aware that it isn’t really about him but about something deeper that is broken between them.
It doesn’t matter, or change anything, any more than his questions about God and the universe change the color of the sky or the temperature outdoors.
“What does a professor of some music conservatory have to do with the kid?”
“He’s gifted!” his mother says. “Maybe even a prodigy. This could open doors for him. Scholarships. Opportunities.”
“I don’t care if he’s a prodigy or a potato. I just want to take my son on a fishing trip. One weekend out of the summer.”
“Maybe next weekend, then, if you’re so set on it.”
“Summer’s almost over. He’ll be back to school in a couple of weeks. What’s wrong with this weekend?”
“He’s committed. You want to teach him it’s okay to be irresponsible? That he doesn’t have to honor commitments? Be my guest.”
“How committed can he be? He’s ten.”
“A ten-year-old genius. How do you not keep hearing this? The music, Frank. How can you not understand how important the music is?”
“What about being a man? What about me? All I ask for is a son.”
“You have a son.”
“No, I have a fucking prodigy. Never mind. I’ll take Jo fishing. Is that okay with you? She hasn’t turned into a genius lately, has she?”
Braden feels sweat cold on the back of his neck. His mother is dead and buried, five years ago, maybe six. He’d been drinking hard at the time. Jo had managed to track him down, tried to reel him in for the funeral, but he’d been unable to face it. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself. In truth, he’d do pretty much anything to avoid the memories that are waiting for him here.
Bits and pieces surface as Phee drives him inexorably toward the last place in the world he wants to be.
Most of the drive is through nowhere, intercepted by a series of small towns. Darkness falls. Most of the occupants of the car drift into sleep. Allie’s head leans on Steph’s shoulder. Braden marks the landmarks, each town bringing him closer to his fate. They pass through Colville, and then onto Williams Lake Road. The headlights offer glimpses of dirty snowbanks and evergreen trees.
Not the cabin, then, or at least not yet. Dread crowds the car, an unwelcome passenger, and all the while the cello plays in his head.
Chapter Thirty-Three
PHEE
It has to be done, it has to be done, it has to be done.
Phee runs the words over and over in her head, her new mantra. Sometime during the long hours of the drive, they’ve meshed themselves with the haunting music and become a never-ending melody: The Song That Never Ends, arranged for cello, with variations.
All the same, her heart misgives her.
She feels like there’s an invisible wire connecting her and Braden, and every shock of emotion that hits him travels directly from his heart to hers. Bringing him here, ambushing him, really, is something he’s never going to forgive her for.
If it helps, if it heals him and heals Allie and brings both of them back to the music, then she can live with that. But what if she makes things worse by meddling? Bringing Braden out here to face his past in front of witnesses might be the stupidest thing she has ever done. What seemed like a brilliant idea earlier in the day has begun to feel like insanity.
Still.
It has to be done.
The directions Jo gave her are clear and concise, and she turns off what seems to her an already isolated road and onto a narrow driveway, closely lined by evergreens, packed and rutted with snow. As they emerge into a cleared space in front of a low, cozy-looking house, Phee is relieved to see lights on in the windows.
Almost midnight. The timing really couldn’t be worse. It was Jo who insisted on her stopping here first, Phee reminds herself. Before she’s even switched off the engine, a porch light comes on, illuminating a wide circle that includes the SUV.
The door opens and a woman steps out, striding across the yard and yanking Phee’s door open.
“Phee? I can’t believe you pulled this off.”
“Got him,” Phee says.
Jo looks past her into the back seat. “Braden. You’re actually here.”
“I was shanghaied.” His voice is wound so tight, it sounds ready to snap.
“I wish . . . ,” Jo says, then clears her throat. “Where is that Allie girl?”
“Here,” Allie says.
“Don’t suppose you remember me. I’m your aunt Jo.”