She was okay; talked a lot, but was nice enough.
I didn’t feel like talking today, so when she knocked on the door, I thought about ignoring her. Then I gave myself a swift kick in the nuts: since when was I such a pussy that I couldn’t even answer the fucking door to a grandma?
I limped over to the front door and pulled it open.
“Oh, Sebastian, good afternoon. How are you, young man? Still skinny, I see. That woman of yours needs to feed you up a bit more. If you were my boy I’d soon put some flesh on your bones.” Then she leaned over and slapped my stomach. “Hmm, some good muscles there. You need to eat more red meat.”
I looked at her in amusement. “May I help you with something, ma’am?”
“Ah, yes. Is Lee around?”
“No, ma’am, she went out. But I don’t think she’ll be much longer.”
She huffed a bit, then said, “Never mind, you’ll do. I’ve had this letter sitting in my house since Friday. Well, as you know, it was my grandson’s Bar mitzvah, so I’ve been staying with my son in Riverdale, he’s a doctor and…”
I zoned out for the rest. Mrs. Levenson never could use one word when fifty was more fun. She rattled out words like a submachine gun. Eventually she got to the point.
“…so this letter isn’t for me at all; it’s for Lee. Would you please make sure she gets it?”
When I assured her that I’d deliver the letter, she finally agreed that I could probably manage that task. Fuck me, they should send her to Afghanistan—the Taliban would run away screaming.
I noticed that the letter was from London, but I didn’t recognize the sender’s address. I laid it on the coffee table for Caro, then went back to staring out the window when a car pulled up. Jee-zus—her harpy friend, Nicole. It really wasn’t my day.
She got out of the car carrying what looked like a guitar case. Aw hell, I really hoped this wasn’t some sort of kumbaya intervention.
I opened the door reluctantly.
“Hello, jailbait,” she snarked.
“Hello, ball buster,” I replied, leaning against the doorframe.
She grinned at me, not at all concerned about what I’d called her.
“Where’s Lee?” she asked, pushing past me into the house.
“Out,” I said shortly, not interested in a conversation.
“Yeah? What did you do to piss her off this time?”
I sighed as she settled herself into a chair.
“The usual.”
She chuckled. “Our Lee is a little pocket rocket—must be her Italian blood. She’ll give you a run for your money, Hunter.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I griped, not really meaning it.
She waved a hand. “Well anyway, Lee told me you wanted to learn guitar. She thought it would be good therapy for the shoulder you got the crap shot out of. So this is for you.”
I stared at her as she pushed the guitar case toward me. I must have looked like a freakin’ idiot. I hadn’t mentioned anything about wanting to learn guitar—well, not for a long time. Certainly not recently—not since...
“Um, thanks?” I muttered awkwardly.
“No biggie,” she said, waving my words away. “I haven’t played since college. It’s a shame that it’s going to waste. Just promise me we won’t be singing campfire songs next time we all come over.”
She paused, her expression thoughtful as she stared me.
“I’ve never seen Lee like she is with you, but I do know that when she loves, it’s with her whole heart.”
It was fucking uncomfortable having a touchy-feely encounter with the ballbuster. Suddenly she laughed.
“Don’t look so nervous,” she smirked. “I’m done sharing now. Make me a damn coffee and we’ll call it quits.”
She stayed long enough to drink a cup of shitty decaff, pulling a face with every mouthful. I often felt like doing the same.
Eventually, she stood up to leave. “Take it easy, Hunter. Look after our girl, or you know what fate awaits you.”
“Yes, ma’am!” I said, and threw her a quick salute.
I guess she wasn’t so bad after all. For a ball buster.
When she’d gone, I took the guitar out of its case. It was really beautiful, a red cedar Spanish guitar. Expensive, by the look of it. But the case was covered in dust, so I guess Nicole had told the truth about not using it.
I ran a finger over the strings—it was out of tune and I had no idea what to do with it. I fired up my laptop and surfed a few pages on guitar for beginners. I managed to tune the mofo, but getting the fingers on my left hand to go where they were supposed to … yeah, hard work. The doc hadn’t been kidding when he’d said I’d lost fine motor function.
Irritated with myself, I lay the guitar back on the coffee table then heard the door open.
Caro walked into the hallway, her expression wary but defiant. I decided I needed to grovel some.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said quickly, pulling her in for a hug and kissing her hair. “I know I’m being a dumbass.”
“That’s one of the words I had in mind,” she agreed softly
I smiled. “Yeah, I bet. Hey, I’ve got something to show you.”
I took her hand and tugged her into the living room.
“What’s that?” she asked, looking at the guitar.
“Your friend Nicole dropped by.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, apparently you told her I wanted to learn guitar. She said she didn’t need this, so she’s giving it to me. We talked for quite a long time—seeing as I’d pissed you off and you weren’t here…”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Nicole isn’t quite the ball-breaker you thought she was?”
“I didn’t say that … but she was … okay.”
“Praise indeed.”
“Yeah,” I, with a smile, then paused. “Baby, when did I tell you I wanted to play guitar?”
“Oh,” she said softly. “A long time ago. Ten years.”
I stared down at her, my soul filled with love for this amazing woman. I remembered. I remembered telling her ten years ago that I’d always wanted to learn guitar, but my parents would never let me take lessons. All this time, and she’d remembered.
“You take my breath away, Caro,” I whispered, hugging her tightly.
We stood there for several minutes, not speaking, not needing to speak.
Eventually, she took my hand and led me toward the sofa, but then she noticed the envelope.
“Oh, hey,” I said, recalling Mrs. Levenson’s visit. “You got mail.”
I reached over to pass her the envelope that I’d tossed onto the table.
“On a Sunday?”
“Yeah, it went to Mrs. Levenson’s house by mistake; she just got back from her grandson’s Bar mitzvah today and she brought it over.”
Caro turned the envelope over, looking at the sender’s address.
“It’s from England.”
Then she tore open the thick, parchment-type envelope and read the typewritten letter. She gasped with surprise.
“What is it, baby?”
She slumped against me and handed over the letter without speaking.
“Lawyers?”
I put my good arm around her shoulders and read through the pages.
When I’d finished, I set the letter down and pulled her against my chest.
Elizabeth ‘Liz’ Ashton, the scary British journalist that I’d met in Geneva and again in Kabul had left everything in her Will to Caro. Over $550,000.
“I didn’t know,” Caro whispered, looking upset. “She never said anything. I knew Liz didn’t have any family, but I never thought…”
“It’s a lot of money, baby. What are you going to do with it?”
She shook her head, still trying to process the information. I was pleased for her, but I couldn’t help thinking that any chance of balance in our relationship was totally shot. Caro was beautiful, talented, kind—and now rich, as well. And I was … nothing.
“Why did she leave it to me?” Caro asked, her voice puzzled. “We were friends, but … I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand, Caro? She loved you. Why do you always have a hard time realizing that, baby?”
She shrugged.
“This is good news,” I said encouragingly, stroking her hair.
And I really meant that. Caro deserved to have good things happen to her after everything she’d been through … what I’d put her through.