Chapter 7

 

Carol added a dollop of low-fat dressing to her salad, sprinkled grated cheese on top, and snapped the cover onto the plastic container. She uncapped a water bottle to fill it.

Paul sauntered into the kitchen. “Making lunch? You working Saturdays now?” Standing there in the doorway in his baggy sleep pants and rumpled T-shirt, he looked younger, less secretive.

Carol smiled. “No, I’m going on a picnic with a friend. Grab me an apple, please?”

He took an apple from the fridge, inspected it and tossed it to her. “Heads up!”

Carol made a clumsy catch and shot him a half-hearted glare. “Thanks, I think.” She washed the apple and put it with the salad, then dropped a handful of cookies into a plastic bag.

“Hey! Save some of those for me! Last time you gave too many away.”

“The rest are for you and your friends, okay?”

“Great.” Paul pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat, watching her pack the food into an oversized shoulder bag. “So, where are you going? And who with? How can I reach you if I need to? And when will you be home?”

“Paul...” She took a few steps toward him. “Am I that bad?”

His smile didn’t slip, but his jaw tightened. He nodded, sliding his gaze away.

Carol let a slow breath escape and pulled out another chair. A set of three in early duct tape, Paul called them. She touched Paul’s hand. “After losing your brother I worry about what could happen. And now we have Harry’s enemies looking for us.”

Paul pushed back from the table and stood. His voice came out flat, heavy. “I’ll believe those enemies when I see them. And Keith made some dumb choices. I saw what it cost him — and you. I have plans for my life. They don’t include ruining it.”

He stalked from the room. Seconds later, his bedroom door slammed.

Carol rested her forehead in her palm. Paul had no idea what it was like to be a parent. To worry. Someday he’d have children of his own. Then he’d understand why she tried so hard to protect him growing up.

She scrawled a quick note. Centre Island Park. I’m sorry. Love, Mom.

Glasses in place, Carol stuck her feet into running shoes and tossed on a jacket before heading out the door. Despite the hurry, she remembered to lock up.

 

~~~

 

Squinting in the late morning sun, Paul walked the half-block from his bus stop to Morelli’s. Barry had razzed him about working on such a gorgeous Saturday, but their drummer had to work too. If they couldn’t practice, what better place to be than the music store?

Paul pushed open the glass door and stepped inside, automatically glancing at “his” Les Paul Classic on the wall. The store was crowded today. Two teens stood checking out the guitars, and in the other corner a middle-aged man sat at one of the electric pianos, picking out a one-fingered tune.

A short line waited at the checkout, but Eric, his co-worker, pointed toward the back. Paul shrugged and ducked into the practice room. It was empty, so he hung his jacket in the break room and tapped on the frame of the open office door.

His boss, wiry grey hair even more askew than usual, glanced up from his computer monitor and nodded. “Ah, Paul. Come in for a second. Eric will be needing you.”

“It’s getting busy.” Paul stepped closer to the paper-strewn desk.

Mr. Morelli stuck his hand into one of the smaller piles and pulled out an envelope, which he scrutinized and passed to Paul. “This came for you.”

Paul frowned, then focused on the return address. Kingston Penitentiary. No wonder the old man gave it such a funny look.

Sweat prickled the back of his hairline. “My uncle, sir, he’s in jail and I guess he’s lonely. Mom doesn’t want him to know where we live. I should’ve asked you first.”

Paul didn’t know which he hated worse, sympathy or speculation, but Mr. Morelli’s dark eyes showed compassion under the fierce grey brows. “Most unfortunate. He may write you at this address occasionally, but please instruct him not to call. You’re here to work.”

“I’m not ready to talk to him anyway. It’s a long story. I’d better get out front, Eric’s swamped.”

The old man nodded, and Paul crammed the envelope into his pocket as he fled. Morelli was pretty open-minded, but thank God Harry hadn’t put his name with the return address!

His palms went clammy at the thought of losing what he had here. There were other music stores, other teachers, but no other Morellis. The man had drawn more music out of Paul’s soul in these few months than he could believe.

Paul slipped behind the counter and signed into the other cash register. “May I help the next one in line?”

Eric brushed past to get guitar strings from the wall display. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” The envelope felt like a brick in his pocket as Paul bagged a guitar tuner for a customer and handed her the receipt.

Work kept the boys too busy to talk, which suited Paul just fine. Eventually Eric stopped shooting curious glances his way, and Paul relaxed into the Saturday rhythm.

He’d given Harry the address, but he hadn’t really expected a response. Not to him. Harry wanted to write to Mom. She’d grown up with him, knew him before he turned into a monster. It’d never happen, but maybe Harry hoped she’d forgive him.

What would a dangerous offender have to say to a sixteen-year-old? Was he even allowed to communicate with someone under-age?

Paul remembered how excited he and Keith had felt about their uncle’s occasional visits. Being related to a famous racing driver was cool enough, but to have the man sitting in their apartment telling stories, trying to be friends...

Harry hadn’t come a lot, and he’d committed at least one murder while he was in town.

The store’s welcome bell jingled and Paul jumped. Beside him, Eric snickered. “Daydreaming?”

“Must have been.”

Paul glanced at the entrance. Funny, he’d never seen Tara-Lynn here before. She let the door close behind her and looked around at the instruments a bit timidly before her eyes met his. When he smiled, she did too, and she hurried toward him as if he were the only friend in a room of strangers.

“Hi, Paul. I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I’d stop to see this amazing store you were telling me about.”

Paul swept his right hand in a horizontal arc. “Here it is.”

Eric laughed. “Show her around while it’s quiet. I’m Eric, by the way.”

His voice sounded deeper than normal, and Paul flashed him a look. He knew Eric’s taste in girls, and Tara-Lynn didn’t seem the type.

Paul stepped from behind the counter and led her to the far side of the store, where three electric pianos formed a triangle and portable keyboards stood propped against the wall. He pointed out the saxophones, trombones and violins on display along the upper walls, and the recorders and tin whistles in the counter cabinet, then took her past music stands and a rack of music books to the line of guitars near the door.

Her gaze flitted from the polished guitar bodies to his face. “Which one’s your favourite?”

Surprised, he touched the Les Paul. “Way out of my price range, but a guy can dream.”

She grinned. “A guy can save, too, when he has a job.”

Paul bent to pick up a customer’s dropped tissue, and felt the envelope crackle in his pocket. “Most of what I earn goes into my lessons. Morelli’s not cheap.”

“Lessons. You are serious about your music.”

He nodded, and turned toward the counter. “I’d better get to work.”

“Okay. Thanks for showing me around.” Instead of leaving, Tara-Lynn began looking though the sheet music.

Eric finished with a customer and signed off his register. He grinned at Paul. “Later, dude. I think she likes you.”

“See you later.” Paul watched him go, sold a package of clarinet reeds, and wondered about Harry’s letter. Why was Tara-Lynn hanging around? All he needed was five minutes alone.

An older teen exited the back room, guitar case in hand. He nodded to Paul, then noticed the girl at the music rack. “Hey, Tara-Lynn, what brings you in here?”

Her face lit up. “Jubal! How are you?”

“Great.” He hefted his guitar case. “I come here for lessons. Mr. Morelli’s a fantastic teacher.”

“So I’ve heard.” She glanced at Paul, who looked away.

“Well, I’ve gotta get to work. See you later.” Jubal squeezed her shoulder and headed for the door.

Tara-Lynn wandered toward Paul. “Jubal’s good on bass.”

“Is he ever. Where do you know him from?”

“Church. He plays in the worship team.”

Paul must have looked blank, because she grinned. “It’s like a band for praise music. Not your granny’s style at all. You ought to check it out some Sunday.”

“Yeah, in all my spare time.”

Tara-Lynn’s cheeks went pink. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you. If you like Jubal’s playing, I thought you might —” She hitched her purse strap more firmly onto her shoulder. “Thanks for the tour, Paul. See you in class.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean it that way! It’s work, and practice, and school. I hardly have time to sneeze. I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s okay. See you.”

Paul shook his head as the glass door closed behind her. Girls.

He pulled the letter from his pocket and stared at the bent envelope. Keeping it below counter-level although the storefront was empty, he tore it open.