When Rosa Keller steps onto the stage, I discover where Charlie’s height came from.
The woman is statuesque, rising high above us all. Soft, kinky curls halo her face and glow in the stage lights. A gold dresshugs her curvaceous figure, and if I didn’t know she had a son in his late twenties, I might assume she’d only lived two or three decades herself so far.
“Hello, everyone.” Her voice is music, even when she speaks. “I’m glad you could join me tonight. I haven’t sung in Nashville for many years now, but I know a city that loves music as much as you all would always welcome me back. Let’s have a good time tonight.”
The audience claps and cheers, and then the band behind Charlie’s mom starts playing a beat, the instruments coming in at different times, blending seamlessly. Once they’ve warmed into the rhythm, Rose finally adds her voice to the mix.
And, holy mother of musical goddesses, the woman is amazing. Even I, a novice in the world of music, can recognize she has some golden pipes on her.
At one point during the set, when her voice drops low and the words ring of hard times and struggles, my own darkness stirs in recognition. Without thinking, I reach under the table until I find Charlie’s hand. With the silent request, he entwines our fingers together, and we stay connected through the rest of her show.
For a full hour, she sings. There are pauses when Rosa talks to the audience, connecting with us all by sharing anecdotes from her travels and her thoughts on certain songs. She takes the time to introduce every member of her band, giving them opportunities to solo their instruments. The bass is my favorite, the deep notes reverberating in my chest, like the thick strings caress my heart.
When the show finally draws to a close, the whole audience stands, roaring and stomping, applauding the magic of Rosa Keller. The band plays her off the stage, and then they continue with unobtrusive background music as conversations at the tables pick up.
A moment later, the star of the show arrives at our table, and I’m so awed by her that I momentarily forget she’s Charlie’s mom.
“You were amazing, love.” Mr. Keller stands, embracing his wife and brushing a kiss over her cheek that rounds with a smile.
Rosa presses her lips to her husband’s cheek in return, immediately wiping off the red lipstick smear.
Then her powerful attention turns to Charlie and me.
Few people in the world intimidate me anymore. Mainly because there aren’t many whose opinions I care about.
But I care about Rosa’s.
And she intimidates the hell out of me.
“Hi, Mom.” Charlie stands, pulling me with him because our hands are still linked. He gives his mother a one-armed hug. “This is Luna.”
When her honeyed eyes meet mine, I stand as straight as I can and wipe my sweaty palm on my pants—thank the universe they’re black—before offering a hand to shake.
“Hello, Luna.”
My name in her smoky voice becomes something beautiful, and I find myself wishing I knew her well enough to get a hug of my own.
But that’s ridiculous. I don’t need hugs. I’m tough.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Keller,” I respond in a polite tone, not at all revealing I’m obsessed with her. Or her son.
“Please, call me Rosa.” She returns my shake but clasps my hand between both of hers and takes an extra second before releasing me. As if the gesture means more than just a polite greeting.
The four of us settle back in at the table, and Rosa sips from a dirty martini her husband ordered for her.
“Now, my dear, sweet, faux daughter-in-law, we got some of the story from our son, but why don’t you tell us your version of these high jinks?”
Just as I start to tense up, Rosa leans forward, reaching over the table to give my shoulder a reassuring rub. “We’re not here to judge. Just to listen.”
“We trust Charlie,” Mr. Keller adds. “If he agreed to help you, then that must mean you’re good people.”
“Of course, we knew you were anyway, just from spending time with your brother.” Rosa raises her glass, toasting Dash as if he were standing beside her.
“Don’t give my family a pass for Dash’s sake. He’s the kindhearted oddball out.” I already feel dishonest enough, so no need to add more half-truths to the pile.
“You both are.”
Charlie drapes his arm along the back of my chair, and with his warmth surrounding me, I find myself easing into the conversation. Still, I shrug off his compliment. Maybe I’m not a bad person, but Dash is the sweet one. I’m a prickly bitch most of the time.
