Bree opened the front door of her small ranch-style house in Crystal River, Wyoming. She had just enough time to step aside before her grandson burst into her living room.
“I won, Grandma! I won the essay contest!” Eight-year-old Andy stopped to catch his breath. The little-boy version of Bree, with red hair, large blue eyes, and freckles, grinned from ear to ear.
Pride filled her heart to overflowing. She pulled him into her best grandma hug, squeezing him tight. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”
Andy whipped out a sheet of paper from his backpack and thrust it in front of her face. “Look, Grandma. A certificate with my name on it. It says I won the guitar.”
Just hearing the word guitar made her wince. An eternity ago, she’d walked off the stage after what turned out to be her final performance. From that day—thirty years ago—forward, no more music. No more heartbreak. No more Sammy.
“Read it, Grandma.” Andy shoved the certificate in her hands. Hopping up and down, he grinned with excitement. “Hurry!”
“All right.” Forcing a smile into her voice, she read the certificate aloud. “Crystal River Music Camp is proud to announce Andy Weisman is the winner of a genuine autographed electric…” She stopped reading and swallowed hard. “Sammy West guitar.”
No! Staring at the name of the man that broke her heart printed across the embossed sheet of parchment paper, her knees buckled. She grabbed an armrest and lowered herself into the tan suede recliner.
His eyes grew wide. “Are you okay, Grandma?”
She nodded to assure her grandson that she was fine, even though her heart pounded like a bass drum. “Just tired.” Dear God, no. This isn’t happening.
Andy plucked the certificate from her trembling hand. “My teacher, Miss Karen, wants me to invite you to the awards ceremony because my essay was about you.”
Gasping, she brought a hand to her chest, trying to slow her racing heart. “About me?”
Now that was one detail Marie, her daughter and Andy’s mother, had neglected to mention. Bree knew Andy had entered an essay contest, but she had no idea the grand prize was a Sammy West guitar.
“Will you come, Grandma? Please?”
How could she refuse to attend her only grandchild’s celebration? “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. May I see your essay?”
“We wrote them at music camp then gave them to Miss Karen so she could mail them to Sammy West.”
“Oh.” Bree chewed her bottom lip. “I would like to have read your essay before you entered the contest.” To do what? Prevent him from winning? What in the world had he written? What secrets had he revealed?
Andy’s face shone with pride as he stared at his certificate. “Miss Karen said the newspapers might even be at the ceremony to take my picture.”
Great. If Sammy showed up—and she couldn’t see any reason why he wouldn’t—he’d pose for photos with Andy. Just what she needed. But this wasn’t about her. The awards ceremony was about her grandson.
She drew him into another hug. “How exciting. I can’t wait.” Liar.
Lying to herself would be easy. She’d lied about her pain for so long, it had become second nature. But maybe something good would come from her attending the ceremony. After all this time, seeing Sammy again might force her to come to terms with the heartache and ghosts she’d locked away in a tattered guitar case for thirty years. Maybe…
Her heart squeezed at the memory of the tender love she’d shared with a man who’d ultimately betrayed her. Deep down, Bree knew—just knew—if Sammy had anything to do with selecting the winning essay, especially if her name was mentioned, there was no way Andy wouldn’t have won.
Her grandson may have given out her name, but years ago, she had freely given Sammy her heart, her virtue—only to have him crush her spirit, along with any hope of spending her future with him. So, without offering an explanation or saying goodbye, she’d climbed out of his bed, into her Volkswagen Bug, and drove out of his life forever.
* * *
Bree stared at the guitar case tucked away in the back corner of the walk-in closet of a spare bedroom. Thirty years had passed since she’d held her guitar, much less looked at it. At one time, she’d viewed the instrument as an extension of herself—part of her soul. Now, all it reminded her of was heartache.
Thirty years. Why did Sammy have to insert himself in her life again? By now, he should have moved on. She had. Why drum up the past?
She inched toward the guitar case, covered by a layer of dust. The closer she got, the harder her heartbeat hammered, blocking out all other sounds. “Come on,” she whispered. “It’s only a guitar.”
Only a guitar. She snorted at the irony. At one time, that guitar had fed her, consoled her, grieved with her. Moving closer, she reached for the case; her hand trembled when her fingers brushed against the worn, black leather. Tears threatened to spill, and she recoiled. Touching the painful memory caused jolts of regret to course through her body. How could she risk the chance of bringing all that up again?