much as Dax, his father, always was and still is. The fact that Jackson Morgan invited Winston, seven years his junior, to record with him and his famous friends for the past three days was a big deal. But, still, I know when to play it cool. I’ve been around musicians my whole life, after all.
“Glad it went well,” I say calmly. But I can’t resist shooting my son a little wink.
“Is Uncle Fish home?” Jackson asks. And I’m not surprised. Whether that kid is thirty or three, he’ll always have a special bond with his Uncle Fish.
“Yeah, he’s inside the house,” I say. “He wanted to take a nap, since we’re going out to dinner tonight, so I took Mr. Ants in His Pants outside for a bit.” I smile at my grandson in his father’s arms. “Alfie and I looked for shells, had a picnic, and then played our ukuleles. Didn’t we have fun, bubba?”
Alfie agrees we had a blast, and starts excitedly babbling to his father and uncle about our adventures. As he talks, I gather the blanket and remnants of our picnic, hand the ukuleles to my nephew, since Winston is holding Alfie, and then walk with the group across the sand toward the house.
“We were at my parents’ place earlier,” Jackson announces. “Mom said everyone’s coming over on Friday night for dinner and a jam session.”
“Yep. We’re going to talk about the reunion tour. You and your band should come jam with us.” I look at my son. “You too, honey. Everyone would love to see you.”
Jackson says, “Yeah, my dad already invited both of us. My friends are coming, too. They’re amped about it. My drummer in particular is excited to meet you.”
“Me? You mean Fish.”
“No, you. Both of you. My drummer is a huge ‘Alfi’ fan.”
I snort. “Please, honey. Don’t blow smoke up your auntie’s bum. Your friends have never heard of Ally and Fish.”
“Sure they have,” Jackson says. “My drummer grew up listening to you. He said his mom used to play your stuff all the time. He knows every word.”
“That’s so cool! I can’t believe someone your age knows my songs.”
“Mom, don’t be lame,” Winston says. “Everyone knows ‘Smitten,’ at the very least. Even if they don’t know who sings it, they’ve all heard that one.”
“That’s so cool! Isn’t that cool?” I grab my son’s free arm as we walk across the sand. “Promise you’ll bring Alfie to one of the shows on the reunion tour. You know, with protective earphones. I want Alfie to see his grandpa rocking out like the rock star he is.”
Winston chuckles. “And his grandma, too.” He kisses the side of my head. “Of course, I’ll bring him, Mom. To the opening show. After that, I was thinking of leaving Alfie with Emma and her parents for a couple weeks and tagging along on the tour, if that’d be okay with everyone.”
“Okay? It’d be a dream come true!”
“I was too young during the last reunion tour to fully appreciate it. I wanna hang out with everyone this time. You know, backstage. Have drinks and hear all the old stories, so I can remember them all.”
“I’m so excited!” I shriek. “You could sit in with my band a few shows, if you’d like! Play any instrument you want!”
“Oh my God, Mom. Seriously? I’d love that.”
“Just not bass.”
Winston rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously.”
I can barely breathe, I’m so excited. But, somehow, as we reach our back patio, I still remember to call out, “Rinse your feet before going inside!” It’s what I’ve been calling out for the past thirty years. First, to Fish, who never remembers. Then, to Fish and Winston. Then, to Winston and all his crazy friends. I swear, if I didn’t say that, nobody would ever do it—which means, by now, there’d be as much sand inside our house as on the beach itself.
I follow the group through the back door, and the minute I step foot inside my house, I’m hit with the glorious scent of flowers. I turn a corner, and there they are. White blooms. Everywhere. Roses, lilies, hydrangeas, and peonies. All of them symbolizing eternal love and loyalty, in slightly different ways.
“Matthew Fishberger!” I shout.
Like magic, my husband appears from the kitchen, looking showered and gorgeous. “Happy anniversary,” he says, an excited smile on his face.
Fish opens his arms and I barrel into them.
“I can’t believe you did this! Twenty-eight isn’t even a biggie!”
“Every anniversary is a biggie,” he says. “Plus,