She realized that he was looking at her face closely. “Something happen at the theater?”
“What do you mean?” Kayleigh kept her eyes pointed fiercely straight ahead, avoiding his as if he’d think: Oh, I know. She lured Edwin into that hall to kill him. I recognize that look.
“Just checking to see if everything’s all right,” he said placidly. “You get an odd phone call or run into somebody there?”
“No, everything’s fine.”
Kayleigh reached for the radio but her hand paused then returned to the wheel. They drove all the way to Bishop Towne’s house in complete silence.
She parked in the drive and Morgan helped Alicia carry the boxes, musical equipment and suitcases to the porch, then the guard strode into the night to check out the perimeter. The two women went inside.
The small ground floor might have been an exhibit in a wing of the Grand Ole Opry. There were pictures and reviews and album covers—mostly of Bishop Towne and his band, of course. Some were photos of women singers whom Bishop had had affairs with long ago—and whose albums had been nailed up only after Wives Two through Four appeared. Unlike Margaret, they wouldn’t have known about the earlier indiscretions and would have assumed the women were professional associates only.
But there were also a lot of pictures of Bishop and Margaret. He’d never taken those down, whatever the Later Wives’ jealous concerns might have been.
Mary-Gordon came running up to Kayleigh and flew into her arms. “Aunt Kayleigh! Yay! You’ve gotta come look. We’re doing a puzzle! I rode Freddie today. I wore my helmet, like you always say.”
Kayleigh slipped to her knees for a proper hug, then rose and embraced her sister. Suellyn asked, “How you doing, K?”
The singer thought: Considering I could be in jail for murder, not bad. “Hanging in there.”
Kayleigh introduced her and Mary-Gordon to Alicia, who smiled and shook their hands.
“Wow,” the girl whispered, looking at Alicia’s tattoos. “Those are neat!”
“Uh-oh,” Suellyn said. “I see trouble.” The women laughed.
Kayleigh greeted her father and Sheri, whose voice was still ragged from the smoke. Oddly, she now sounded much like her husband. Her skin seemed pale, though that might have been only because she was wearing none of the makeup she usually applied in swaths.
Kayleigh’s attitude toward her stepmother had changed 180 degrees since the attack, and she regretted her pettiness toward the woman. She now hugged Sheri, in whose eyes tears appeared at the display of affection.
Alicia gave Bishop and Sheri some details of the ad plans for the upcoming Canadian tour and then she glanced at her watch and headed off.
“Better you’re here,” Bishop said to Kayleigh. “I told you, you should’ve come. Right at the beginning, I told you. Sheri’s got the room made up. For that guard too. Where is he?”
Kayleigh explained that Morgan had remained outside to check the property. He’d be in, in a moment.
“I did a picture for your room, Aunt Kayleigh. I’ll show you.”
Mary-Gordon gripped the handle of one of the wheelie suitcases and sped off down the hallway. Kayleigh and her sister smiled.
“In here! Here it is, Aunt Kayleigh!”
She’d seen this guest room before and it had been functional, stark. Now the bed had new blue gingham linens, frilly pillow cases, matching towels, candles, some cheap decorations from Michaels craft store, like geese in bonnets, and framed pictures of young Kayleigh and her family—photos that had been in shoe boxes when last seen, before Sheri. It was really a very comfortable space.
She’d be sure to thank her stepmother—who, of course, had done all this work while injured.
Kayleigh admired Mary-Gordon’s picture of the pony and set it prominently on the bedside table. “Can we go riding tomorrow?”
“We’ll have to see, Mary-Gordon. It’s a busy time. But we’ll have breakfast together.”
“Grandma Sheri and Mommy made pancakes. They were pretty good. Not the best but pretty good.”
Kayleigh laughed and watched the little girl help unpack the suitcases and, with an expectant gaze toward Kayleigh, put away each article of clothing or toiletry where directed. As the girl made decisions about how to stow everything, she was absorbed and seemed to get huge pleasure from the simple tasks.
A tap in Kayleigh’s mind, like a finger flicking a crystal glass. An idea for a song. “I Could Learn a Lot From You.” A parent to a child. How the mother or father has gotten some things wrong in life and it’s the child who rearranges the adult’s perspective. It would have a twist. The first three verses would make listeners believe that the child was singing to the parent; only in the last would it be revealed that the parent was narrating the story. A melody came almost immediately. She sat down and wrote out the words and music on improvised staff paper.
“What’re you doing, Aunt Kayleigh?”
“Writing a song. You inspired me.”
“What’s ‘inspired’?”
“I wrote it for you.”
“Oh, sing it to me!”
“It’s not finished but here’s part of it.” She sang and the girl stared raptly at her.
“That’s a very good song,” Mary-Gordon announced with a furrowed brow as if she were the artists and repertoire director of a major label, passing judgment on a young songwriter’s submission.
Kayleigh continued to unpack, pausing momentarily to look at a picture of the family from fifteen or so years ago: Bishop, Margaret, Suellyn and Kayleigh on the porch of the old family house in the hills an hour north of here.
I’ve lived in LA, I’ve lived in Maine,
New York City and the Midwest Plains,
But there’s only one place I consider home.
When I was a kid—the house we owned.
The girl turned her bright blue eyes toward the singer. “Are you crying, Aunt Kayleigh?”
The singer blinked. “Well, a little, Mary-Gordon, but you know sometimes people cry because they’re happy.”
“I didn’t know that. I don’t think I do.”