“Hey.”
She looked up and her face was etched with anguish, like the piano keys were made of needles. Her hands flew off the keys, finding safety in her lap. “Hi.”
I stepped up on stage and sat on the bench at her side, my hip forcing hers to scoot over. She moved so far away that one leg was completely off the seat and there was a visible inch between us.
I set my keys on the music desk, beside a pair of drumsticks, and put my fingers where hers had been. “I’ll play piano.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“What do you want to play?” I asked.
“I was thinking ‘Amazing Grace’ or ‘How Great Thou Art.’ Nan always liked those two.”
“What?” I gaped. “No. What song of yours do you want to play?”
“I don’t think we should play one of mine. I think that will only cause problems.”
“Nan would have wanted one of yours.”
“She loved hymns too.”
“How about ‘Torchlight’?”
“I don’t think a song about sex and heartache is going to be well-received by anyone on Saturday.”
“Who cares?” I barked. “This isn’t their damn funeral.”
She winced.
“Sorry.” Fuck. I took a long breath and gentled my tone. “I think Nan would have wanted something you wrote.”
“And I think she just wanted to have us sharing this bench seat.” She wasn’t wrong.
“Well, while we’re here, we might as well sing something she loved.”
“A hymn she loved.”
“Quinn—”
“Graham, please”—she held up her hands—“I’m just trying to make it through this week.”
And then she’d be gone.
I’d gone to bat for her with Bradley for no damn reason. Quinn wasn’t going to ruffle any feathers while she was here. She wasn’t going to push her parents or confront the past. Their rift would stay as wide as ever.
“Fine.” I pounded the first chord of “Amazing Grace,” making her jump as it reverberated through the hall. The pounding didn’t stop there. It was maybe the angriest, most rushed version of the classic hymn played in history.
Damn it.
The last note faded and her eyes were glued to my hands, just like they’d been through the whole song.
I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to sit up here with Quinn and sing a song that was a farewell to a woman we’d both loved. The truth was, it didn’t matter what song we played. This wouldn’t be easy.
This time when I played the first chord, it was soft and gentle. The piano’s clear chime eased the tension from my shoulders and the frustration melted away.
Quinn’s voice joined in, hesitant at first. She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, singing the words she’d memorized long, long ago when Ruby had taught us both to play.
This was where we’d had our lessons. From kindergarten to fifth grade, Quinn and I had spent our Thursday afternoons at this keyboard with Ruby, taking turns playing the scales and songs we’d practiced separately all week.
Ruby had wanted the quiet of the sanctuary instead of teaching us at her house, and she’d loved the acoustics of this sanctuary. So we’d play, and we’d sing. The lessons and practice had never seemed like a chore, for either Quinn or me.
Then one day, Quinn began writing her own songs. She’d play them for me when her mother was out of the room, self-conscious that they were different, faster and louder, than the music Ruby had preferred.
Every song she’d written had captivated me, like the girl herself.
Quinn’s voice became more confident with each pass of the chorus. Her singing was magic, smooth and soulful with the slightest rasp when she let the emotion show. It consumed her. Did she even feel me beside her as she sang?
Quinn Montgomery had always been destined for greatness. It was in her soul and it came out through her music. Quinn’s music was this enormous, living, untamable beast that she’d unleashed upon the world. But it shined especially bright when she was singing.
So why didn’t she sing for Hush Note? The question had bothered me from their first album and had continued to plague me since. She’d settled behind the drums and seemed content in her place there. Had that been by choice? Did her bandmates even know how much of a waste it was to have her sitting in the back?
I let muscle memory take over as we reached the last part of the song. My mind was so lost in her voice that if I thought about what my fingers were supposed to be doing, they’d falter. So I listened and didn’t sing along. And when the last note was done, I stood from that bench and walked for the door.
“Graham?” she called to my back.
“That’s . . . it’s good enough for today.” I had to get the hell out of this place. I had to get the hell away from the woman who’d shattered my heart. Because if I listened to her sing once more, I’d forgive her for leaving me.
My anger, something I’d been nursing for a long time, was the only thing keeping my broken heart whole. I’d clutch it close all week and add fuel to its fire.
Quinn Montgomery had always been destined for greatness.
She’d leave again without a backward glance. She was too big for this small place. That was a fact I hadn’t realized or acknowledged as a younger man. But not this time.
This time when she left, I’d be prepared to watch her go.
Chapter Five
Quinn
One tear streaked down my cheek.
I swiped it away, but another took its place.
This church. I hated this church.
Not for what it represented, my beliefs and faith had always been my own, but for the memories.
I hated this piano. I hated that I was scared of an instrument that used to bring me so much joy, and now it was painful to touch.
How many years had I spent in this seat, side by side with Graham as we’d practiced and performed? How many laughs had we shared in this spot? This used to be my favorite place in the world. A place where I could sing and play.
Some kids dreaded piano lessons, but practicing had always been the best part of my week. Performances had been easy here when I could look into the congregation and find Nan’s bright eyes waiting and her hot-pink lips stretched in a smile.
She used to sit in the same seat every Sunday. Her space was in the middle swath of pews, second row, first seat in from the right. Who would sit there now? Maybe it would stay empty for a time, but eventually someone would take it. Someday, even in a congregation of people who love her, she’d be forgotten.
The tears streamed as the dam I’d built against the grief broke. My shoulders shook, and the immense sadness of losing my grandmother, my cheerleader, my confidant, came rushing out.
Dad was somewhere in this building. The acoustics from the hall would reverberate toward his office, and I didn’t want him to know I was breaking down. So only when my face was buried in my hands to muffle the noise did I let loose the sobs clawing at my throat.
I didn’t want his comfort, not in this. If he found me crying, he’d do his duty and offer me some sage words of wisdom. But I didn’t need a pastor today, and I’d given up a long time ago on my father.