The Unsinkable Greta James(69)

“He brought them?” he asks, surprised.

“Not all of them.”

“Good, because the girls want to spread some in our garden.”

Greta frowns. “Isn’t that a little morbid?”

“They’re ashes. Of course it’s morbid. All of this is. Where did you spread the rest of them?”

“On a glacier.”

He whistles. “Wow. She would’ve loved that.”

“I know,” Greta agrees, her throat suddenly thick.

“How was it?”

“Hard,” she says. “Really hard.”

“I bet.” Asher’s voice is so soft it makes her want to cry. “I wish I’d been there. But it’s better that you were.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what it means,” he says, and she does. They both do. They’ve just never said it out loud before. Helen didn’t play favorites the way Conrad did; her affection for Asher was never in doubt, her love for both of her children a seemingly infinite resource. But everyone knew the bond she had with Greta was special.

“Thanks, Ash,” she says quietly.

“For what?”

“I don’t even know.”

“World’s best brother?”

She smiles. “Something like that.”

When Greta returns to the casino, Ben is at the roulette table. As she walks up, he pushes a small pile of chips onto number 12.

“Your birthday?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “One of your daughters’ birthdays?”

The dealer spins the wheel, and they both watch the ball bounce around madly. It lands on 00. Everyone at the table groans.

“Jack London’s,” Ben says sheepishly as they cash in their remaining chips and get up from the table. Around them, the slot machines are dinging and beeping, and a cheer goes up as someone makes their point at craps.

“What is it with you and that guy?” Greta asks, amused.

Ben shrugs. “He’s an incredible writer.”

“I mean, I realize Call of the Wild is a big deal and all, but it can’t be that good.”

He stops and turns to her. “Wait. You haven’t read it?”

She shakes her head, and his mouth falls open. It’s like she’s told him she killed someone.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“But you raised your hand,” he says, wide-eyed. “At my lecture.”

“Oh,” she says. “Yeah. Sorry. I lied.”

He looks utterly scandalized. “Why would you lie about something like that?”

“I think I once saw the movie and figured that was enough. Besides, I know the basics: the gold rush, and Alaska, and the wolf, and—”

“The wolf?” he asks, indignant. “You think Buck was a wolf?”

“Wasn’t he?”

Ben looks like his head is about to explode. “He was a sled dog. That’s, like, the whole point of the book,” he sputters. “How can you not— It’s one of the foremost— I mean, every kid should have to—” He stops and shakes his head. “It’s a classic!”

Greta holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll give it a read.”

“Great,” he says, suddenly businesslike. “I have an extra copy in my room, in case of emergency. Should we go get it now?”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I don’t think this qualifies as an emergency.”

“Fine,” he says, still looking determined. “You can read it in the morning and then I’ll buy you a drink tomorrow night and you can give me a full report.”

She holds up her empty glass, rattling the ice. “The drinks are free, remember?”

“I remember,” he says, his eyes shining as he takes it from her. “But I’ll buy you one anyway.”

They get refills at the bar, then leave the noise of the casino behind, making their way unsteadily down the starboard passageway. At the piano bar, they pause to peek inside. There’s an old white guy with gray hair joyfully plunking out a Billy Joel song, and Eleanor Bloom is perched on top of the piano with a microphone, her eyes closed as she belts out the words. She’s almost completely out of tune, but she’s singing with enough gusto that it doesn’t seem to matter. Todd lifts a glass in her direction, a little red-faced, and Davis roars with laughter. Mary and Conrad are behind them at the bar, swaying in time with the music.

“Let’s get out of here,” Greta says, because it’s all a bit too much right now, and so they scoot past the entrance, their drinks sloshing in their clear plastic cups.

Farther down the corridor, the sound of a saxophone drifts from the jazz bar, rich and full and thrilling, and without thinking about it, Greta finds herself leading them inside.

“Is this where you played before?” Ben whispers as they find a spot in the back.

Greta nods, her eyes drifting to the guitars above the stage. Underneath them, the jazz trio—which consists of keys, sax, and drums—moves seamlessly from one tune to the next, the crowd clapping their hands and tapping their feet. The music is lively and unpredictable, and Greta closes her eyes and lets it course through her, wishing for a second that she were up there too. But for now, it’s enough to listen.