microphones and wires. Above those, just as there’d been last time, six electric guitars hang in a row. Before she can think better of it, Greta walks up the aisle, steps onto the stage, and peers up at the first one, a red-and-white Yamaha. She looks around before lifting it gently from the hook near the lighting bar. There are several amps behind her, but she doesn’t plug it in. Instead, she runs her fingers over the strings, her heart giving a little skip.

When that first chord fades out, she stares out over the room.

There’s no audience. Just dozens of empty seats.

She looks down at the guitar again.

Then she takes a deep breath.

And begins to play.

She doesn’t bother with the words; those will have to come later. For now, it’s just the music, and it’s different this time, fuller somehow. She closes her eyes as she plays, and when she reaches the end, when the last notes fade out, it’s like emerging from a dream. She comes out of it slowly, and as she does, she notices Preeti standing uncertainly by the door. The room falls silent again as she lays a hand on the still-vibrating strings of the guitar.

Greta has been playing in front of people since she was twelve. She’s headlined festivals with tens of thousands of fans, recorded in some of the most famous venues in the world, jammed with some of her childhood heroes, and enjoyed more encores and ovations than she can count.

But right now, nothing—nothing—can match the look of awe on this one girl’s face.

“Wow,” Preeti says softly, and Greta smiles, because the guitar could use some tuning, and the bridge didn’t really work without someone on keys, and she still needs to come up with the words to match whatever it was she just played. But even so, it was good. She could feel it.

Preeti takes a few steps into the room. “That song is…” She shakes her head, not finding the words. “Do you think you’ll ever try it again? In public, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Greta admits, taking the guitar off. “It didn’t go so well the last time.”

“Yeah, but it might be my new favorite,” Preeti says so earnestly that Greta has to swallow the lump in her throat before speaking.

“Thank you,” she manages.

“Those chord changes in the middle—how did you do them?”

“Here,” Greta says, holding out the guitar. “I’ll show you.”

Preeti looks momentarily dumbstruck. Then she hurries up the steps to the stage, loops the strap over her head, and places her fingers carefully on the strings. She’s wearing a Blondie T-shirt and jeans that are torn at the knees and her dark hair is pulled back into a messy bun and it nearly takes Greta’s breath away, how much it’s like seeing her former self, right down to the way her tongue is sticking out in concentration.

She looks up at Greta, suddenly shy. “It’s the part between the second verse and the bridge,” she says. “Your hands were flying.”

“Use your middle finger,” Greta says, which makes Preeti laugh. But she adjusts her hands on the fret. “There. Try it now. Start with E.”

The first note comes out with confidence; the second, more tentatively.

Which is sometimes how it goes.

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” Greta reminds her, and Preeti looks up.

“What’s it supposed to be then?”

“I think fun?” Greta says with such a lack of conviction that they both start to laugh. “Yes. Fun. It’s definitely supposed to be fun.” She glances down at the guitar in Preeti’s hands again. “Here,” she says, hooking her own fingers around an imaginary set of strings. “Try it this way.”

Preeti’s eyes dart between Greta’s hands and the guitar she’s holding. Then she starts again. This time, when she plays it, the notes ring out across the empty room with such satisfaction that neither of them can keep from grinning.

“Good,” Greta says, hopping down from the stage. “Now keep practicing.”

She’s still buzzing all over as she starts to walk back up the aisle, her heart beating fast, like it hasn’t given up the song just yet.

Preeti glances up. “Where are you going?”