The Last Song

  He liked her. She wasn't sure why or how it happened, but he did. The thought was amazing, and she wished Kayla were here so she could talk to her about it. She supposed she could call her, but it wouldn't be the same, and besides, she wasn't even sure what she would say. She supposed she just wanted someone to listen.

  As she approached the house, the door to the workshop swung open. Jonah stepped out into the sunlight and headed toward the house.

  "Hey, Jonah!" she called out.

  "Oh, hey, Ronnie!" Jonah turned and started jogging toward her. When he got close, he seemed to study her. "Can I ask you a question?"

  "Sure."

  "Do you want a cookie?"

  "What?"

  "A cookie. Like an Oreo. Do you want one?"

  She had no idea where this was going, for the simple reason that her brother's brain ran on tracks perpendicular, not parallel, to her own. She answered with caution. "No."

  "How can you not want a cookie?"

  "I just don't."

  "Okay, fine," he said, waving it off. "Let's say you did want a cookie. Let's say you were dying for a cookie, and there were cookies in the cupboard. What would you do?"

  "I'd eat a cookie?" she suggested.

  Jonah snapped his fingers. "Exactly. That's all I'm saying."

  "What are you saying?"

  "That if people want cookies, they should get a cookie. It's what people do."

  Aha, she thought. Now it makes sense. "Let me guess. Dad won't let you have a cookie?"

  "No. Even though I'm practically starving to death, he won't even consider it. He says I have to have a sandwich first."

  "And you don't think that's fair."

  "You just said you'd get a cookie if you wanted one. So why can't I? I'm not a little kid. I can make my own decisions." He stared at her earnestly.

  She brought a finger to her chin. "Hmm. I can see why this bothers you so much."

  "It's not fair. If he wants a cookie, he can have one. If you want a cookie, you can have one. But if I want a cookie, the rules don't count. Like you said, it's not fair."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to eat a sandwich. Because I have to. Because the world isn't fair to ten-year-olds."

  He trudged off without waiting for a response. She had to smile as she watched him go. Maybe later, she thought, she'd take him out for an ice cream. For a moment, she debated whether or not to follow him into the house, then she changed her mind and headed to the workshop. She figured it was probably time to see the window that she'd heard so much about.

  From the door, she could see her dad soldering some lead together.

  "Hey, sweetheart. Come on in."

  Ronnie stepped inside, really taking in the workshop for the first time. She wrinkled her nose at the weird animals on the shelves and eventually wandered to the table, where she saw the window. As far as she could tell, they still had a long way to go; it wasn't even a quarter complete, and if the pattern was any indication, there were probably hundreds of pieces to go.

  After finishing with the piece, her dad stood straighter and rolled his shoulders. "The table's a little low for me. It gets to me after a while."

  "Do you need some Tylenol?"

  "No, I'm just getting old. Tylenol can't do much to fix that."

  She smiled before walking away from the table. Tacked to the wall, next to a newspaper article describing the fire, was a photograph of the window. She leaned in closer to get a better look before she turned to face him. "I talked to him," she said. "I went over to the garage where he works."

  "And?"

  "He likes me."

  Her dad shrugged. "He should. You're a catch."

  Ronnie smiled, feeling a surge of gratitude. She wondered, but couldn't quite remember, if he'd always been this nice. "Why are you making the window for the church? Because Pastor Harris is letting you stay in the house?"

  "No. I would have made one anyway..." He trailed off. In the silence, Ronnie was looking at him expectantly. "It's a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

  She nodded.

  "I was maybe six or seven when I first wandered into Pastor Harris's church. I took refuge there to get out of the rain--I mean, it was pouring and I was soaked. When I heard him playing the piano, I remember thinking that he'd tell me I couldn't stay. But he didn't. Instead, he brought me a blanket and a cup of soup, and he called my mom so she could come pick me up. But before she got there, he let me play the piano. I was just a little kid, banging on the keys, but... anyway, I ended up going back the next day and he eventually became my first piano teacher. He had this great love of music. He used to tell me that beautiful music was akin to angels singing, and I just got hooked. I went to the church every day and I'd play for hours beneath the original window, with this heavenly light cascading around me. That's the image I always see when I recall the hours I spent there. This beautiful flood of light. And a few months ago, when the church burned..."

  He motioned to the article on the wall. "Pastor Harris almost died that night. He was inside doing a last minute rewrite on his sermon, and he barely got out. The church... it went up in minutes and the whole place burned to the ground. Pastor Harris was in the hospital for a month, and since then he's been holding services in an old warehouse that someone is letting him use. It's dingy and dark, but I figured it was only temporary until he told me that the insurance covered only half the damage, and there was no way they could afford a new window. I just couldn't imagine that. The church wouldn't be the same place I remember, and it wouldn't be right. So I'm going to finish it." He cleared his throat. "I need to finish it."

  As he spoke, Ronnie found herself trying to picture her dad as a child at the church piano, her gaze flitting from him to the photograph to the partly constructed window on the table.

  "You're doing a good thing."

  "Yeah, well... we'll see how it turns out at the end. But Jonah seems to like working on it."

  "Oh, about Jonah. He's pretty bitter about the fact you wouldn't let him have a cookie."

  "He needed lunch first."

  She smirked. "I'm not arguing. I just thought it was funny."

  "Did he tell you he already had two cookies today?"

  "I'm afraid he didn't mention that."

  "I figured." He stacked his gloves on the table. "You want to have lunch with us?"

  She nodded. "Yeah. I think I do."

  They headed toward the door. "By the way," he said, trying to sound casual, "am I ever going to have a chance to meet the young man who likes my daughter?"

  She slid past him, into the sunlight. "Probably."

  "How about inviting him over for dinner. And maybe afterwards we can... you know, do what we used to do," her dad said tentatively.

  Ronnie thought about it. "I don't know, Dad. It can get kind of heated."

  "I'll tell you what. I'll let you decide, okay?"

  18

  Will

  C'mon, man. You've got to keep your head in the game. If you do that, we'll crush Landry and Tyson in the tournament."

  Will tossed the ball from one hand to the other as he and Scott stood in the sand, still sweating from the final volleys. It was late afternoon. They'd finished up at the garage at three and had raced over to the beach for a scrimmage against a couple of teams from Georgia that were spending the week in the area. They were all preparing for the southeastern tournament later that August, which was going to be held at Wrightsville Beach.

  "They haven't lost yet this year. And they just won the junior nationals," Will pointed out.

  "So? We weren't there. They beat a bunch of scrubs."

  In Will's humble opinion, the competition at the junior national tournament weren't scrubs. In Scott's world, however, anyone who lost was a scrub.

  "They beat us last year."

  "Yes, but last year you were even worse than you are now. I had to carry the entire load."

  "Thanks."

  "I'm just
saying. You're inconsistent. Like yesterday? After that chick from the Lost Boys stormed off? You played the rest of the game like you were blind."

  "She's not the chick from the Lost Boys. Her name is Ronnie."

  "Whatever. Do you know what your problem is?"

  Yes, Scott, please tell me my problem, Will thought. I'm dying to hear what you think. Scott went on, oblivious to Will's thoughts.

  "Your problem is that you're not focused. One little thing happens, and you're off in never-never land. Oh, I spilled Elvira's soda on her, so I'll miss the next five digs. Oh, Vampira got mad at Ashley, so I better miss the next two serves--"

  "Would you stop?" Will interrupted.

  Scott seemed confused. "Stop what?"

  "Stop calling her names."

  "See! That's exactly what I'm talking about! I'm not talking about her. I'm talking about you and your lack of focus. Your inability to concentrate on the game."

  "We just won two straight sets, and they only scored seven points total! We crushed them," Will protested.

  "But they shouldn't have even had five points. We should have shut them out."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Yeah, I'm serious. They're not very good."

  "But we won! Isn't that enough?"

  "Not if you could win by more. We could have broken their spirit, so that when they meet us in the tournament, they'd give up before the game even starts. It's called psychology."

  "I think it's called running the score up."

  "Well, that's just because you're not thinking straight, or you never would have ended up mashing faces with Cruella de Vil."

  Elvira, Vampira, and now Cruella. At least, Will thought, he wasn't recycling any material.

  "I think you're jealous," Will said.

  "No. Personally, I think you should go out with Ashley, so I can go out with Cassie."

  "You're still thinking about that?"

  "Hello? Who else would I be thinking about? You should have seen her in her bikini yesterday."

  "So ask her out."

  "She won't go." Scott frowned in consternation. "It's like a package deal or something. I don't understand it."

  "Maybe she thinks you're ugly."

  Scott glared at him before forcing out a fake laugh. "Ha-ha! That is so funny. You should really try booking yourself on Letterman." His glare remained fixed on Will.

  "I'm just saying."

  "Well, don't, okay? And what is it with you and..."

  "Ronnie?"

  "Yeah. What was that about? Yesterday, you spent your whole day off with her, and then she shows up this morning and you kiss her? Are you, like... serious about her or something?"

  Will remained silent.

  Scott shook his head as he raised a finger, emphasizing his point. "See, here's the thing. The last thing you need is to get serious with a girl. You need to concentrate on what's important. You've got a full-time job, you volunteer trying to save the dolphins or whales or turtles or whatever, and you know how much we have to practice to get ready for the tournament. You don't have enough time as it is!"

  Will said nothing, but he could see Scott growing more panicked with every passing second.

  "Ah, come on, man! Don't do this to me. What on earth do you see in her?"

  Will said nothing.

  "No, no, no," Scott repeated like a mantra. "I knew this was going to happen. That's why I told you to go out with Ashley! So you wouldn't get serious again. You know what's going to happen. You're going to turn into a hermit. You're going to blow off your friends so you can hang out with her. Trust me, the last thing you need is to get serious with..."

  "Ronnie," Will filled in.

  "Whatever," Scott snapped. "You're missing the point."

  Will smiled. "Did you ever realize you have more opinions about my life than your own life?"

  "That's because I don't mess things up like you do."

  Will gave an involuntary twitch, flashing back to the night of the fire and wondering if Scott was really so clueless.

  "I don't want to talk about it," Will said, but he realized that Scott wasn't listening. Instead, his gaze was focused over Will's shoulder, on a spot down the beach.

  "You've got to be kidding," Scott mumbled.

  Will turned around and saw Ronnie approaching. In jeans and a dark T-shirt, of course, looking as out of place as a crocodile in Antarctica. A huge grin spread over his face.

  He started toward her, drinking in the sight of her, wondering again what she was thinking. He loved the fact that he couldn't completely figure her out.

  "Hey," he said, reaching for her.

  She stopped, just out of reach. Her expression was serious. "Don't kiss me. Just listen, okay?"

  Sitting beside him in the truck, Ronnie remained as enigmatic as ever. She stared out the window, smiling faintly, seemingly content to watch the scenery.

  Ronnie brought her hands together in her lap. "I want you to know my dad won't care that you're wearing shorts and a tank top."

  "It's only going to take a few minutes."

  "But it's supposed to be a casual dinner."

  "I'm hot and sweaty. I'm not going to come to your house for dinner with your dad dressed like a bum."

  "But I just said he won't care."

  "I care, though. Unlike some people, I like to make a good impression."

  Ronnie bristled. "Are you saying I don't?"

  "Of course not. For instance, everyone I know loves to meet people with purple hair."

  Though she knew he was teasing, her eyes widened and then narrowed suddenly. "You don't seem to have a problem with it."

  "Yes, but that's because I'm special."

  She crossed her arms and stared at him. "Are you going to be like this all night?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like someone with no shot of ever, ever kissing me again?"

  He laughed and turned toward her. "I apologize. I didn't mean it. And actually, I like the purple streaks. It's... who you are."

  "Yeah, well, you'll just have to learn to be more careful with what you say next time." As she spoke, she opened his glove compartment and began sifting through it.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Just looking. Why? Are you hiding something?"

  "Feel free to sort through all of it. And while you're at it, maybe you could straighten it up a bit."

  She pulled out a bullet and held it up so he could see. "I suppose this is what you use to kill ducks, right?"

  "No, that's for deer. It's too big for a duck. The duck would be shredded to pieces if I shot it with that."

  "You have serious problems, you know."

  "So I've heard."

  She giggled before settling into silence. They were on the intracoastal side of the island, and between the ever-growing sprawl of houses, the sun was glinting off the water. She closed the glove compartment and lowered the visor. Noticing a photograph of a lovely blonde, she pulled it out and examined it.

  "She's pretty," Ronnie commented.

  "Yeah, she is."

  "Ten bucks says you posted this on your Facebook page."

  "You lose. That's my sister."

  He watched as her gaze flickered from the photo to his wrist, eyeing the macrame wristband.

  "What's with the matching bracelets?" she asked.

  "My sister and I make them."

  "To support a worthy cause, no doubt."

  "No," he said, and when he said nothing else, he was impressed that she seemed to intuit that he didn't want to say anything more. Instead, she carefully tucked the photo back in place and lifted the visor again.

  "How far away do you live?" Ronnie asked.

  "We're almost there," Will assured her.

  "If I'd known it was this far away, I would have walked home. Since we're heading farther and farther away from my house, I mean."

  "But you would have missed my scintillating conversation."

  "Is that what you call it?"

  "Do you plan
on insulting me some more?" He glanced at her. "I just need to know whether or not to turn up the music so I don't have to hear it."

  "You know you shouldn't have kissed me earlier. It wasn't exactly romantic," Ronnie shot back.

  "I thought it was very romantic."

  "We were in a garage, you had grease on your hands, and your buddy was gawking."

  "A perfect setting," he said.

  As he slowed the car, he flipped down his visor. Then, after making a turn, he came to a stop as he pressed the remote. Two wrought-iron gates slowly slid open, and the truck rolled forward again. Excited at the prospect of having dinner with Ronnie's family later that evening, Will didn't seem to notice that Ronnie had gone quiet.

  19

  Ronnie

  Okay, she thought, this was ridiculous. Not just the grounds with the sculptured rose gardens and hedges and marble statues, or the massive Georgian mansion supported by elegant columns, or even the overpriced exotic cars that were being waxed by hand in an area reserved for such things--but all of it.

  It wasn't just ridiculous. It was beyond ridiculous.

  Yeah, she knew there were rich people in New York with twenty-three-room apartments on Park Avenue and houses in the Hamptons, but it wasn't as if she'd ever spent time with those people or been invited to those homes. The closest she'd ever come to seeing a place like this was in magazines, and even then, most of those had been flyover shots taken by paparazzi.

  And here she was, wearing a T-shirt and torn jeans. Nice. At the very least, he could have warned her.

  She continued to stare at the house as the truck zipped up the drive, turning in to the roundabout in front of the house. He came to a stop directly in front of the entrance. She turned to him and was about to ask whether he actually lived here, then realized it was a stupid question. Obviously he lived here. By then, he was already getting out of the truck.

  Following suit, she opened her door and stepped outside. The two men washing the cars glanced at her before quickly going back to work.

  "Like I said, I'm just going to rinse off. It won't take long."

  "Fine," she said. Really, there wasn't anything else she could think to say. It was the largest house she'd ever seen in her life.

  She followed him up the steps that led to the porch and paused briefly at the door, just long enough to see a small brass plaque posted near the door that read, "The Blakelees."