The Last Song Page 9

  As if she didn't have enough to deal with right now.

  She needed to find Blaze so she could explain what happened. Of course, how to do that without making Marcus out to be a liar might be a problem. Blaze would want to believe Marcus, and who knew what the guy had said after she left. But she'd cross that bridge when she came to it; hopefully, lying in the sun would keep things mellow and she could bring it up naturally.

  Ronnie left her bedroom and walked down the hall just as the music from the living room ended, only to be followed by the second piece she'd played at Carnegie Hall.

  She paused, adjusting the tote bag on her shoulder. Of course he'd do that. No doubt because he'd heard the shower and knew she was awake. No doubt because he wanted them to find common ground.

  Well, not today, Dad. Sorry, but she had things to do. She really wasn't in the mood for this.

  She was about to make a dash to the front door when Jonah emerged from the kitchen.

  "Didn't I say you were supposed to get something good for you?" she heard her dad ask.

  "I did. It's a Pop-Tart."

  "I was thinking more along the lines of cereal."

  "This has sugar." Jonah wore an earnest expression. "I need my energy, Dad."

  She started to walk quickly through the living room, hoping to make it to the door before he tried to talk to her.

  Jonah smiled. "Oh, hey, Ronnie!" he said.

  "Hi, Jonah. Bye, Jonah." She reached for the door handle.

  "Sweetheart?" she heard her dad say. He stopped playing. "Can we talk about last night?"

  "I really don't have time to talk right now," she said, adjusting her tote bag.

  "I just want to know where you were all day."

  "Nowhere. It's not important."

  "It is important."

  "No, Dad," she said, her voice firm. "It isn't. And I've got things to do, okay?"

  Jonah motioned to the door with his Pop-Tart. "What things? Where are you going now?"

  This was exactly the conversation she'd hoped to avoid. "It's none of your business."

  "How long are you going to be gone?"

  "I don't know."

  "Will you be back for lunch or dinner?"

  "I don't know," she huffed. "I'm leaving."

  Her dad started to play the piano again. Her third piece from Carnegie Hall. He might as well have been playing Mom's CD.

  "We're going to fly kites later. Me and Dad, I mean."

  She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, she swiveled toward her dad. "Would you just stop with that?" she snapped.

  He stopped playing abruptly. "What?"

  "The music you're playing! You don't think I recognize those pieces? I know what you're doing, and I already told you I'm not going to play."

  "I believe you," he said.

  "Then why do you keep trying to get me to change my mind? Why is it that every time I see you, you're sitting there pounding away?"

  He seemed genuinely confused. "It has nothing to do with you," he offered. "It just... makes me feel better."

  "Well, it makes me feel sick. Don't you get that? I hate the piano. I hate that I had to play every single day! And I hate that I even have to see the damn thing anymore!"

  Before her dad could say another word, she turned, snatched Jonah's Pop-Tart out of his hand, and stormed out the door.

  It took a couple of hours before she found Blaze in the same music store they'd visited yesterday, a couple of blocks from the pier. Ronnie hadn't known what to expect when they'd first visited the store--it seemed kind of antiquated these days in the age of iPods and downloads--but Blaze had assured her it would be worth it, and it had been.

  In addition to CDs, there were actual vinyl record albums--thousands of them, some of them most likely collector's items, including an unopened copy of Abbey Road and a slew of old 45s simply hanging on the wall with signatures of people like Elvis Presley, Bob Marley, and Ritchie Valens. Ronnie was amazed that they weren't under lock and key. They had to be valuable, but the guy who managed the place looked like a throwback to the sixties and seemed to know everyone. He had long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail that reached his waist, and his glasses were the same kind John Lennon had favored. He wore sandals and a Hawaiian shirt, and though he was old enough to be Ronnie's grandfather, he knew more about music than anyone she'd ever met, including a lot of recent underground stuff she'd never even heard in New York. Along the back wall were headphones where customers could either listen to albums and CDs or download music onto their iPods. Peeking through the window this morning, she saw Blaze standing with one hand cupping a headphone to an ear, the other tapping the table in rhythm to whatever she was listening to.

  In no way was she prepared for a day at the beach.

  Ronnie took a deep breath and headed inside. As bad as it sounded--she didn't think Blaze should be getting drunk in the first place--she kind of hoped that Blaze had been so out of it that she'd forgotten what happened. Or even better, that she had been sober enough to know that Ronnie had no interest in Marcus.

  As soon as she started down the aisle full of CDs, Ronnie sensed that Blaze had been expecting her. She turned down the volume on the headphones, though she didn't remove them from her ears, and turned around. Ronnie could still hear the music, something loud and angry she didn't recognize. Blaze gathered up the CDs.

  "I thought we were friends," she started.

  "We are," Ronnie insisted. "And I've been looking all over for you because I didn't want you to have the wrong idea about what went on last night."

  Blaze's expression was icy. "You mean about asking Marcus to go for a walk with you?"

  "It wasn't like that," Ronnie pleaded. "I didn't ask him. I don't know what his game was..."

  "His game? His game?" Blaze threw down the headphones. "I saw the way you were staring at him! I heard what you said!"

  "But I didn't say it! I didn't ask him to walk anywhere--"

  "You tried to kiss him!"

  "What are you talking about? I didn't try to kiss him..."

  Blaze took a step forward. "He told me!"

  "Then he's lying!" Ronnie snapped, holding her ground. "There's something seriously wrong with that guy."

  "No... no... don't even go there..."

  "He lied to you. I wouldn't kiss him. I don't even like him. The only reason I was there was because you insisted that we go."

  For a long moment, Blaze didn't say anything. Ronnie wondered if she was finally getting through to her.

  "Whatever," Blaze said, her tone making her meaning perfectly clear.

  She pushed past Ronnie, jostling her as she headed toward the door. Ronnie watched her go, unsure whether she was hurt or angry at the way Blaze had just acted before deciding it was a bit of both. Through the window, she saw Blaze storm off.

  So much for trying to make things better.

  Ronnie wasn't sure what to do next: She didn't want to go to the beach, but she didn't want to go home, either. She didn't have access to a car, and she knew absolutely no one. Which meant... what? Maybe she'd end up spending the summer on some bench where she'd feed the pigeons like some of the weirder denizens of Central Park. Maybe she'd end up naming them...

  At the exit, her thoughts were brought to a halt by the sudden blaring of an alarm, and she glanced over her shoulder, first in curiosity and then in confusion as she realized what was happening. There was only one way in and out of the store.

  The next thing she knew, the ponytailed man was rushing toward her.

  She didn't try to run because she knew she'd done nothing wrong; when the ponytailed man asked for her bag, she saw no reason not to give it to him. Obviously, a mistake had been made, and it wasn't until the man removed two CDs and half a dozen of the signed 45s from her tote bag that she realized she'd been right about Blaze expecting Ronnie to find her. The CDs were the ones that Blaze had been holding, and Blaze had taken down the 45s from the wall. In shock, she began to understand that Blaze had pl
anned it all along.

  Suddenly dizzy, she barely heard the manager tell her that the police were already on their way.

  11

  Steve

  After buying the materials he needed, primarily two-by-fours and sheets of plywood, Steve and Jonah spent the morning closing off the alcove. It wasn't pretty--his father would have been mortified--but Steve thought it would do. He knew the cottage would eventually be demolished; if anything, the land was worth more without it. The bungalow was flanked by three-story minimansions, and Steve was certain those neighbors considered the place an eyesore that depressed their own property values.

  Steve hammered in a nail, hung the photograph of Ronnie and Jonah he'd removed from the alcove, and took a step back to examine his handiwork.

  "What do you think?" he asked Jonah.

  Jonah wrinkled his nose. "It looks like we built an ugly plywood wall and hung a picture on it. And you can't play the piano anymore, either."

  "I know."

  Jonah tilted his head from side to side. "I think it's crooked, too. It kind of bends in and out."

  "I don't see anything."

  "You need glasses, Dad. And I still don't see why you wanted to put it up in the first place."

  "Ronnie said she didn't want to see the piano."

  "So?"

  "There's no place to hide the piano, so I put a wall up instead. Now she doesn't have to see it."

  "Oh," Jonah said, thinking. "You know, I really don't like having to do homework. In fact, I don't even like to see it piled on my desk."

  "It's summer. You don't have any homework."

  "I'm just saying that maybe I should build a wall around the desk in my room."

  Steve suppressed a laugh. "You might have to talk to your mom about that."

  "Or you could."

  Steve gave in to a chuckle. "You hungry yet?"

  "You said we were going to go kite flying."

  "We will. I just want to know if you want lunch."

  "I think I'd rather have some ice cream."

  "I don't think so."

  "A cookie?" Jonah sounded hopeful.

  "How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"

  "Okay. But then we're going to fly the kite, right?"

  "Yes."

  "All afternoon?"

  "As long as you want."

  "Okay. I'll have a sandwich. But you have to have one, too."

  Steve smiled, putting his arm on Jonah's shoulder. "Deal." They headed toward the kitchen.

  "You know, the living room is a whole lot smaller now," Jonah observed.

  "I know."

  "And the wall is crooked."

  "I know."

  "And it doesn't match the other walls."

  "What's your point?"

  Jonah's face was serious. "I just want to make sure you're not going crazy."

  It was perfect kite-flying weather. Steve sat on a dune two houses down from his own, watching the kite zigzag across the sky. Jonah, full of energy as usual, ran up and down the beach. Steve watched him with pride, amazed to recall that when he'd done the same thing as a child, neither of his parents had ever joined him.

  They weren't bad people. He knew that. They never abused him, he never went hungry, they never argued in his presence. He visited the dentist and doctor once or twice a year, there was always plenty to eat, and he always had a jacket on cold winter mornings and a nickel in his pocket so he could buy milk at school. But if his father was stoic, his mother wasn't all that different, and he supposed that was the reason they'd stayed married as long as they had. She was originally from Romania; his father had met her while stationed in Germany. She spoke little English when they were married and never questioned the culture in which she'd been raised. She cooked and cleaned and washed the clothes; in the afternoons, she worked part-time as a seamstress. By the end of her life, she'd learned passable English, enough to navigate the bank and grocery store, but even then her accent was heavy enough that it was sometimes difficult for others to understand her.

  She was also a devout Catholic, something of an oddity in Wilmington at the time. She went to services every day and prayed the rosary in the evenings, and though Steve appreciated the tradition and ceremony of mass on Sundays, the priest always struck him as a man who was both cold and arrogant, more interested in church rules than what might be best for his flock. Sometimes--many times, actually--Steve wondered how his life would have turned out had he not heard the music coming from the First Baptist Church when he was eight years old.

  Forty years later, the details were fuzzy. He vaguely remembered walking in one afternoon and hearing Pastor Harris at the piano. He knew the pastor must have made him feel welcome, since he obviously went back again, and Pastor Harris eventually became his first piano teacher. In time, he began to attend--and then later ditch--the Bible study the church offered. In many ways, the Baptist church became his second home and Pastor Harris became his second father.

  He remembered his mother wasn't happy about it. When upset, she would mutter in Romanian, and for years, whenever he left for the church, he would hear unintelligible words and phrases while she made the sign of the cross and forced him to wear a scapular. In her mind, having a Baptist pastor teach him the piano was akin to playing hopscotch with the devil.

  But she didn't stop him, and that was enough. It didn't matter to him that she didn't attend meetings with his teachers, or that she never read to him, or that no one ever invited his family to neighborhood barbecues or parties. What mattered was that she allowed him not only to find his passion, but to pursue it, even if she distrusted the reason. And that somehow she kept his father, who ridiculed the idea of earning a living through music, from stopping it as well. And for this, he would always love her.

  Jonah continued to jog back and forth, though the kite didn't require it. Steve knew the breeze was strong enough to hold it aloft unaided. He could see the outline of a Batman symbol silhouetted between two dark cumulous clouds, the kind that suggested rain was coming. Although the summer storm wouldn't last long--maybe an hour before the sky cleared again--Steve rose to tell Jonah that it might be a good time to call it a day. He took only a few steps before he noticed a series of faint lines in the sand that led to the dune behind his house, tracks he'd seen more than a dozen times when he was growing up. He smiled.

  "Hey, Jonah!" he called out, following the tracks. "Come here! There's something I think you should see!"

  Jonah jogged toward him, the kite tugging at his arm. "What is it?"

  Steve made his way down the dune to a spot where it merged with the beach itself. Only a few eggs were visible a couple of inches below the surface when Jonah reached his side.

  "Whatcha got?" Jonah asked.

  "It's a loggerhead nest," Steve answered. "But don't get too close. And don't touch. You don't want to disturb it."

  Jonah leaned closer, still holding the kite.

  "What's a loggerhead?" he panted, struggling to control the kite.

  Steve reached for a piece of driftwood and began etching a large circle around the nest. "It's a sea turtle. An endangered one. They come ashore at night to lay their eggs."

  "Behind our house?"

  "This is one of the places sea turtles lay their eggs. But the main thing you should know is that they're endangered. Do you know what that means?"

  "It means they're dying," Jonah answered. "I watch Animal Planet, you know."

  Steve completed the circle and tossed aside the piece of driftwood. As he stood, he felt a flash of pain but ignored it. "Not exactly. It means that if we don't try to help them and we're not careful, the species might become extinct."

  "Like the dinosaurs?"

  Steve was about to answer when he heard the phone in the kitchen begin to ring. He'd left the back door open to catch any stray breezes, and he alternately walked and jogged through the sand until he'd reached the back porch. He was breathing hard when he answered the phone.

  "Dad?" he
heard on the other end.

  "Ronnie?"

  "I need you to pick me up. I'm at the police station."

  Steve reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. "Okay," he said. "I'll be right down."

  Pete Johnson, the officer, told him what had happened, but he knew Ronnie wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Jonah, however, didn't seem to care.

  "Mom is going to be mad," Jonah remarked.

  Steve saw Ronnie's jaw clench.

  "I didn't do it," she started.

  "Then who did?"

  "I don't want to talk about it," she said. She crossed her arms and leaned against the car door.

  "Mom's not going to like it."

  "I didn't do it!" Ronnie repeated, swiveling toward Jonah. "And I don't want you to tell her that I did." She made sure he understood she was serious before turning to face her father.

  "I didn't do it, Dad," she repeated. "I swear to God I didn't. You have to believe me."

  He heard the desperation in her tone but couldn't help remembering Kim's despair when they'd talked about Ronnie's history. He thought about the way she'd acted since she'd been here and considered the kinds of people she'd chosen to befriend.

  Sighing, he felt what little energy he had left dissipate. Ahead, the sun was a hot and furious orange ball, and more than anything, he knew his daughter needed the truth.

  "I believe you," he said.

  By the time they got home, dusk was setting in. Steve went outside to check on the turtle nest. It was one of those gorgeous evenings typical of the Carolinas--a soft breeze, the sky a quilt of a thousand different colors--and just offshore, a pod of dolphins played beyond the break point. They passed by the house twice a day, and he reminded himself to tell Jonah to watch for them. No doubt he'd want to swim out to see if he could get close enough to touch them; Steve used to try the same thing when he was young, but never once had he been successful.

  He dreaded having to call Kim and tell her what happened. Putting it off, he took a seat on the dune beside the nest, staring at what was left of the turtle tracks. Between the wind and the crowds, most of them had been erased entirely. Aside from a small indentation at the spot where the dune met the beach, the nest was practically invisible, and the couple of eggs he could see resembled pale, smooth rocks.

  A piece of Styrofoam had blown onto the sand, and as he leaned over to pick it up, he noticed Ronnie approaching. She was walking slowly, her arms crossed, head bowed so that her hair hid most of her face. She stopped a few feet away.