Page 17 of Perfect Composition
CHAPTER SEVEN
There’s big doings happening at Redemption tonight. If you’re not already inside, well, too late. This might be the best music played since I last heard Beckett Miller played live!
— Moore You Want
“Mama!” My head whips around as soon as I clear the security check at JFK. Then she’s hurling herself into my arms. My Austyn, my true home.
There’s a tradition in my family I’ve carried on with the ball of energy twirling us around the airport terminal as if we haven’t seen each other in forever instead of the few months since she moved to New York. Dating back to my female ancestors being born along the long journey from Kentucky before eventually settling in Kensington, no matter where the female child was born, that’s where her first name was derived. According to my father, my mother, Melissa, thought it was a lovely tradition and had fully intended on continuing it. Which is how I ended up with the name Paige. My mother was visiting some friends in the nearby town when she was rushed to the local emergency room while eight and a half months pregnant with me.
Austyn, although technically born in Kensington, was a slight deviation from tradition. But since I had no intention of burdening her with carrying her father’s last name, I made the choice to name her for the nearby city where I intended to build our lives. And while I didn’t fully succeed from escaping the long reach of my family’s good intentions, I helped my daughter do just that.
And that’s all that matters.
“Let me get a good look at you,” I demand, pulling back. I clasp her face between my hands and scan each feature with the thoroughness and pride of a mother before I declare, “Your gramps is going to have a coronary over the hair color.” Since leaving home, my daughter has bleached some of her chestnut-colored hair and turned it rainbow-hued.
She cups my face before smacking her lips to my forehead. “Let him. It will do him good. He’s too stuck in his ways.”
Recalling the stilted conversation we had just before I boarded the plane, I caustically say, “You have no idea how true that statement is, darling.”
Austyn wraps an arm around my waist. “Let’s get your bags, Mama. Then we can head into the city.”
“I hired a car so we wouldn’t have to deal with a cab,” I inform her.
“Good. Once we get you settled, we can swing by my place and get my bag.”
“Your bag?”
“Surprise! I’m going to stay with you.”
I almost trip stepping onto the escalator down to baggage claim. “There goes any rest I planned on.”
“And the room service bill,” my daughter agrees cheerfully.
I carefully step off and wait for Austyn to do the same before I tell her, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Her light blue eyes sparkle. “I know.”
The next night after a day of wandering around the city my daughter has fallen in love with, my hotel room at the Plaza palpitates with my daughter’s nerves. I spent the night adjusting to the new time zone and relaxing while Austyn went off to the first of three sets she planned on playing. But I clearly recall waking just as the sky was lightening when I heard her open the door to my suite.
Today, I just wandered up and down Fifth Avenue, convincing myself I really didn’t need anything from the magical stores lining both sides of the street. Even though I lingered longer than I should have admiring a pair of flawless diamond earrings in the window of Cartier, I couldn’t force my legs to walk inside the brass doors to inquire about the price. Maybe one day I can justify splurging on something like that just for myself.
By the time I got back, Austyn had ordered up lunch. I caught her up on the things she’s missed in Texas: work, our family, and old friends. She laughed when I passed along her grandfather’s message about security and growled when I reluctantly shared what happened with Sheriff Lewis. “When is he going to realize you’re a grown woman?”
“I am? Somehow I thought I was pigeonholed into being a daughter and mother forever,” I murmured.
She flung a french fry in my direction. “Cute. One day, you’re going to be knocked sideways by a man who realizes you’re so much more than that.”
“It hasn’t happened yet, baby.”
“Doesn’t mean it won’t.”
“Bet it happens to you first.”
Austyn snickered. “Doubtful.” Then she caught the time on the small gold clock practically buried beneath our plates. “Geez, is that the time? We need to start getting ready.”
With that, we each took over one of the suite’s two bathrooms to get ready.
Now, fully dressed and ready to leave, I’m calmly relaxing on the couch as I fondly watch Austyn tap out a rhythm on a counter, then a glass, before picking up her guitar and strumming a few notes before she settles and starts jamming to something onlyshe can hear. Such talent in such tiny little hands. The song takes on a Spanish flair that reminds me of the serenading mariachi musicians who play at our favorite tapas restaurant back home in Texas.
