The Unsinkable Greta James(77)

“Well, that’s too bad,” Mary says. Something about the look on Greta’s face must be enough to warn her from asking anything more, because she’s quick to move on. “Hey, I bet this will cheer you up. Davis and I decided to do a medley for the variety show tonight.”

Greta raises her eyebrows. “A medley of what?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a laugh. “He’s in the piano bar trying to figure it out as we speak. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“And listen, don’t shoot the messenger, but I promised Eleanor I’d check one more time to see if you want to—”

“No,” Greta says flatly, aware that she sounds like a petulant teenager. But she doesn’t know how many more times she can say it. “Please tell her in the nicest way possible that I still have no interest in performing at a cheesy cruise ship variety show.” She pauses. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Mary says. “But you should know the reason she’s been pushing so hard is that your mom promised we could all come see one of your shows this summer.”

Greta’s caught off guard by this. “She did?”

“She was always telling us how great they were. How they made her feel like she was twenty-one again.” Mary smiles wistfully. “We were going to plan a girls’ trip to come see you play on tour. And now that she’s gone…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

“I suspect,” she says after a moment, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, “that Eleanor is thinking this might be the closest we get.”

Greta reaches for Mary’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “It won’t be,” she says. “I promise. Tell me when you want to come, and I’ll take care of it.”

“We’d love that,” Mary says, looking down at her fondly. “Your mom would be so proud of you, you know that?”

Greta nods, but what she’s thinking about is her sixth-grade talent show, when she got such cold feet that her mother had to come backstage. “Ah,” she said when she saw Greta perched on an overturned recycling bin, miserably hugging her guitar. “I see the problem now.”

“What?” Greta asked, lifting her head.

“You’re not playing.” She stooped down so that their eyes were level. “You just need to play. Once you start, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” she said, giving Greta a kiss on the forehead, “that’s your superpower.”

And she was right.

But now, for the first time in a long time, Greta is scared to play again. And nobody is here to tell her it will be okay.

When Mary is gone, Greta and Conrad sit listening to the instructor call out directions for the Macarena—Palms up, one then the other!—as the dancers dissolve into laughter, feet thumping on the wooden floor. Out the window ahead of them, the fog is starting to burn off, making everything sepia-toned in the afternoon light.

The threadbare copy of The Call of the Wild is sitting on the table between them, and Conrad looks over at it with interest. He picks it up and opens to the title page, where Ben’s name is written in the neat blocky handwriting of a child. He glances over, eyebrows raised, the significance of it becoming clearer. “Did he leave this for you?”

“It’s more of a loan.”

“Which means you’ll be seeing him again?”

Greta gives him a sideways glance. “I don’t know, Dad.”

“Well, for whatever it’s worth—and I know it’s not usually worth a whole lot—I thought he seemed like a good guy.” He pauses, and Greta can almost see him biting back the phrase for a change. To his credit, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he taps the book gently, then sets it back on the table. “With good taste.”

“He is,” she tells her father. “But he has a wife and kids.”

Conrad’s mouth falls open. “He does?”

“Well, he’s separated. But that’s still a lot of baggage.”

“Everyone has baggage,” he says. “Even you. Just because yours is a different shape and size doesn’t mean it’s not heavy too.”

Greta narrows her eyes at him. “When did you get so philosophical?”

“I think it’s all this water,” he says, turning back to the window. “It’s getting to me.”

“It’s not just about…baggage,” Greta says after a moment. “Our lives are so different. He’s worried because his daughter might need surgery. I’m worried because—”

“You have to play the guitar this weekend.”

Greta stiffens automatically, searching for the usual air of dismissal inside the words. But it doesn’t seem to be there. So she nods.

Conrad considers this for a moment. “But that’s what makes you happy.”

“I mean, it will if it goes well,” she says cautiously, still unsure where he’s headed with this. She gives him a funny look. “Are you drunk right now or something?”

He laughs and shakes the ice in his glass. “It’s after noon and I’m on the last day of a cruise I was supposed to be taking with my late wife to celebrate our anniversary. Of course I’m drunk. But I’m still allowed to have a chat with my daughter, aren’t I?”