Page 220 of Perfect Pitch

I face him and rasp, “If you’re not willing to work to fix the damage you’ve caused, you’ll lose us all.”

He nods emphatically. “Whatever it takes.”

“What it’s going to take is facing your ghosts head on.” Since I’ve so recently done that, I well appreciate the flinch that crosses his face. My voice softens as I say, “Gramps, you can do this.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. At first, I’m afraid he is shutting me out but when they pop open, rivers of tears run down his cheeks. “Are you okay?” I’m concerned I need to get a doctor.

“The best sound in the world is hearing you call me Gramps,” he warbles. “Please forgive me, Austyn.”

I shake my head. His face falls. I remind him, “You have to be able to forgive yourself first.”

“How do I do that?”

“The same way I did—by knowing it’s a part of you that will never go away. You have to accept you’ll always feel the guilt and anguish.” My eyes meet Mitch’s. “You just have to accept one day a miracle could happen and you may be given a second chance.”

“I already know that,” my grandfather says, interrupting my staring contest with Mitch.

Shaking my head, I return my focus to him. “How?”

“You’re alive and talking to me,” is his heartfelt reply.

Now it’s my turn to swipe at my tears. As I do, my grandfather turns to Mitch. “Tyson Kensington.”

“Mitch Clifton. I’m in love with your granddaughter.”

“I fell in love with her at first sight,” Gramps boasts.

I’m a hairsbreadth from making a mocking comment when Mitch remarks, “I wasn’t that far behind you, Tyson. She’s just easy to fall for.”

* * *

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE

SEPTEMBER

Broadway may be awash with cartoons, but it’s historical musicals making a splash. With The Golden Lady, Evangeline Brogan’s and Simon Houde’s powerful voices lead us down a path of history all but a few tried to hide. The score, composed by Beckett Miller and DJ Kensington, will have you singing long after the show is over.

—The Fallen Curtain

Backstage is black as night as we wait behind the curtain for our signal to head to center stage. I’m tickled as my father’s body tenses when my mother—standing next to my grandfather, of all people, in the front row—catches his attention. I have to stifle a snort behind him when he growls, “It’s like a damn spotlight on her breasts.”

I sigh dramatically to remind him I’m right there. “Are you going to be able to keep your mind on the music, or will you be too distracted by Mama’s boobs to actually play the songs we’ve been fine-tuning for the past six months?”

His face is tortured. “Christ, Austyn. Watch your damn mouth.”

I sidle up next to him and wrap my arm around his waist. I snuggle against my father’s chest. “What’s the fun in that?”

“You’ll never know unless you try.”

“I think by now I know the things I like.”

He groans. “For the love of all that’s holy, don’t go there.”

“Dad, you and Mama have sex. In fact, I was never so grateful to move back to my own place.”

“Your parents are allowed to have sex.”

“Thankfully, so can me and Mitch,” I remind him gleefully, in part to drive him insane and also because I want to celebrate that fact every single day. After therapy for both of us with Sonia over the loss of Columbia and the horror of it being at Trevor’s hand, we finally found our way back to the intimacy that defined our relationship when we first met.

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