So I let you think I was going into premed so you’d help me with my application and stuff. And then I applied on my own to the music school and got an audition. That’s where I was when you died. That’s why I didn’t pick up Trey and why I ignored you when you tried to reach me.
So you were right about the music, that it’s a curse. And you were right about Dad, like I said. I wanted him to be there, at my audition. I thought he’d be proud of me. So I found him last year, on Facebook. And we messaged and stuff, and he agreed to meet me that morning, only he didn’t show up.
I’d even learned the C Minor, pretty much the way he played it. Mr. Blair helped me. He said I was an extraordinary talent, truly my father’s daughter. I wanted to believe him, but I blew the audition, I think, so even that wasn’t true.
I’m so sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up Trey.
If it helps, I persuaded Dad to get rid of the cello, so neither one of us will be playing anymore.
I love you,
Allie
Phee drops onto the bed with this missive in her hand.
“Oh, Allie,” she whispers. Tears well up and spill down her cheeks, and she wipes them away. This whole situation is even more of a mess than she’d thought, and apparently Braden hasn’t listened to word one of what she’s tried to tell him.
By the time she returns upstairs with her soaking castoffs wrapped in the towel, Allie is ensconced at the kitchen counter with a mug of hot chocolate. Her face has been washed, her hair has been combed. She looks small and waiflike in an overlarge flannel shirt and sweatpants.
“Hey, don’t I get hot chocolate?” Phee asks.
“Soon as you put those wet clothes in the dryer and mop up the floor. A dog that size needs to go to obedience school, Ophelia. I keep telling you.”
“This is delicious,” Allie says. “Mrs. . . . I’m sorry, what do I call you?”
“Mom, this is Allie. Allie, this is my mother, and you might as well just call her Bridgette.”
“Sure enough. Mrs. MacPhee, that was my mother-in-law, and one of her in the world is enough for anybody.”
“Mom . . .”
“You know it’s true, Phee. Now, I was in the middle of making cookies. And since the two of you are here, you can help me.”
Phee groans to herself. She had forgotten about the infernal bake sale. She hates baking. But before she can think of an excuse, Allie says, “My mother never made cookies. My dad used to, when we were little, but then . . .” Her voice trails off.
“Perfect,” Bridgette says. “I need help and you can learn. The batter is already made for the first batch, all you have to do is drop them on the sheets, like this. And then we’ll do the roll-out ones, those are the most fun.”
“Fun” isn’t the word Phee would use for any of it. “Tedious” and “monotonous,” more like it, although there are compensations. All broken or deformed cookies are for the bakers, for one thing. And the reward of hearing Allie actually laugh when Phee deliberately cracks a sugar cookie down the middle and says, “Damn it. Gonna have to eat another one” is even better.
But the whole time she’s itching to get to Braden. To remind him that he cannot, must not, sell the cello. She’s going to have to tell him the full story about what got her started drinking, a story she’s never told anybody, ever, in all the years that have fallen between then and now. And if that doesn’t convince him, then she’s out of ammunition and has no idea what she’s going to do.
Chapter Twenty-Two
PHEE
The door of the house opens before Phee’s car even comes to a stop. She can see Braden standing there, backlit from the lights inside, and guilt smacks her upside the face. She should have called him and let him know she had Allie. He’ll be worried sick. She’d meant to be here sooner, but the cookies had led to a Netflix movie and dinner.
It’s dark already, the streetlights creating little halos in the mist.
“Where the hell have you been?” Braden demands.
Allie shoves past him without answering, and his gaze shifts to Phee.
“I found her in the graveyard.” She tries to signal a warning with her eyes. Go gently. She’s