But for a variety of reasons, getting Brenda to dress up like a pirate wench is going to be good for her.”
“Oh my God. People are going to laugh. At both of you.”
“So?”
Dylan cocked his head. “You don’t even care, do you?”
“About what?”
“Your reputation.”
“My reputation is fine, thank you.”
Dylan huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t think she’s good for you.”
“That’s not the point. I’m trying to be good for her.”
His son blinked and stared. “What does that even mean?”
“Give it up, Dylan. She’s coming with me on the Festival of Lights cruise.” He paused a moment to pop a shrimp into his mouth and chew. “And we’ll both be wearing costumes.”
Dylan’s mouth dropped open. “You’re too old for this.”
Oh boy. Dylan rarely annoyed him, but being told that he was too old to enjoy dressing up and having some fun was irritating as hell. He leaned forward, catching Dylan’s stare. “How old is too old?” he asked.
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. But…”
“I’m over the hill at fifty-one? Is that it?” Jim’s voice sounded tight.
“No. But…”
“Then why did you say I was too old to dress up as a pirate or enjoy being with a woman dressed up as a wench?”
“Damn. I’m digging a big hole, aren’t I?” Dylan said.
“All the way to China, boy.”
“Just be careful, okay? The last time you had a lady friend, she turned out to be a witch.”
“Yeah, well, Brenda isn’t a witch.”
“No? From what I’ve heard she’s downright scary at choir rehearsals.”
Jim stifled a smile. He could see how people might be intimidated by her because Brenda was the epitome of a tough and demanding high school teacher. Simon had never imposed any discipline on the choir, but Brenda was cut from different cloth. So there were some grumbles. But there were also a lot of others who were relieved to have someone who knew what they were doing. The whole town would soon discover Brenda’s talents. This year’s performance was going to give people goose bumps.
“Well, call me foolish,” Jim said, dipping another shrimp into cocktail sauce, “but I like a good challenge.”
“Oh my God. You aren’t even denying it, are you?”
Jim said nothing because his son was behaving like a petulant child who didn’t like the idea of his widowed father dating someone. But damn, if he was going to date anyone, Brenda would be right there at the top of his list.
* * *
Momma had stopped roasting a turkey for Thanksgiving the year after Daddy died. And for the last thirty years, Thanksgiving dinner had featured a roast chicken instead.
Brenda hadn’t missed many Thanksgivings after she’d left Keith in Chicago. Momma always sent gas money, and Brenda made the long drive from Indiana year after year.
So Thanksgiving at Momma’s house was a habit, or a tradition, or something. But for years now, ever since Ella had followed in Brenda’s footsteps and run off with a man, Ella’s chair at the end of the table had been empty. Cody Callaghan, a handsome country-and-western singer, had convinced Brenda’s daughter that she could make a living playing fiddle in Nashville rather than studying classical music in New York.
“Lord, make us truly thankful for what we are about to receive.” Momma said grace, and Brenda bowed her head, trying to count her blessings. But the emptiness of the chairs on each side of the table overwhelmed her.
“Amen,” Momma said.
Brenda raised her head and picked up her knife and fork. But before she could cut a slice out of her chicken breast, Momma said, “They’re gossiping about you all up and down Harbor Drive.”
Brenda squeezed her silverware and met her mother’s gaze. “When have they ever stopped?” she asked.
“Honestly, honey, I don’t understand why you have to be so negative all the time.”
Brenda swallowed back a retort. Momma was a sweet woman who never raised her voice or said a harmful word to anyone. She was a peacemaker and a member of the Piece Makers, the local quilting club. Which meant she heard all the gossip in town.
So Brenda counted to three and reached for the same calm voice Momma used. “They asked me to do a job, and I’m doing it the best way I know how. I have no idea how Simon managed the chorale in the past without losing his temper. The sopranos think they’re in charge, and the tenors aren’t much better. The poor altos get lost when the basses start to bellow. And you know how it is with altos, they