Chapter 7

seven

WILL

Grandpappy's Farm typically closed early on Sundays. I didn't always get out of there when I was supposed to, but sometimes the stars aligned and tourists got the hell out without needing to be herded to the exit or recovered from the corn maze.

Today was one such occasion. So I was headed out to Legacy Hills to see my grandpa William.

When I entered the long-term-care wing, one of the nurses—Tanisha—flagged me down. "Hi, Mr. Clark. We finished dinner early tonight so the residents could listen to a little music from one of our volunteers. Mr. William is in the large group meeting room at the end of the hall."

"Oh," I said. "Thank you." That wasn't typical. Usually, my grandfather was already in his room, and I spent the evening reading to him before bed. But now that I considered it, I could hear someone playing the piano. The melody drifted down the corridor, and I let my feet guide me across the wooden floors in that direction.

Upon reaching the doorway, my gaze searched the room, wondering how Grandpa William might react to the music. With his late-stage dementia, he could sometimes be combative or resistant to new situations. It was difficult to see him that way, and I didn't want an upset in his schedule to make him angry. But then I remembered the piano in the formal living room, out of tune under my wayward ownership, and the photo of the great-grandmother I'd never met, playing for a much younger, healthier William.

My eyes found him first. Grandpa wasn't among the other residents in the periphery. He wasn't in a wheelchair near the piano. And he wasn't one of the few elderly people swaying with nurses and assistants in the center of the room on what looked to be an impromptu dance floor.

Grandpa sat on the piano bench, in profile from my position. His focus was on the keys, and his hands were resting placidly atop his thighs, but the little finger on his left hand tapped in time to the beat. I was so surprised that I just stood there staring.

It wasn't until the song ended and a new one started that my gaze landed on the person beside my great-grandfather. The person making the music. The woman smiling and mouthing words or notes along with her not entirely fluid playing.

Long blond hair in a thick braid rested over one shoulder, and elegant fingers pressed the black and white keys. I sighed out a slow breath at the realization.

Becca Kernsy just kept right on surprising me.

Every few moments, she'd raise her head to scan the room, grinning and making eye contact with the men and women listening to her play. Her energy was upbeat and positive, and when she missed a key, she leaned her shoulder gently against my grandfather's and said "whoopsie" in an exaggerated whisper. But no one minded. It was clear from the faces of most of the residents that they enjoyed Becca's playing. The music made them happy and so did the smiling woman who chose to spend her evening with them.

I was reluctant to interrupt. My great-grandfather was content, and my presence wouldn't improve anything. It had been at least six months since he'd recognized me during one of my visits. He rarely spoke anymore, and he needed help from the staff of Legacy Hills for even the most basic care. Rationally, I knew—as did the rest of my family—that Grandpa William didn't have much time left on this earth. If he was comfortable here and now, I wasn't about to disturb him.

Eventually, a male staff member who had been swaying gently on the dance floor with Mrs. Charles got Becca's attention and held up a hand showing five fingers. Becca nodded and transitioned into the next song .

I recognized the opening chords of "Imagine" by John Lennon.

She seemed to know this song pretty well because she didn't need to focus on the keys as much. On one of her scans of the room, she caught me loitering in the doorway. Happiness lit her features from the inside out. I felt like I'd won a prize to be able to put that kind of smile on her face.

Briefly, I wondered if she was remembering last night at Firefly. Because suddenly, that was all I could think about. The easy conversation, her teasing grin, and the parade of Kirby Falls residents who'd fallen under her spell.

Becca tilted her head and motioned me toward the old upright piano facing the large room. Reluctant to get in the way, I slowly inched forward as she played the song's final notes.

When I reached her side, Becca beamed up at me. "Will! What a surprise to see you here."

"You too," I replied quietly. And then I focused on the man still seated calmly beside her. "Good evening, Grandpa."

Becca's eyes widened, her mouth dropping into an "o." I could see her mind turning over as she looked between us. The gray eyes we shared and his salt-and-pepper hair that had once been the exact shade of near-black as mine. My great-grandfather had thinned and stooped with age, but at one time he'd been a larger-than-life presence.

Becca's look was pleading, an apology waited its turn right there on the tip of her tongue. But she had nothing to be sorry about. Circumstances were what they were. I appreciated that she was here visiting the patients in long-term care. I knew several of the residents didn't get many visitors.

Before she could offer any sort of consolation, the male nurse hurried over. "Okay, thanks, Becca. I'll take over now." And then his sly glance cut to me. "Why don't you take her for a spin on the dance floor? They'd get a kick out of the two of you. And she gets mobbed as soon as she's done playing anyway. You'd be doing me a favor for crowd control."

He . . . wanted me to dance . . . with Becca in the meeting room at Legacy Hills for the dozen residents gathered ?

"Oh, no," Becca was saying before the man had even finished speaking. "Will doesn't need to do that."

Well, it wasn't what I'd anticipated when I'd walked in here tonight, but it seemed like an easy crowd. And the idea of having Becca in my arms for a few minutes wasn't a terrible one. Plus, I would still have a chance to visit with Grandpa William once the music and dance portion of the evening was over.

So I leaned down to my grandfather and said, "I'll see you in a few minutes, Grandpa."

And then I held my hand out to Becca, who looked horrified.

"I'm not that bad," I teased. "I can dance."

Maggie Clark and two years of middle school cotillion had made sure of that.

"I don't want to force you into doing this. I don't think?—"

But the male staff member was already nudging her off the bench and launching dramatically into a modern song that I vaguely recognized.

Becca stood, and I wiggled my fingers in her direction. "You gonna leave me hanging?"

Immediately, she slipped her hand into mine. "Of course not."

She was tentative, but her soft hands were firm in my grip. Our eyes met as she stood, and I wasn't romantic enough to say a spark lit between us, but it was something . Less of a firework, more of an ember.

I led her around the piano and onto the open floor, not missing the smiles on several residents' faces. I recognized Mrs. Atherton, one of my grandmother's friends. They'd been close before an Alzheimer's diagnosis several years ago. I knew my grandma Nola visited when she and my grandfather were in town during the spring and summer. If swaying offbeat with Kirby Falls's new favorite visitor was enough to make her smile like that, then it was alright with me.

With a bit of space between us, I put my hands on Becca's waist as she dutifully placed hers on my shoulders. She was as stiff as a board, and I felt like I was at a middle school dance.

"I'm sorry you got coerced," she whispered, avoiding my gaze .

"Hey. Stop that," I said quietly. "You have nothing to apologize for. And this isn't as much of a hardship as you seem to think it is."

She glanced at me quickly and then away, shy and uncomfortable, but I caught how the corner of her mouth lifted.

"How often do you volunteer here?" I asked conversationally. It was one more extracurricular activity for Becca's extensive Kirby Falls résumé. I still couldn't figure out her motivation. Why invest your time and energy with people who weren't yours?

"Oh, just about once a week. So I've been out here four or five times. Not always playing the piano. That's pretty new. Usually, I just visit with the residents. Talk and read. Look at pictures of their family. Stuff like that."

An image of the mysterious blue-and-white book of poetry from my grandpa's room flashed in my mind.

My eyes narrowed. "You've been reading to him? My great-grandfather."

Becca's cheeks were already pink from the forced dancing, but the heat in her face deepened to a rosy glow with my question. "I didn't realize who he was to you. The nurses just call him Mr. William. I didn't put two and two together until you called him Grandpa. I can stop if you like. I didn't mean to overstep."

"You didn't," I interrupted. "I'm grateful. I try to visit when I can. And so does my family, but he seems comfortable around you. I—thank you, Becca."

"He likes the music, I think," she said, ignoring my praise.

"His wife used to play for him," I admitted.

Becca was looser in my arms and less tense now that we were talking and dancing at the same time. It had been the same last night at Firefly. Once she warmed up with some conversation, she was more relaxed.

"I saw the picture in his room," she confessed. "It's where I got the idea. I asked the staff if I could play a little, and they were enthusiastic and supportive."

Her hands moved around to the nape of my neck as she spoke so that we were a bit closer; only a few inches separated our bodies. But we could talk quietly like this while we swayed slowly to the piano playing behind us.

She met my eyes and asked gently, "How long has your grandpa been here? "

"Six years. He got an early-stage dementia diagnosis a few years before that. He wandered away once while he was at the farm. Mac was a teenager and found him out in a field while she was driving the tractor for the hayride. When he started leaving the stove on and having difficulty remembering things, he moved himself in here. Grandpa William is a prideful man, but he was also very insistent that he not be a burden on anyone else."

Becca's hands were cool as they clung gently behind my neck, and I fought my instinct to lean into her touch. "And your great-grandmother?"

"She passed away before I was born."

"I'm sorry," Becca said, her blue eyes full of emotion. "Loss is never fair. Whether you had them your whole life or barely at all."

I nodded because that was true. And from the look of it, Becca had firsthand experience with grief.

The man at the piano moved into an upbeat Bruno Mars song, but I was not about to change the rhythm of our movements. So I inched a little closer to be heard better and caught a hint of Becca's sweet honeysuckle scent and had to keep myself from leaning closer still.

I cleared my throat and changed the subject. "It's nice that you play for them."

She smiled. "I'm not very good. Mrs. Walters tried. Oh, she tried so hard to make piano a strength of mine, but the lessons didn't really take. Especially as I got older."

"Was that your music teacher?" I asked as I turned us slowly to face the opposite side of the room.

Becca's steps faltered, and I gripped her tight to me to correct the misstep.

"Sorry," she breathed. But when she straightened, she didn't move away, and I didn't take a step back. Our sway continued, just in closer proximity. Becca was tucked up against me, her chest brushing my upper abdomen and my chin beside her ear. I couldn't see her face, but it felt nice to have her in my arms. And something about her reaction to my question told me she needed the support.

"Um, no. Mrs. Walters wasn't my music teacher. She—she was like a grandmother to me. "

I moved my hands from her waist to her back in an approximation of a hug, even as we moved. It felt like the right thing to do.

Becca sighed and then admitted, "She actually raised me."

I opened my mouth to ask . . . something. Was she a neighbor? Where were your parents? Did they pass away? Is Mrs. Walters your foster mother? But all those questions seemed too forward and me too curious. Becca was none of my business.

I heard her swallow roughly a couple of times, so I didn't push. Eventually, she offered, "My parents aren't dead. If that's what you were wondering. They were in and out of jail a lot. Still are, actually. And Mrs. Walters wasn't my official guardian or anything. She worked out an arrangement with my parents when I was little. They'd tried to con her and got caught. She didn't press charges or have them arrested, and in exchange, they had to send me to her a few days a week."

Becca let out a humorless huff of laughter. "They didn't even care. My dad still says that's the best scam he ever pulled off."

My chest ached at her bitter admission. I'd never heard Becca be anything but happy or sweetly self-deprecating. She complimented any and everyone and spread joy like wildfire. To hear the bitter edge creep into her voice was a stark contrast to the Becca I'd come to know.

And at that moment, I hated these careless parents she spoke of. People who didn't appreciate her or protect her—people I didn't even know.

The tightness that accompanied the realization didn't loosen, so I asked instead, "And she was good to you? Mrs. Walters." What kind of parents sent their kid off with a stranger? Someone who could have done damn near anything to their child.

I felt Becca nod, her hair grazing my jaw. "Yes. She was amazing. She took this foul-mouthed six-year-old girl who was basically feral and didn't know any better and gave her a home. A retired elementary school principal who'd already raised one son to adulthood. She helped me with my reading, got me back on track in my studies, and kept me there until graduation. She gave me a safe environment where I was fed and cared for and guided on the path to right and wrong. Those things weren't important to my family. Mrs. Walters had this gruff, no-nonsense way about her, but she loved me. She saved me." Her voice was shaking by the end of her speech.

My hand on her upper back moved counterclockwise in what I hoped were soothing circles while my other hand on the small of her back kept her close, tethered to me. I didn't have a lot of experience taking care of people. Providing comfort wasn't really one of my strengths. But right now, I wanted to give Becca a sense of security—a crutch, if she needed it.

"Your sister? Did Mrs. Walters raise her too?"

Becca sighed deeply, the movement bringing our bodies that much closer. Heat and desire and the need to protect this woman from a past that had already formed her made the disquiet in my chest constrict tighter.

"No," she finally said. "And that's a big part of why Heather and I aren't close."

My hand on her back paused. I considered the call Becca had taken at the farm. The one that had made her so upset she'd retreated to the sunflower field to find solace. I wouldn't forget the vulnerable look in her eyes or the way she'd clutched her phone in desperate hands.

After a moment, Becca answered my unspoken questions. "She calls, but it's never for anything good. She usually needs money for her habits or for my parents."

God. What this woman had been through. Yet you'd never know it. If I'd been pressed to hazard a guess, I would have said that Becca had been raised in a loving two-parent household with two point five kids, a dog, and a scholarship to an Ivy League college after she'd graduated at the top of her high school class while also being the homecoming queen and head cheerleader.

I'd been an ass to make assumptions based on her cheerful demeanor and perky attitude. She was all those things despite her life growing up. Becca wasn't some one-dimensional tourist I could judge from afar, telling myself I knew everything I needed to know about her.

Not anymore at least.

Maybe I wanted to regret dancing with her—holding her in my arms and offering her comfort the only way I knew how. It was sure as hell easier to think I didn't know her. That Becca was just some stranger I was crossing paths with for a few months out of my life.

But none of that was true. I did know her. I'd danced with her and held her. Shared a drink with her and gotten to know her . . . the big things like Mrs. Walters and her history, and the small things—that she wore pajamas with avocados on them and loved the hell out of my spoiled dog.

After tonight, I feared that Becca Kernsy would become even more present in my mind. She was real. No longer a leafer. Not an outsider. She was someone who loved and appreciated my hometown, probably more than I did.

I didn't know why I'd resented her so much initially—showing up in every corner of Kirby Falls and weaseling her way into my life and my friends' lives.

No, that wasn't true. I did know why. She'd made me uncomfortable. But I didn't want to consider all the whys. I probably wouldn't like the answers.

Tonight had changed something in me, and I wasn't sure what to do about it.

It was unbearable to look at her but nearly impossible to look away.

Becca

Why did I tell him that?

Why did I tell Will any of that?

We'd been having a nice time. There was the surprise dancing that Will had just rolled with. And I had been relatively normal up until that point despite accidentally trying to hijack Will's great-grandfather away from him.

I closed my eyes in mortified frustration as the music drifted around us, and Will kept up the comforting back-rubbing thing he had going on. He probably thought I was in need of calming touches, what with the childhood trauma I'd just spewed like Old Faithful .

My past wasn't a secret. Not really. Pippa and Cece knew, but I hadn't really broached the subject of my life back in Detroit with any of my new Kirby Falls friends—not even Chloe or Laramie. They knew surface things like how I killed houseplants by accident and wanted a pet but felt too guilty to keep a dog cooped up in Mrs. Walters's cozy apartment.

Mostly, I hadn't mentioned my family or my past because when was the right time to do that? There was no graceful segue into "Hi, my parents were all too happy to abandon me to a stranger. Also, they're lowlife degenerates who get picked up for possession occasionally and don't give a crap about me. Oh, and my sister resents me and uses me for money."

Then there was my fear that the truth would change how people looked at me. It had happened before when I'd worked in an office and with some of the people I met doing volunteer work. Knowing how I'd been raised made others feel sorry for me or borderline distrustful—like misdemeanors ran in the family.

Rationally, I knew that everyone had something. No pasts were perfect, and no families in real life resembled the ones portrayed by sitcom actors. I knew this, but it never seemed to ward off the feelings of shame and embarrassment when I considered my own messed-up situation. Not to mention how discouraged I felt that Will seemed to be constantly exposed to the worst parts of me. The incapable pieces. The less-than bits that never measured up.

Finally, I got the nerve to open my eyes, but I kept my gaze trained on Will's strong shoulder clad in navy-blue waffle print. This close, he smelled good—sweet and smoky. I wondered if he'd mind if I just face-planted right into his firm chest and stayed there until they invented a time machine so I could go back a half hour and never overshare my life story.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly to the dark blue fabric. "That was way more of an explanation than you were probably looking for. Can we rewind and just pretend I said, ‘Yes. Mrs. Walters was my piano teacher'? Because that is technically true. She was my teacher for a lot of things. Piano was just one of them, and honestly, it stuck the least."

I felt Will's cheek press against my hair, and my heart tripped over itself. I could imagine how we looked from the outside. Two people, barely moving on a makeshift dance floor, curved around one another. It was intimate and intoxicating. It was also not a very accurate representation. Will was comforting me because he felt sorry for me. And I was accepting it because I was a weak, weak woman.

Due to our proximity, I could feel his jaw working. Eventually, he said, voice as soft as I'd ever heard it, "I'm sorry you had to go through that with your family."

It was almost funny because there were so many things I hadn't told him. The things only my therapist knew. How my parents had ruined my credit score by the time I could walk. How, as an adult, my sister had shown up at two different jobs and made a scene and gotten me fired. One was a marketing firm I'd really liked working for, and the other was a part-time volunteer position at a food bank in Detroit. It was why I worked remotely now, for myself, so they couldn't ruin that too.

I didn't curse or use bad language because it had taken Mrs. Walters years to break me of the habit. My parents sounded like sailors, and they never cared that my sister or I were young and impressionable and in the room to hear it. I knew I was ridiculous with all the golly-gosh es and goodness graciouses . But I couldn't go back to how it was before. I didn't want to be tied to them in such a way. A family resemblance was never anything I ever wanted.

Of course there was a time and place in conversation for a well-deserved fuck , but I'd rather sound like the preschool teacher Will thought I was than sound anything like my mother and father.

But telling Will all of that would only make his voice go even softer with pity. He'd treat me like a wounded bird and put me back in the nest and hope we never crossed paths again because someone like me was a lot to handle. I had issues and hang-ups and baggage. And Will had the dream family.

Opposites didn't always attract. Sometimes they steered clear to avoid a head-on collision.

"And," he continued, unaware of my inner meltdown, "I'm sorry for your loss."

That had all my frantic thoughts slowing to a grinding stop.

Pulling back to see his face, I tried to remember if I'd explicitly mentioned Mrs. Walters's passing. "How did you know?"

Will looked thoughtful as his eyes moved across my features. "You talk about her like a treasure. Like something missing from your life. "

I took in his words, so simple yet so profound. We were just swaying in the middle of the floor, a piano solo of "Someone Like You" playing in the background, staring at one another.

My nose stung, so I knew I was in danger of crying. "Thanks. It's been three years. Mrs. Walters was sick for a while, and I took care of her. There are a lot of bad memories trying to crowd out the good ones." I felt a tear escape as I blinked, but Will reached up and wiped it away with his thumb as I spoke. The tender, casual touch had me aching to reach for his hand, to cover it with my own.

"She left me her apartment in the city, and as disloyal as it is to admit, I just had to get away. I couldn't be there. Couldn't bear it. So I came here. And at the same time, it's why I sought out Legacy Hills. I like visiting with the people here. It reminds me of her."

"I'm glad you're here," Will said quickly as if he was ripping off a Band-Aid.

Despite the heaviness of the conversation, that made me smile. "Me too."

Behind us, the piano playing ended. It took us eight whole seconds to stop swaying. And then another four to untangle and step apart.

Maybe I had been weak to accept Will's comfort. But sometimes it was easier to lean for a while than to pick yourself up off the floor later.

I glanced around us to see only a few residents remaining as the staff escorted folks back to their rooms. Will's grandpa was no longer on the piano bench.

Clearing his throat, Will said, "I'm going to go say good night to my grandfather. I'll come back and walk you out."

I nodded. It felt safer not to speak. Between last night at Firefly and whatever had happened on the dance floor just now, I didn't want to break the tenuous peace we had in place between the local and the leafer.

While Will went off toward the hall housing private rooms, I visited with each of the patients waiting for their turn to be helped out by the nurses and staff. I told them how nice it was to see them and wished them all a good rest, promising to return and play for them again soon.

I was gathering my bag and sheet music when Will appeared at my side. He casually took the tote from my hand and fell into step beside me. We made our way past the nurses' station and through the security doors out into the main lobby.

When we hit the pathway in front of the building, I paused and inhaled the night. Cool air filled my lungs, and I wondered how I'd ever gone twenty-nine years without taking a full breath. Everything in Kirby Falls felt bigger and brighter and just . . . more.

I glanced at Will, who was watching me with an amused expression. He was hat-free tonight, so I could see the subtle softening around his gray eyes and the relaxed line of his lush mouth.

To keep from noticing anything else about his handsome face and blushing like a preteen, I asked rather abruptly, "Have you ever thought about bringing Carl here to visit the residents?"

Will hummed. "Not sure Carl has the right personality to entertain the masses. Too bossy and opinionated. Too much attitude."

I squinted thoughtfully and then stepped off the sidewalk. Will followed.

"I don't know," I mused. "You do alright."

Will huffed a surprised laugh from beside me. I liked how rough and unused it sounded. And the fact that I'd drawn it out of him. "Are you comparing me to my dog?"

"Noooooo. I would never. I'm comparing your dog to you."

I wasn't quite sure where this confident woman had emerged from—the one sassy enough to tease the perpetually serious-faced Will Clark. But I had to admit, getting a grin out of him sure felt nice.

The smile still lingered on Will's face by the time we reached my SUV, parked in the back row of the lot. He opened the driver's side door and passed me the tote bag, waiting for me to climb in.

I stood in the space between, fiddling anxiously with the end of my braid, and said, "I'm glad I ran into you tonight. Thank you for the dance."

Will's face wasn't exactly relaxed, but it was thoughtful. "Anytime."

For the first time, he was looking at me like he really saw me. Not this person he had to handle. Not a situation or an inconvenience. Not one more thing occupying his time on a never-ending to-do list. And not like a tourist on the farm.

The hopeless crush I'd been trying desperately to ignore made my heart beat a little faster.

Will was looking at me like I was someone . Whether it was from repeated exposure or all the personal information I'd shared tonight, I couldn't say. But he watched me like he might want to know more.