Page 27 of Reeves

Sunlight flashes across the windshield. The windows are too dark to see inside.

For a moment, everything inside me goes still.

I haven’t seen Reeves in six years, but my body remembers that vehicle instantly.

The Hummer keeps moving without slowing, rolling past the yard and down toward the stop sign at the corner.

By the time it disappears from view, the tightness in my chest eases. I let out a slow breath and push away from the doorframe.

There are plenty of black Hummers in Louisiana. It could belong to anyone.

"Charli? Did you hear what I said about the church potluck?"

Mom’s voice pulls me back to the present. Inside the kitchen, she’s rinsing her hands at the sink, completely unaware of the momentary detour my thoughts just took.

“Sorry,” I say, turning back toward the counter. “What time did you say it starts?”

Benjy’s laughter floats through the open window as he climbs around in the treehouse.

I glance toward the street once more before stepping back into the kitchen.

SEVEN

Reeves

The Tuba:Carries the low note underneath everything else in the procession. You feel it before you hear it.

I pushthrough the back door still warm from the run, sweat cooling across my shoulders as the late-morning air gives way to the quiet inside the house. The sun is already high enough to throw bright light across the kitchen windows.

Being home has loosened the edges of my routine. On base, I’m usually up before dawn. Here, sleeping until nine almost counts as indulgent.

My shoes thud softly across the hardwood as I cross the kitchen. The house creaks in the same familiar places. Nine months since my father died, but the rhythm hasn’t changed.

The scent of coffee reaches me before I see her.

Ms. Landry stands at the sink with her back to me, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow as she rinses dishes. Her silver hair is pulled into the same tight bun she has worn for as long as I can remember.

She speaks without turning around.

“Morning, Mr. Reeves.”

I smile a little. She always did have a way of knowing when one of us was moving through the house.

"Morning." My voice sounds rough.

She dries her hands on her apron. "I can't believe you still do those morning runs. My knees can hardly walk up the stairs."

"Never broke the habit." I pour coffee into the mug she’s already set out. Black, no sugar. "How's the pool restoration coming? Thought I'd get a swim in."

Ms. Landry sighs, turning back to the sink. "Those contractors found problems with the plumbing when they pulled up the tile. Your father always said that section of the house had issues. They're behind schedule now by at least two weeks."

I lean against the counter. "Figures."

"Your brother Ridge wanted it done before the memorial, but some things can't be rushed."

The gym downtown will be packed with regulars. People who'll recognize me, ask questions. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tightness there.

"Your father always swam at Tulane's pool when ours was down," she says, glancing over her shoulder. "He had an arrangement with their athletic department."