Page 34 of Songbird
“Thanks. Oh, and hey,” I call before she gets too far. “Can you organize some groceries for us? I can’t leave Rosie alone and she can’t go out in public right now.”
“What do you need?”
I wince at the thought of Rosie trying to make anything more complicated than cereal. Maybe I can convince her to let me take care of dinners at least. “I’ll text you a list.”
I hesitate before heading back inside, preparing myself to dodge whatever questions Rosie’s going to ask about my collection of guitars and the revelation that I can play them, butit turns out I don’t need to worry. She’s in the middle of the room bouncing on her bare toes, and the first question out of her mouth has nothing to do with me or my secrets.
“Where are they?” she asks. “Can I see them? Can I borrow one? Please? I’d appreciate it so much, Finn. I’m desperate to play.”
None of her gentle curiosity? Good. It’s better this way.
“Yeah, of course. I didn’t mention them earlier because—”
Becausewhy? I didn’t want to deal with the hail of questions that I thought they’d set off. I was too busy avoiding difficult conversations. I didn’t think about what these instruments might mean to Rosie, so I kept my stupid mouth shut.
Pissed at myself for being a self-centered moron, I jerk my head toward the loft. “Never mind. They’re up there.”
Rosie follows me up to the bedroom, and I open the long walk-in closet. It doubles as storage, and I go to the freestanding cupboard on the back wall. Inside are three acoustic guitars stored in hard leather cases leaning upright, side by side.
She makes a strangled sound of excitement as she claps her hands, and I can’t help my smile. I pass her the first case, then pick up the other two. “Come on. I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
I set my cases on the floor by my bed, then relieve Rosie of hers and lay it on top of the covers. Inside is a 1970s Gibson Hummingbird in excellent condition.
Rosie reaches out to caress the gleaming wood. “It’s beautiful, Finn. It must be—what? Fifty years old?”
“About that,” I agree. “I don’t play it much other than to tune it occasionally. It belonged to my mom.”
Her head turns sharply. “Your mother was a musician?”
With a sentimental expression, I recall a memory of my mom in our old living room with this guitar on her lap, ink on her fingers, and a rainbow of dried acrylic staining her clothes. “A musician. A poet. A painter. A sculptor. Jacqueline Davenporttried just about everything. She had what my dad called a creative spirit.”
Rosie brushes her fingers over the guitar again as she shares my wistful smile. “She sounds wonderful.”
I close the case and secure the clasps. “She was.”
Setting aside the first guitar, I lift the second one onto the bed and open its case. A vintage Martin lies cushioned inside.
Rosie’s hand darts out to reverently stroke the strings. “This is a serious instrument.”
“I saved for months to buy this in high school. I visited the store every other day to check that nobody had bought it while I was waiting to get the money together, and I was fourteen when I finally had enough to bring it home.”
I heave it out of its case and hand it to her, looping the strap around her neck, and Rosie spares me a speculative head tilt as she accepts the guitar with the familiarity of someone who lives with an instrument in her hands. She immediately strums a smooth note. Then another. She plays eight bars of an unrecognizable melody before she unloops the strap and hands the guitar back to me as she nods toward the final case.
“What about that one?”
“Best for last?” I tease as I stow the Martin and exchange it for the final guitar. I open it and grin at Rosie’s excited inhale at the deep, dark wood of the near-new Taylor GS Mini.
“I can’t believe you have this,” she says as she helps herself. “I play mine all the time.” I stand back and watch the delight dance across her features. “It’s not really your style,” she adds as she tests the strings.
“It was a gift,” I explain, “from a friend who thought it might be good to play on the road, but I struggled with the narrow fingerboard and never used it much.”
Rosie plays the same eight bars as before, though they sound a little different on the smaller instrument. Higher. Prettier.A little more country. The difference appears to please her, because as the final note fades, she turns her eager eyes on me. “Do you mind if I borrow it? I can sit out on the porch and play for a while. It’ll hardly bother you at all.”
I nudge aside a hint of disappointment and remind myself it’s better if Rosie isn’t full of questions about my mom and my teenage years and the person who gifted me the guitar in her hands. There’s nothing in my past worth dragging into my future. Especially music.
“It’s no bother,” I tell her as I reach for the instrument.
She hands it over, then climbs down the ladder, and I pass it down to her once she’s at the bottom. Rosie scoops up her notepad and pen on the way to the front door, and Dakota throws me an almost apologetic look as she follows our guest out to the porch swing.
