Sunday morning when Melody woke up, the sky was an ominous gray and raindrops were pelting the windowpanes like spitballs. She went upstairs to check on her grandfather, but found his door closed. Pressing her ear against the wood, she could hear him snoring. Poor Gramp-o. It must have been a long night, but at least he was resting now.

Melody poured herself a bowl of Raisin Bran. She thought about calling Nick, but decided it might be best to wait until later. Chances were he’d had a rough night, too.

After she’d finished her breakfast, Melody returned to the music room to retrieve her pillow and blanket. As she was leaving, something caught her eye. It was a small black tape recorder, lying on its side on one of the shelves. Melody picked it up, flipped open the lid, and found a tape inside. The yellowed label was peeling off around the edges. On it, in her father’s handwriting, it said, Brahms Intermezzo, Op.117-1 and then the day and the year. Exactly two days before Melody was born.

There was a rumble of thunder. The rain was coming down harder now. Melody set the tape recorder on top of the piano and pushed PLAY. When nothing happened, she used her fingernail to pry open the little slot on the side and discovered four badly corroded triple-As inside. After a fruitless search of all the logical places in the house a fresh battery might be, Melody suddenly remembered there was a tape player in Gramp-o’s car.

She fetched an umbrella from the hall closet, grabbed the keys off the hook by the door, and, still in her pajamas, ran barefoot out to the car. Lightning flashed as she yanked open the heavy door and slid into the driver’s seat. Melody had never driven a car, of course, but Gramp-o had once showed her how to start it. After checking to make sure the arrow on the gearshift was pointing to P for park, she inserted the key and turned it gently to the right. Nothing. She vaguely remembered Gramp-o saying something about giving it a little gas. Since she wasn’t sure which of the two pedals was the gas, she put one foot on each of them and pressed down hard, then turned the key again. This time the engine caught and Esmeralda roared to life, sending up a billowing cloud of exhaust behind her.

There was a tape already in the player — The Best of the Beach Boys. Gramp-o loved the Beach Boys. Melody ejected it and slipped in the tape she’d found in the music room, then she pressed PLAY.

There was a soft hiss, then a creak, and then the music began. A piano, playing slowly at first, until the melody began to swoop and swell. Melody shivered. It was cold in the car, so she turned on the heater. Then she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She never listened to classical music, but she could have sworn she’d heard this piece before — so many times, in fact, she knew every note by heart. How is that possible? she wondered. As the music wrapped itself around her, Melody wanted to curl up inside the sound and float there, safe and warm forever. When it was over, and the last sweet note had faded away, she heard a woman’s laughter, and then her voice.

“Turn that silly thing off and come feel this, Henry,” she said. “I think our baby likes Brahms. She’s kicking like a little kangaroo.”

Melody recognized the sound of her father’s laugh joining in.

Then the tape softly clicked off.

Silence.

Melody listened to the tape twice more. Just as she was about to rewind it to listen for a fourth time, someone knocked on the car window. Startled, Melody turned to the left, and there was Mrs. McKenna, standing out in the rain.

“Melody!” she shouted. “Is everything okay? Open the window.”

Melody quickly rolled down the window.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. McKenna asked again. “I was driving by and saw you sitting in the car alone and got worried.”

There was another flash of lightning, followed by a loud boom of thunder that made them both jump. Mrs. McKenna drew her collar tight around her throat, ran around to the other side of the car, and climbed in.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself, sweetie?” she asked.

Melody felt numb.

“Gramp-o’s inside,” she said. “Asleep. He and Nick got sick last night and my dad’s away for the weekend.”

“You scared me half to death,” said Mrs. McKenna, putting her hand over her heart. “I thought something awful had happened.”

Melody started to shake as the mysterious feeling that had been hiding deep down inside her finally rose up to the surface, bubbling and boiling until she couldn’t hold it back any longer and it spilled out over the edges of her heart.

“Poor thing,” said Mrs. McKenna, taking her into her arms. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Melody dug down deep and finally found the words to describe what it was she’d been feeling.

“I miss my mother,” she sobbed.

“Of course you do, sweetie,” said Mrs. McKenna, rocking her gently. “Of course you do.”

Melody and Mrs. McKenna sat together out in the car for a long time. After a while, the rain began to let up and they turned off the engine and went inside the house to check on Gramp-o. While Melody headed upstairs to see if he needed anything, Mrs. McKenna went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

“Gramp-o says to please forgive him, but he’s not feeling up to saying hello,” Melody reported when she came back downstairs. “And he asked me to look around and see if we have any saltines.”

“What he needs is Vernors ginger ale,” said Mrs. McKenna. “I can pick some up for him at Wrigley’s on my way back from the Bee Hive.”

“Are you going to the Bee Hive?” asked Melody.

Mrs. McKenna nodded. “I’m treating myself to a manicure.”

“Nick and I were there yesterday,” said Melody.

Mrs. McKenna lowered her eyes.

“Yes, I heard,” she said.

Melody remembered what her father had said about Mrs. McKenna and Miss Hogan being friends.

“If Miss Hogan told you that I pushed Teeny, she was flat-out lying,” said Melody. “She doesn’t like me, you know.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. McKenna. “Miss Hogan was just upset about her secret getting out. As secrets go, it’s a pretty big one.”

“Tell me about it,” Melody grumbled.

Mrs. McKenna looked at her watch.

“My appointment is at eleven,” she said. “I hate to leave you here alone. If you feel up to it, why don’t you join me? I’ll treat you to a manicure — I hear the colors are out of this world.”

The teakettle began to whistle on the stove, and Mrs. McKenna went and turned it off. Melody watched her move around the kitchen, making the tea. She seemed so at home. When she was finished, she found some saltines in the pantry, made a little fan out of them on a plate, and asked Melody to take the tea and crackers up to her grandfather.

“Tell him I hope he feels better,” she said. “And ask him if it’s okay for you to come with me to the Bee Hive.”

“Will you be mad if I decide not to get my fingernails painted?” asked Melody.

“I won’t be mad,” Mrs. McKenna promised. “But when you see how much fun it is, you might change your mind.”

Two days ago Melody had never set foot in a beauty salon in her life, and now she was going for the second day in a row.

“Let’s go, Kokomo,” said Mrs. McKenna, slipping her raincoat on.

“Kokomo?” asked Melody.

Mrs. McKenna laughed. “It’s something my husband always used to say.”

“Is he from Kokomo, Indiana?”

“No — he just liked the way it sounded.”

Melody did, too. Her dad had been right when he’d said that she and Mrs. McKenna were a good fit. It was so easy to be around her. Melody made herself a promise: She was not going to think about anything sad for the rest of the day. Instead she was going to enjoy her time with Mrs. McKenna and maybe, just maybe, get her fingernails painted, too.