Margaret’s as good in a car on long trips as she is on short ones, keeping her headphones on, listening to an audiobook or music, occasionally sounding off, as if a note of whatever she listens to escapes through her lips.

Me, I’m lousy at long car rides. Too nervous for headphones. I’m glad I’m not driving, but not much less stressed than if I were. There’s a truckload of merging going on, off and onto different roads and highways. To say nothing of tollbooths. Yeah, I’m glad I’m not driving.

Jack warned all his regulars that the store would be closed today, so we could leave at dawn. Margaret was fidgety at first, whether from excitement or the break in routine, I have no idea, but she settled right down as soon as we were in the car, like a regular trooper.

Now, crossing Oregon, the drive’s quieter. We stop at a picnic area for lunch. Jack has packed a cooler, and it feels good to be out of the car and stretching our legs. Almost like being on a holiday.

Jack’s in a skittish mood, laughing and joking, but with a tension running under the surface that doesn’t seem to know which way it wants to break.

After lunch, Margaret climbs back into the car unbidden, and as Jack lifts the cooler into the rear and slams the hatch, I hold him by the shoulders for a minute, hold him still. “Breathe.”

He laughs, but it’s shaky. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“Mm-hmm.” I get sidetracked by the need to bury my nose in his curls. It tickles.

He stays tense, though. “Why should they have held on to it? It’ll be gone.”

“Then at least you’ll know and can stop asking yourself that question. You might even try to find a replacement then.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“But this one’s special?”

“Yeah.”

I kiss his neck, and he shivers in a way that makes me want to do more. “Let’s get a move on.”

I don’t want to get back into the car, but at least I get to stare at Jack’s neck. At the riot of dark curls touching his trapezoids.

Once in Idaho it gets stressful again. Turn left, turn right, merge in and out. I can tell Jack is getting tired, and I’m not surprised. Except for our short lunch, we’ve barely stopped for bathroom and coffee breaks, and it’s dinnertime now.

Then Jack switches lanes, turns into a motel parking lot, and kills the engine. He sits with both hands on the wheel as the cooling engine ticks in the silence.

Margaret takes her earbuds out.

“Remember this place?” Jack says.

“Tickle tiles.”

He laughs. “Yes. I wonder if they’re still there, and if we can get the same room. Do you remember the number?”

“Eight.”

Jack turns around. “I’ll get us rooms, and then we’ll walk over to the pawnshop? It should be around the next corner. Easier to leave the car here than find parking there.”

“Fine by me.”

“Don’t move. I’ll be back directly.”

I take it as a figure of speech and get out of the car to stretch my legs. The sky is a fantastic palette of pinks and purples. The traffic noise level is deafening compared to Bluewater Bay. I stretch my arms and shoulders in an effort to disperse the cloud of pain forming at the base of my head.

Jack returns with keys and hands me the number ten one.

“I’ll walk over.”

He grins. “Carsick?”

“Sick of the car anyway.”

“You okay, though?”

It feels good that he asks. “Nothing an aspirin won’t take care of.”

He moves the car over to number eight, which is next to ten. The odds are on the other side.

We carry our bags to our respective rooms to have them out of the car, and because Margaret wants to see if the “tickle tiles” are still there. I have no clue what she’s talking about, but apparently they are, because she comes back laughing and making plane sounds, or lawn mower sounds, or something like that.

The three of us set off down the street and around the corner. It’s a busy area, with lots of small stores and fast-food joints.

Jack has gone silent and walks with his hands in his pockets, arms pressed to his sides, as if he needs to hold himself together. It pushes his shoulders up and makes my neck ache just watching him.

Across the street and around another corner his steps get shorter and slower. Margaret pulls ahead, then stops in front of a shop window and puts her hands against it to peer inside.

Jack stalls for a second, then huffs a laugh and walks on. “You guys are killing me,” he says.

The sign above the window says Quick Pawn. They’re still open—until seven according to the sticker on the door. Which leaves us half an hour.

Jack and I both scan the store immediately on walking in, but the only musical instruments I see are two electrical guitars. There are a lot of electronics and small appliances, as well as jewelry under glass counters, and guns in cabinets behind the register.

Jack pulls his wallet out and digs for a dog-eared receipt.

The man shuffling in from the back is ancient. Not a hair on his head except for the ample tufts of white growing out of his ears. Pale, eyebrow-less eyes, huge behind glasses like Coke-bottle bottoms.

“Can I do for you, son?” His voice could use some lubrication.

“Hi,” Jack says, holding out the receipt. “This is a long shot, but if it’s still here . . .”

The man ignores the outstretched hand. Instead he cranes his turtle-skin neck to inspect Margaret, then Jack. “Damn,” he says. “You did come back.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d have expected you sooner.”

Jack lets his arm sink. “You remember me?”

“Remember the pair of you.” The man taps his knuckles against the side of his head. “Steel trap.”

Jack swallows hard. The question he doesn’t ask is hanging so thick in the air that it’s hard to breathe.

The old man holds up one finger, then disappears again into the other room. Jack looks at me with such a what-the-fuck expression on his face that I burst out laughing.

When the old man comes back, he’s carrying a large, rectangular case, and Jack puts a hand out to steady himself against the counter.

The man sets the case down next to the till and opens it, then turns it so we can see the contents. It’s a saxophone all right. A gleaming, bronze-colored piece of art, with black mother-of-pearl inlaid keys, and engraved with leaves or flowers, the maker’s name and initials, and the letters SX90R Vintage.

Jack reaches for, but doesn’t touch it. “Why did you keep it?” he asks. “I sold it to you outright. And even if it had been collateral, it would have been yours to sell long ago.”

The old man tilts his head. “I got the impression it was very important to you, and that you would be back for it. Took you long enough.”

“You’re a bleeding heart.” Jack isn’t falling for it.

The old man smiles a sly little smile that is not without sympathy. “I might also have thought you’d pay more for it than anyone else. It being a sentimental possession and all.”

I can practically hear Jack’s teeth grind against each other. “How much?”

“Six.”

“Grand?”

The old man nods.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I go to stand in front of Jack facing him and screw up my eyebrows to catch his attention. “Told you it was a waste of time. Let’s go.”

It takes him only a second to catch on, and when I tug at his shoulder to pull him with me to the door, he follows my lead with a big show of reluctance. “It’s used,” he throws over his shoulder.

“It comes in a nice case,” the man says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s smiling anymore.

I don’t look back to check his face. If he figures out I care, the game is up, so I keep dragging Jack toward the door.

“Five and a half,” the old man says.

I glance at Jack, who mouths, Three.

“Margaret,” I call, “we’re leaving.” She’s standing in front of the jewelry display, fascinated, I’d bet any amount, with the refracted light on the faceted stones. She’s completely ignoring me, which plays nicely into my hands. I don’t know how low we can get the price—hell, I don’t even know what the thing is worth—but I do know how to bargain.

“I hung on to it for you for two and a half years,” the man says. “I could have sold it a few times. But I knew you’d want to have it.”

I don’t let go of Jack’s shoulder. “Come on, Margaret, it’s late. I’d like to get some dinner before midnight.” I have no idea if she’s aware of the game we’re playing, but she plays along like a pro, deaf to my call.

“Fine, five thousand, but that’s my last offer.”

Jack half turns from under my hand. “Three.” His voice would be a hell of a Louis Armstrong imitation.

“I could have sold it for three almost the minute I got it.”

“It’s all I have,” Jack says, and his voice is possibly even more broken than before.

The man hesitates. This is where we win or lose it.

“And it’s twice what you paid for it,” Jack adds.

“He’s trying to quadruple the price?” I put as much incredulity in my voice as I can manage without hamming it. “Hell, I call double a pretty cushy margin. But some people don’t know when to stop.”

“That price would ruin anyone. I’m telling you, I can’t sell it for three. My reputation would be shot.”

“He’s not going for it, Jack. Come on. We’ll find another one.”

“You won’t. Not for that price. But maybe I could sell it without the case for three.”

Jack doesn’t look at him. He looks at the saxophone. His eyes are pits that swallow the light, his face empty. Like someone saying his last farewells at a funeral. Then he shoves both hands into his pockets and abruptly strides toward the door. If he’s acting, he’s absolutely selling it. He’s breaking my heart.

He’s yanking the door open when the old man yells after him. “Three thousand and a show. And if I did business like that every day, I’d be ruined by now. Ruined.”

Jack stops dead, lets go of the door. “What show?” he asks without turning.

“You come back tomorrow morning at ten, and you play in front of the store for two hours, telling everyone who asks how great a business this is.”

Now Jack does look at the man. He walks back to the counter and holds out his hand. “You have a deal.”

They shake, and Jack leaves without another word. This time Margaret is right on his heels, and so am I. We make it around the corner before Jack’s legs give out. He leans against a brick wall, breathing hard, half laughing, half crying. “You need to know that I want to hug you hard,” he says, his eyes shining. “That was a thing of sheer beauty. Remind me to never try to bargain against you.”

“Years of yard sales finally paying off.”

Laughter wins. “I love you,” he says, then bites his lip. “Sorry, not trying to put you on the spot. It slipped out. If it’s too awkward, I’ll never mention it again.”

Amazing, wonderful man. Is there anything in his power he wouldn’t do for those he loves? Anything he wouldn’t deny himself for them?

I’m gonna have to make sure he doesn’t have to. “It’s not awkward.”

“Not?”

“No. You can say it again.”

He grins. “I love you.”

“I like that. Can we get dinner now?”