Page 122 of Windlass

“Just like singing to the radio,” she murmured to Morgan.

“Minus the part where we could drive away. Do you want the warthog or the meerkat?”

“Warthog,” Stevie said quickly. Fewer lines. “Retribution for stealing Simba.”

Morgan’s first measures were more croak than song, but she cleared her throat, gave the group another withering glare and got into character. Stevie laughed in delight. Morgan put on a nasal accent that seemed to give her more courage, something Stevie took note of for her own performance.

Morgan’s Simba was as atrocious as predicted. Stevie tried to keep from cracking up, succeeding on the grounds that her Nala was destined to be ten times worse.

And it was. Oh, dear god, it was. The only thing worse was their harmony, which rivaled nails on a chalkboard. She put on her most serious face and leaned into the fake microphone to croon. When she made eye contact with the group, she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

The lyrics, however, momentarily arrested her. A ridiculous Disney song but nonetheless a song about two lovers, one of whom feared his past would ruin his chances for a future with the person—lion?—he loved. A little close to home.

Pride flooded her suddenly as she looked at Angie. The music might be dumb, but Angie had overcome real obstacles to give Stevie what she wanted. What theybothwanted.

What had Stevie had to overcome? Jealousy about Lana? Hardly comparable. Yes, she’d been as patient as she knew how to be, and she’d listened and tried to learn how to be a good partner to Angie, but she hadn’t had to wade through a painful past to get there.

Angie was laughing with the rest of their friends, but when Stevie caught her eye she smiled. It was a flashing, brilliant thing that dazzled Stevie’s eyes and threw her off her lyric.

She recovered; the smile, though, like most things about Angie, was fatal.

Was it enough to be there for another person even if you hadn’t suffered the same way? Did suffering demand an equal understanding or was Angie grateful that Stevie didn’t know what she’d been through beyond what Stevie’s imagination could conjure? Was it really enough to listen?

The last chorus popped up on the computer screen. Stevie and Morgan leaned toward each other, voices tangling instead of harmonizing, but Stevie thought she spied a flicker of a smile on Morgan’s lips.

“. . . is doomed.” The last word dragged. Stevie added in a falsetto twist, eliciting winces and laughter from the audience. She bowed as the note faded, then mimed a mic drop, which she did not follow through with as the candlestick seemed more than capable of denting the floor. “Think twice before letting us up here again, motherfuckers.”

“Your dulcet tones are a delight.” Stormy jumped up to kiss each of them on the cheek. She smelled pleasantly of perfume and wine, and Stevie pretended to ward off her effusive praise.

“Be good to her,” Stormy whispered in her ear as she pulled away. “She loves you even if she’s an idiot about it.”

Stevie nodded, meeting Stormy’s sober eyes.

She forgot sometimes that other people put on fronts as well. Stevie had her jokes, Angie used sex, Morgan hid behind stoicism, Ivy had her culture, Lilian used her bossiness, and Stormy wrapped her bustling need to feed and care for people around herself like a protective blanket. Beneath, however, was a biting emotional intelligence that saw right through all their walls.

“I’ll take care of her,” she murmured.

“And let her take care ofyou.” Stormy tapped Stevie on the chest then turned to Ivy. “None of you are ready for my Marvin Gaye.”

Chapter Nineteen

Angie dragged Stevie with her to the grocery store on the way back from the island. Stevie grumbled about shopping getting in the way of more important things, but Angie stayed firm, coaxing Stevie along with sordid promises.

“Besides, Olive will be fine for another thirty minutes,” she told Stevie, “and I don’t have sex when I’m hungry.”

Which proved a remarkably effective argument.

She assured Stevie it would be a quick trip as she yanked a cart free from its fellows and trundled it into Hannaford. The store was busy for a Sunday evening. Tourists mostly. She wove through shoppers, Stevie at her heels, hoping to make the visit quick. This many people unnerved her. Stevie tossed items into the cart under Angie’s orders.

“Try to load them in the order you want them bagged,” Angie suggested.

“You’ve hung out with Lilian too long.” It was a fair accusation. She had gotten more particular about shopping as a result of shopping with Lilian, but her methods were not madness—

“Hey, Ange.”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Lana’s voice. She could see her own reflection in the frozen vegetable cooler door: scared and guilty. Stevie stiffened beside her.

“Hi,” Angie said. “How are you?”

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