The crowd begins to cheer, clapping wildly, and I watch Marina blink back to reality as if so lost in the song she forgot anyone was watching.
“SingWater Lilies!”
“Yeah,Water Lilies!!”
“Water Lilies, Water Lilies, Water Lilies!” Folks cheer, and Marina sits as stiff as a board, offering her hands in surrender.
It’s a song anyone from these parts would know. Her face flushes, and suddenly, the confidence is gone. Before I can grab a hold of my senses, I’m swimming toward the edge of the stage in big strides.
Ignoring the walkway and staircase, I hoist myself up and move until I’m right behind her.
“Gil!” she shouts, as I slide in next to her on the piano bench. “I… um,well—”
“Can you read music?” I ask.
She shakes her head before clawing at the back of her neck for a brief moment.
“If I tell you the chords, will you play them?”
“Can’t you do it?” she says in a panicked whisper, her eyes on the crowd.
“Darlin’.” I stretch my hands out wide, showcasing the webbing. “Piano ain’t exactly my strong suit.”
Her gaze jerks at the sound of more chanting, and I place my hand on her knee.
“Worse case they boo us off the stage, right?” I ask with an easy shrug.
“At least we’ll be together.” She places her hand over mine and gives it a squeeze. Then, she lays her hands to the keys, and with each shift, I whisper the next series of notes and hum the melody as best I can. Seamlessly, she connects the pieces like a puzzle. I sing the words just a hair early under my breath, so she can copy the repetitive lyrics. By the second verse, she’s grinning at me—and I’m grinning right back.
Her version of the song is an honest-to-goodness original, sung in a way that only she could. When she finishes, she gets a cacophony of applause and cheers.
“Too bad they don’t have a theremin anywhere,” she whispers, leaning close. “Next time?”
I grin.
Next time.
After we take our bows, the late performer arrives. We gracefully exit the stage as the music changes from heartfelt melodies to children’s hits. We dance up on the lily pads with some of the guppies to the peppy songs as they pepper Marina and I with questions.
Where did you meet?
What’s her favorite color?
And because Grampy is as much of a pest as the lot of them:
When’s the weddin’?
“Will you be back next year?” one of my nephews asks, and Marina gives me a curious look.
“I hope so,” she says.
By the time we’ve caught up with family, more introductions have been made by both me and Mama when it’s a face I don’t recognize. Soon, everyone’s gotten a third plate of food. The flowers set out around the festival have all but wilted. The line for a blessing has stretched far past the concession stands.
“I know it’s important, but…” Marina says, suppressing a yawn and rocking on her heels.
“We can skip it, darlin’,” I assure her, intending on giving her a piggyback ride on the way home.
The grounds for the festival are large, and it sounds like she walked them end-to-end when she was lost. When it comes to things like blessings and wishes, there’s one thing I’ve asked for every single year, and she’s right in front of me.
