Page 85 of Tempt Her

No, Mom couldn’t play a tune to save her life.

He’s talking about me,and my teeth grab my lip, but still, they fall—a few tears.

“I bet she loves to play for you.”

He pats my hand. “She does. It’s her golden ticket, that fiddle. She’s gonna sell it one day and have millions.”

My shoulders sag.

Dad’s hallucinating again.

“You don’t believe this old country boy?” He chuckles. “Now, to me, it’s afiddle. Like all my kin in the mountains used to play, bluegrass and all. But to my Priscilla, it’s a violin, and she’s gonna sell it one day so we can retire. It was her granddad’s. A Stradivarius, my Priscilla called it… and it’s worth millions.”

I gasp, trying to hide my shock. My hand, holding the rare instrument, starts to shake.

“Are you sure?”

Dad hasn’t talked this much, with such certainty, in years. Is it fantasy or fact?

“Yep.” He smiles. “I grew up so poor; I couldn’t jump over a nickel to save a dime. Couldn’t read worth a lick, either. All I could do was take care of kids and their school. But that violin, my smart Priscilla, is gonna sell it for us. She says the money will take care of our girl and us one day.”

Mom never told me about the violin. I remember all the times she’d watch Dad teach me how to play it. “You take care of that now,” she’d gently chide. “It’s all our family has, and it’ll be yours one day.”

But why did she never say it was worth so much? Looking down at it in my lap, I don’t see the rare spruce wood; its varnish chipped off where I’ve held it so often, never knowing its true value.

I see my mom. How she had such peace days before she died, and now I know why.

It was because she knew I’d be okay.

She left me a legacy of love. She taught me to value my mind, my family, my future.

Tears splatter across the instrument in my lap, and I quickly wipe them away, worried they may damage it.

The words my dad said echo like music in my ears.

“Our girl?” That’s what he just said.

He remembers me.

“What’s your girl’s name?” I ask him.

Holding my breath. Holding on to hope.One last time, please.

Pulling at the muffin, his shaking hand lifts a piece of it to his mouth, not answering me. He can’t. “I sure love these muffins,” he says, and it’s okay.

I know my name.

I know my value.

It never left me.

* * *

A week later,I don’t recognize my life. I’m leaving hell behind.

The kitchen in Gentry’s house is demolished. The dark cabinets are gone, and boxes full of new white ones waiting to be opened crowd the floor.

Like those cabinets, I’m waiting to be opened too. But Ford’s playing some sexy game with us. Making all of us wait.

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